by Jon Sharpe
The Mex had caught her, wrestled with her and then, with rage, shot her in the forehead.
Somebody had returned the favor, Ekert thought as he looked down at the Mex.
Ekert looked at the ruins of their plan. The grave they’d dug had been dug up again, small piles of red clay everywhere. Plus the muddied shovel. And the body of Lopez itself.
The last time Ekert had seen Lopez alive was after they’d dug the grave. Ekert wanted to get back to the ranch so he told Lopez to finish up and then head back.
Then something happened. But what? How had anybody figured out that Lopez was here? Maybe Lopez, a man with a treacherous temper, had opened fire on somebody and started the whole thing that way? But who would unearth the girl and then steal her corpse? Whatever was going on here was very confusing.
He’d throw Lopez over his own horse and take him back and talk to the boss. Maybe the boss could help clear up the mystery.
Stupid damned Mex, he thought as he went over and dug his hands beneath the corpse. The flies were already feasting on the dead and bloody flesh.
He was beginning to think that maybe that damned gunny the girl had been with—he had something to do with this. Taking the corpse. Shooting the Mex.
Ekert frowned to himself. This was all supposed to work out so simple.
Fargo was on his way to the newspaper office when he saw a crippled man approach him. The man wore town clothes, a boiled white shirt, and trousers held up by suspenders. He wore a rakish hat at an angle. His gray mustache matched the gray hair beneath the hat.
“I’m Jefferson Tolan,” the man said with a heavy drawl. “I’m the teacher at the school up the road.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Tolan. But I’m in a hurry, I’m afraid.”
Tolan surprised him by producing money. A lot of it. Green money. Laid in the palm of his hand. “This is for you.”
“Well, that’s very nice. But I didn’t do anything to earn it.”
“That’s the thing. I’m hoping you’ll take the money now and then go about earning it later.”
Fargo sighed. He wanted to get on and see the newspaper woman.
“I have a room right there in the hotel, Mr. Fargo. I want to show you some photographs of my little girls and see if you can help find them for me.”
Fargo figured that it would take longer to talk his way out of this than to just go up, see the photographs of the little girls, and then say, no, he was sorry, he didn’t have time for the job. Whatever it might be.
“All right, Mr. Tolan. But I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“I appreciate this.” He started to walk toward the hotel and then stopped. “Oh, I wasn’t always gimped up like this, Mr. Fargo. I went looking for my little girls last year. One of the places I wanted to check out was Skeleton Key. But it seems Mr. Burgade had other ideas. Old Noah’s had some pretty low characters working for him over the years, but they don’t come any lower than Burgade. Anyway, I tried three or four times. The last time, Burgade put a bullet in my knee.”
“You try and charge him with anything?”
“Wouldn’t have done any good, Mr. Fargo. There’re NO TRESPASSING signs posted all over. I was in violation of the law. He had every right to shoot me. I suppose he could’ve killed me and gotten away with it.”
The hotel wasn’t as well-appointed as the one Fargo was staying in, but the interior was constructed of good mahogany and the dining room they passed was scented with the aroma of good food well prepared.
Tolan had a room on the ground floor near the back. There was a monkish quality to it. The furnishings were dark wood, severe. Every wall had a bookcase. And no dime novels were to be found. Fargo wasn’t sure who either Aristophanes or Cicero were but they both had leather-bound volumes on one of Tolan’s shelves. All the other authors looked to be just as imposing. A globe sat on an end table while two walls were covered with historical time-lines for America and Europe. A cut-glass decanter held some fair to middling grape wine that Tolan eagerly shared with Fargo.
Tolan went to a small rolltop desk and took two photographs from it. He walked over to Fargo and showed him the first one.
“They look like twins, those two girls in the pictures.”
“That’s what most people think. But they’re not. Nancy’s the eldest. This one. The other is Stephanie.”
The “little” girls appeared to be in their midteens and gave every evidence of not having been “little” for several years. They were lovely but healthy girls with sunshine in their eyes and mischief on their smiling mouths.
