by Jon Sharpe
From down the street came the clatter of a buckboard. All Fargo could see of the man driving it was a top hat. Who the hell would wear a top hat in a town like Cawthorne?
“Here comes Charlie Friese.”
“Who’s Friese?”
“The undertaker.”
“Somebody must’ve told him about the body.”
“He just seems to know. He’s got an instinct for it. A lot of folks around here think he’s supernatural.”
“He wears a top hat?”
“Wait’ll you see his cape,” Rule laughed.
The buckboard pulled up. Silver steam poured from the nostrils of the horses pulling the vehicle. Rule hadn’t been joking about the cape. Fargo still couldn’t get a look at the man’s face as he stepped down from the buckboard.
“Looks like you’ve got some business, Charlie. They found the Byrnes boy.”
Friese stepped into the light cast from inside the sheriff’s office and lifted off his top hat. Shining shoulder-length red hair swung free and a full feminine mouth opened and said, “It’s Sarah, Pete. My dad’s down with the gout again.” Her body was as rich with female promise as her face. Slender but sumptuous at the same time.
“You wearin’ your dad’s outfit now?”
“People don’t take me seriously if I don’t. They think I’m just some nineteen-year-old who doesn’t know anything. People are used to Dad’s getup. He scares them a little bit. He likes it, too. He’s always laughing about it.” She touched a hand to the Ovaro’s neck. “What a beautiful horse. I’m just sorry he had to bring Clete home. Poor Karen and her mother. They were praying he wouldn’t be dead.” Her emerald eyes settled on Fargo. “Where did you find him?”
Fargo told her.
“Same as the other two. I wish we knew who was doing this.” An ivory hand appeared beneath an edge of the cape. “Sarah Friese.”
“You ever heard of the Trailsman?” Rule said.
“Sure.”
“Well, that’s who you’re shaking hands with.”
She smiled. “Dad’ll be sorry he wasn’t here. Are you just passing through, Mr. Fargo?”
“I hope so.” Fargo nodded to the buckboard. “Now I imagine we need to get the body on the buckboard.”
“I’d appreciate the help.”
With Fargo and Rule working together, Clete Byrnes’ corpse presented no difficulty. Fargo untied him and they carried him to the back of the buckboard and set him inside.
A larger crowd had gathered. This one remained twenty yards away. One of the onlookers carried a torch. A few lanterns blazed in the gloom.
Before climbing up on the seat again, Sarah Friese said, “I hope I see you before you leave, Mr. Fargo.” She wasn’t coy. She was straightforward and Fargo liked that. She was interested in his company and he was certainly interested in hers.
“I’d like that, too.”
When she was seated and the reins gathered in her hands, she glanced down at Rule. “Sheriff Cain is going to catch a whole lot of hell for this, Pete. My dad said that at church the other night the minister said maybe the sheriff just wasn’t up to the job of finding out who killed these boys. That’s not the kind of talk you usually hear from a minister. Not our minister, anyway.”
“He doesn’t like it any better than anybody else does, Sarah. You know that. And besides—” He hesitated. “Well, we’re working on something. That’s all I’ll say for now.”
“I have faith in the sheriff, Pete, but a lot of people think he may need to call in some help on this.”
She turned the buckboard around expertly and headed back down the street. The crowd parted for her. A few of the drunker ones ran alongside the buckboard trying to get a look at the dead man.
Rule waved Fargo into the office. Fargo started rolling a cigarette for himself.
“Appreciate your help with this. A lot of people would have just left him there.”
Fargo shrugged. “Guess I’d appreciate it if somebody’d bring me into town if it was me. Seemed the decent thing to do, is all.”
“I reckon that’s why you’ve got such a good reputation, Mr. Fargo.”
Fargo smiled. “In some quarters, maybe. But there are plenty of people who’d like to get their guns on me.” He scratched a lucifer against the sole of his boot and lighted his cigarette. “No leads on the killer yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Lawmen have been known to bring in the Pinkertons.”
Rule took a corncob pipe from his shirt pocket and a sack of pipe tobacco from the desk top. “Not this sheriff. He’s real independent. Some people like that, some don’t. I was a drunk when he found me. Couldn’t hold a job. He helped me give up John Barleycorn and become a deputy. So I’ve got no complaints.”
Fargo went to the door. Then remembered something. He took the button from his pocket and carried it back to Rule. “This mean anything to you?”
Rule gave him an odd look. “Lady’s button, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Found it near Clete Byrnes’ body.”
Rule shook his head. “Hmm, never seen anything like it before.”
Fargo put the button back in his pocket. “Think I’ll find the livery and then get myself some beer,” he said. “You got a decent hotel here?”
“The Royale’s good. And pretty cheap. Sheriff’ll want to talk to you.”
“I won’t be hard to find.”
Fargo walked out into the chill mountain night, mounted up and eased down the street toward the livery stable.