“And here’s what they looked like a year-and-a-half ago when they disappeared.”
Fargo broke into a boyish grin as his eyes scanned the second photograph. “They sure aren’t little any more.”
“They turned out to be just as beautiful as their mother. She died when Nancy was seven. Cholera. I raised the girls myself. I damned near had to hire an army to keep the boys away.”
They wore summer dresses that couldn’t hide their strong, exhilarating bodies.
“I see what you mean.”
Tolan limped over and sat down in a chair. “What I need, Mr. Fargo, is for somebody to get on that island and tell me if my girls are dead or alive.”
“What makes you so sure they’re there?”
“A woman from my church saw them talking to Burgade the evening they disappeared. That’s all the evidence I need.”
“Could they have run away?”
“No.”
“You sound awful sure of that.”
“I am, Mr. Fargo. The girls and I—we have a special bond. With their mother dead, I had to be both father and mother to them. They know what kind of heartbreak their running away would cause me. They’d never do that to me.”
Fargo set the photos on the arm of the chair. “What makes you think I’d have any more luck getting on the island than you?”
“C’mon, Mr. Fargo. Don’t be overly modest. I know who you are and what you’ve done with your life. If anybody could get on that island, it’s you.”
Fargo thought a moment. “Is there much river traffic in that area?”
“Some. Not what you’d call a lot.”
“But people who know that part of the river?”
“Sure. Cap’n Billy is one of them. His real name is Harold Perkins. But he prefers Cap’n Billy.”’
Fargo smiled. “I can see why. And he does what?”
“Hauls things up and down the river for anybody who’ll pay him. He even runs a kind of taxi service. There’s a boat that comes three times a week. But if you’re in a hurry and can’t wait for the boat, you see Cap’n Billy. He’s got an old tug boat. He works on it and lives on it. If you wanted to talk to him, you head two miles northeast of here. There’s a long curve in the river and that’s where you’ll find Cap’n Billy.”
“Well, since I’m beginning to get a feeling that I’m headed for Skeleton Key myself, I might as well look for your daughters while I’m there.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Fargo. Now you take this money.”
Fargo shook his head. “A young woman got killed earlier today. I owe it to her to find out what’s going on here. This isn’t for money.”
“Will you at least have one more glass of wine?”
“I need a clear head. I’m going to pass.” He stood up. “When and if I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“You want to take one of those photos of my daughters?”
“I’m not likely to forget two gals who look like that, Mr. Tolan.”
When he got downstairs, he found Queeg sitting in a chair under the overhang of a hotel. Old Noah sure kept Larson and Queeg busy, following people. He could see Queeg’s eyes peering at him over the top of the newspaper he was pretending to read.
“Hot sitting on that porch, isn’t it, Queeg?”
Queeg put down his paper, studied Fargo’s face. “Larson told you, huh?” His cheeks gleamed with sweat. Fargo knew the feeling. H
is back, armpits, crotch, and feet were drenched in sweat, too.
“About you being on Noah’s payroll just like him?” Fargo said.
“Yeah.”
“You take turns, do you? He follows me a while and then you follow me a while?”
“I haven’t given Noah anything for two days. Larson agreed to let me take it from here so I could have something for Noah. He likes you to tell him at least two things a day about the town. He always sends Manuel, his personal servant in, to get the information. Sometimes I have to make things up just to satisfy him.”
“Well, how about this? I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do at the sheriff’s office, so I’ll just give you my plans for the next few hours. I plan to talk to Liz Turner over at the newspaper. And then I plan to go visit somebody named Cap’n Billy.”
“If you go any place other than those two, will you tell me?”
“Does that include like buying myself a beer or taking a piss?”
“C’mon, Fargo, you know what I mean. I’m tryin’ to set aside enough money so I can buy me and my family a little farm and get out of this business. It’s just a matter of time before somebody shoots me. My wife has terrible dreams about it. Some gunny comes to town and I have to try and arrest him and he kills me. She always has the same dream. That’s why I’m tryin’ to set aside money. Noah’s the only hope I’ve got.”
Fargo laughed. “You tell Tom everything, too, the way Larson does?”
“Yeah.”
“What’ll Noah do if he ever finds out that you and Larson are playin’ him like this?”
Queeg put a finger like a gun barrel to his head. His thumb was the trigger. “Then my wife won’t have to worry about some gunny coming to town and killing me. I’ll do it myself before Noah does it for me.”
“Well, I hate to tell you this, Queeg, but I’m not sure yet where I’m going past this Cap’n Billy’s place and even if I knew, I’m not sure I’d tell you.”
“You wanna see a photograph of my sweet little kids, Fargo? That might change your mind.”
“Seen enough pictures for one day.”
“I could tell you about the farm I’m hopin’ to buy.”
“No, thanks. I already gave you your two things for the day. That’s my part of the bargain. Now I want you to keep your end of it.”
“I didn’t know I had a part of this bargain.”
“You sure do,” Fargo said, his face showing sudden anger, his body suddenly taut. “You quit followin’ me here and now or I push your face in for you. You understand me, Queeg?”
The anger was not for show. Fargo was sick of being tailed everywhere.
“Yeah, sure, Fargo,” Queeg said, licking his lips, nervous now. The easy-going, amiable Fargo had been replaced by the Trailsman of legend. And the Trailsman, to be sure, was nobody to get riled up. “I won’t be followin’ you anymore, I promise.”
The main street was so packed with day-before revelers that Fargo decided to get to the newspaper by walking the alleys.
He was halfway down the first alley, a friendly brown mutt bouncing along next to him, when the rifle shot came.
Fargo pitched himself away from the trajectory of the bullet, rolling quickly behind a line of small metal containers that held garbage. On this hot day, the stench was many times worse than it would normally be. Fargo didn’t have any choice, though. There was somebody on the roof two doors down. The building sat between smaller buildings with lower roofs. Somebody who’d been keeping a close watch on Fargo. This was one hell of a town for people tailing you. He must have been near Fargo, seen that Fargo was going to turn into the alley, and quickly made his way to the store roof he was using.
Two more shots.
Fargo returned fire but realized that shooting back was useless. A man with a rifle on a roof had the clear advantage.
Fargo decided that the best thing he could do was work his way back to the head of the alley, get on the boardwalk, run through the building the shooter was using, and confront him on the roof. Find out who the hell he was and what the hell he wanted.
But Fargo would have to move fast. Once the shooter saw that Fargo meant to come at him, he was likely to take off.
Fargo had to duck half a dozen more bullets, a couple of which came whistlingly close to hitting him, before he reached the head of the alley.
The shots had attracted a crowd and when he jumped to his feet, several men in Fourth of July duds said, “You all right, mister?”
But there was no time for reassurances.
Fargo worked his way to the haberdashery whose roof was being used. It wasn’t easy going in the packed walls of humanity lining boardwalk and street alike. A dozen different perfumes and a dozen different tobaccos tinted the air with their scents.
Purty, purty clothes for purty, purty men, Fargo thought as he moved between the aisles of shirts, cravats, hats, and suits. Not his type of attire at all.
He was looking for the owner or a clerk to show him the door to the stairs. Even with all the noise outside, the store was unnaturally quiet.
He soon found the reason why.
A man in a very expensive shirt, cravat, and trousers lay face down near a door in the back room. Fargo’s first impression was that the man was dead.
Fargo dropped to a knee, felt the man’s throat and wrist for a pulse. A strong one. Then he saw the bloody gash in the back of the man’s head where the shooter must have hit him. No wonder the man was still unconscious. He probably would be for some time.
Fargo nearly ripped the door at the top of the steps leading to the roof off its hinges. He was greeted by three quick shots.
Once again, Fargo had to dive for the ground—in this case, one hell of a hot roof—and roll away from the bullets. The roof was being repaired so there were stacks of construction materials here and there for both men to hide behind. The shooter was hidden behind a stack of two-by-fours very near the far edge of the roof.