Welcome to Cawthorne, he thought.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Fargo turned, his hand dropping to his gun. In the dim lamplight of the street, he saw a chunky man in a city suit and derby scurrying after him. Fargo faced him, keeping his hand near his holster. Fargo had just come from the livery stable.
“You want something?”
“Just to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Why about the body, what else?” Then the man doffed his hat and Fargo saw a face that time and alcohol had not treated kindly. “I’m Barney O’Malley. I’m the reporter for the Cawthorne Clarion.”
Sure as hell not what I want to get into anyway, Fargo thought. Talking to some damned newspaperman who’ll just distort what I have to say.
O’Malley, fleshy of body as well as face, whipped out a small notebook from his back pocket and said, “So let me ask you a few questions.”
“That’s a pretty small notebook. Fits right in your back pocket.”
“It’s my lucky notebook.” He said this without irony.
His lucky notebook, Fargo thought. The thing looked like something a schoolchild would use. Only the black leather cover gave it an adult aspect. And how lucky could it be? This man was obviously a shabby drunkard. He needed a lot more luck than this notebook had given him.
“How about I ask you a few questions?”
“What?”
“Don’t you have something better to do than bother me?
That’s question number one. And question number two is how can you write in the dark like this?”
O’Malley lived up to his Irish name. He blasted Fargo right back, his words carrying the distinctive aroma of cheap whiskey on the night air. “First of all, who the hell else would I bother? You brought Clete Byrnes in, didn’t you? And second of all, you’re talking to a real reporter, mister. I’ve worked for papers in Chicago and St. Lou and Denver. I’m no hayseed scribbler.”
“And I bet the bottle got you fired from every one of them.”
O’Malley, who looked more and more like an overstuffed leprechaun the longer Fargo watched him, came right back. “Alcohol is my heritage. Alcohol is my energy. Alcohol is my truth. And if the editors of this world can’t understand that then I feel sorry for them. They’re missing out on some of the best journalism being done this side of the Mississippi River.”
Despite himself Fargo was amused by the man. He certainly didn’t back down. “So what do you want to k
now?”
“That’s more like it.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I’m told your name is Skye Fargo.”
“That’s correct.”
“That would make you the Trailsman.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“That’s pretty big news for a town like Cawthorne. The Trailsman stopping by.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about me bringing in Clete Byrnes.”
“Just so. But you’ll be a big part of the story. Almost as big as the body itself.”
Referring to Byrnes as “the body” would have offended Fargo if he hadn’t been used to the objective—some would say callous—way reporters went about their jobs. The story was all-important. The people involved were just stage props.
Fargo said, “You ready? Here’s what happened. Then I want you to get the hell away from me.”
“Fair enough. Give me the story.”
Fargo rolled himself a smoke as he laid out the circumstances in which he’d found Clete Byrnes. He even took the silver button from his shirt pocket and showed it to O’Mal ley. The journalist held it between thumb and forefinger and rolled it around and held it up to the light. “Don’t think Helen’d have anything as fancy as this.”
“Who’s Helen?”
“Crotchety old widow who lives on the land where you found Byrnes.” O’Malley shrugged. “Last year somebody broke into a local woman’s house and stole some things. But I don’t know that that’d have anything to do with this. It’s sure Byrnes didn’t have it on him. So what I want to know now is what the Trailsman plans to do next?”
“The name’s Fargo.”
“The Trailsman’s a lot more dramatic.”
Fargo laughed. “I can see why they’d get rid of you even if you didn’t have a problem with the bottle.”
“They ‘got rid of me’ as you say because they didn’t like me showing them up for the amateurs they were.” The derby on his head once more, he leaned a few inches closer and said, “Just as I’m doing here in Cawthorne. The owner here is a man named Amos Parrish. He’s never worked on a large newspaper in his life. But he’s under the mistaken impression that he’s doing me some kind of favor by paying me slave wages for work he could never do himself. He’s even taken to putting both our names on the pieces I write, claiming that people will believe it more readily if we’ve both signed it. He’s jealous, of course. And he’ll be even more jealous when I crack this case.”
“The killings?”
“Indeed, the killings.”
“Do you actually know something or are you just talking?”
O’Malley leaned back and bestowed an impish grin on Fargo. A leprechaun for sure. “So you’re intrigued, Fargo.”
“I’m intrigued if you know something that’s a fact.”
O’Malley touched his chest as if he’d been mortally wounded. “And what do you think I deal in, sir, except facts? The truth, as I said, is to be found in the bottle. The bottle tells me many things and it never lies.”
Fargo’s amusement was wearing thin. “If you know something, you should tell Sheriff Cain.”
O’Malley barked a laugh. “Cain? You trust Tom Cain?”
“He’s the sheriff.”
“He’s a town tamer. There’s a difference. An honest sheriff does what’s best for the town. A town tamer does what’s best for him.”