Fargo chose a huge wooden barrel for shelter. He needed a moment to let his breath work its frantic way back to normal. He was breathing in gasps. That had been one hell of a run, from alley to roof.
He also took the time to peek around the barrel at exactly the same time the shooter was doing the same thing.
Fargo caught enough of a glimpse to know that his adversary was of Latin descent, either from Spain or South America. Not a Mexican. Fargo wasn’t sure why this was his impression but it was. Even from this distance, Fargo could see that the man was middle-aged, handsome, and arrogant.
The man squeezed off two more quick shots.
As Fargo reloaded his Colt, he heard the shooter make his escape. He had jumped from this roof to a lower one next door.
Fargo, still cramming bullets into his gun, jerked up and ran across the boiling rooftop, knowing already that he was too late. The shooter had had the advantage of the rifle. He’d also had the advantage of knowing the town and its best escape routes.
Fargo peered over the edge of the roof.
He didn’t see the shooter anywhere.
“Would you be Liz Turner?” Fargo asked.
“Why, yes,” she said from behind the counter of her newspaper office. “How may I help you?”
Liz Turner turned out to be a fetching woman who had not quite reached her middle age. She was lovely of face, sumptuous of body, and blessed with the grace and poise of the true lady. True ladies didn’t need money, expensive clothes, or a fancy family to possess all these gifts. Poise and grace were innate gifts and a simple woman could possess them just as readily as a princess. Liz Turner possessed them in ample measure.
“My name’s Fargo, ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fargo.”
“I wondered if I could ask you a few questions. If that would be possible.”
Her smile was radiant. “Why, it certainly would be possible.”
“What I’m looking for is some background on this sheriff of yours.”
“Tom?�
� The way she blushed when she said his name surprised the Trailsman. He wondered instantly what her relationship with Tom Tillman was. “He’s a good man. Decent. And very hardworking.”
“Then he’s nothing like his father?”
“Stepfather, you mean. And no, he’s not. In fact—” She hesitated. “In fact, he and his father don’t get along very well. His father got Tom the sheriff’s job and expected him to do whatever Noah wanted him to. But Tom’s too honest. He did what was right, instead.”
“So Tom Tillman wouldn’t cover up a murder?”
“He certainly wouldn’t.”
“Your husband was murdered, ma’am. And I’m sorry about that. Has Tom Tillman been trying to find the killer?”
She leaned her elbows on the counter—a striking, sensual woman—and said, “You know a lot about me all of a sudden. Now I want to know a lot about you. Who you are and why all this interests you so much.”
“I guess that sounds fair,” the Trailsman said, and began to bring her up-to-date on some of his personal background. And on what had happened to Daisy and her brother.
8
The Tillman ranch was one of the places important Easterners always visited when they were in this area of the West. Noah Tillman—the man who’d created the ranch and so many different business holdings even he wasn’t sure exactly what he owned—was one of those big, powerful, quiet men who almost always avoided confrontation. He had plenty of enemies who felt that he’d somehow cheated them, mistreated them, bullied or bullshitted them.
He’d let you argue with him, pick a fight with him, even curse him in front of his minions. Of course, if you actually struck him, he’d likely lay you out. He’d been a bare-knuckle boxer for a brief period in his youth. He still had quick and deadly hands. But generally, he’d take any amount of verbal guff you cared to give him and say nothing. Just walk away.
A week, a month, maybe even a year later, Noah Tillman would express his displeasure. Not personally; not so you could even prove he was involved. But there would come a day when—after it was made sure that your family was not inside—your nice new house was burned down. Or you found your desperately needed line of credit at the bank had suddenly vanished. Or you found one of your regular visits to the local whorehouse resulting in a judge using you as an example of the kind of hypocritical church-going family man who was actually a whoremonger—and you would be forced to move and start all over again, shamed and scapegoated by your community.