“Well, if you won’t tell him how about telling me?”
“Sir, do you have any idea how a reporter works?”
Fargo yawned. “No, but I’m afraid I’m about to find out.”
“A reporter works in secrets and he keeps his secrets. If I were to reveal what I’m working on right now this town would explode. So I”—he doffed his derby once again—“I keep it under my hat as they say. My derby to be exact. You’ll be the man I turn to—if you promise me that you won’t share my secrets with Cain.”
Fargo wasn’t sure what to make of the Irish drunk. He was a windbag, that was for certain. And a damned irritating one at some points. But maybe his experiences on big-city newspapers—if they weren’t just a figment of his besotted imagination—might actually make him the one man in town who could sort through everything that had happened and make sense of it.
“It’s not always safe to keep secrets. If you’re on to somebody he may be on to you.”
“I keep a derringer up my sleeve. Spent some time on riv erboats as a gambler.”
“The killer’s going to come at you with a hell of a lot more than a derringer if he thinks you can identify him.”
“That, Mr. Fargo, is my concern, not yours.”
And with that he once again doffed his hat and disappeared into the night.
3
Trail dust and a good night’s sleep were Fargo’s two main concerns when he checked into the Royale. The nattily attired desk clerk assured him that both Fargo’s desires could be taken care of with no problem. With a great deal of pleasure, in fact, he said in his best desk clerk voice.
The lobby was filled with drummers. The checkered suits and the black bags gave them away. Fargo enjoyed his travels. He was just glad he didn’t have to wear stupid suits and hawk worthless products to naïve men and women across the West. And not all of them were harmless. He’d run into a few snake oil salesmen who peddled everything from opium to murder. He’d once shot a drummer who hired out as a killer when he visited a town. He usually managed to escape in time. Until he happened to be in the same town as Fargo at the same time.
The room was small but clean and the mattress seemed to be new. He sat down to test it and liked what he felt. Now for the trail dust. The desk clerk had told him to go to room D where he would find a big aluminum tub. He would see that a woman was there to assist Fargo. Fargo brought clean clothes and found room D. The woman proved to be a fine piece of goods, dark—probably Italian—with sensuously sculpted features and a blue cotton dress that revealed rich breasts and hips made for handling.
Near the big tub were four buckets of water. Steam rose from them. And on a table behind the buckets were towels and soap.
“My name is Antonia.”
“Skye Fargo.”
“You’re a big one.”
“And you’re a pretty one.”
She obviously enjoyed the compliment. He pulled the silver button from his pocket and showed it to her. “You ever see this before?”
“No. It is from a woman’s garment.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Where did you find it?”
He changed the subject. “How about that bath?”
“I will step out while you take your clothes off. There is soapy water in the tub. It is cool. I’ll use the other buckets to heat it up as we go along.”
In a graceful glide she left the room. Fargo stripped down, piled his dusty clothes in a heap, then lowered himself carefully into the tub. The water was more than cool, it was downright cold. A couple of shudders and he was fine. “C’mon back.”
Antonia appeared and silently went to one of the buckets. She took the handle with long fingers and carried it to the tub. “I will pour slowly. You tell me when it’s too hot.”
As she bent over to pour the water, he noticed how her full breasts pressed against the blue cotton of her dress. He also noticed that she noticed his gaze. She smiled.
He leaned back, muscular arms on the sides of the tub, closed his eyes. This was a pleasure a wandering man like himself didn’t experience all that often. He might as well enjoy it.
She even began to sing, which relaxed him all the more. She had a sweet voice. Too bad he couldn’t understand the Italian lyrics.
“What’s the song about?”
“Two lonely people who meet on a street in Rome one summer night.”
“Do they stay lonely?”
Her laugh was as sweet as her singing voice. “Not for long. That’s what the song is really about. How they meet and come together.”
“I think I like that song.”
“It’s one of my favorites, too.”
“Does the desk clerk know you favor certain guests?”
“Very few guests,” she said sadly, “for very few appeal to me. And anyway, he is sleeping with the owner’s wife. I keep his secrets and he keeps mine.”
“That’s a decent arrangement.”
“But he sees her many times more than I choose to favor guests with my body.”
“Maybe you’re too choosy.”
“I’ve thought of that. But it’s like that song I sing. How two people meet and come together. They must be the right people. Now let me pour more water in the tub.”
“I can’t figure out if you’re trying to scald me or drown me.”
“You will see what I am trying to do in very short order.”
Ten minutes and a bucket and a half later, Fargo found himself sinking into sleep. The song had become a kind of lullaby and the hot water was making him want to doze off. But he was surprised to find that she had a very satisfying way of getting his attention again.
She had slid her hand under the sudsy top of the water and taken hold of his manhood. Her mere touch had brought him to full alert.
“You are as big as I had hoped.”
Fargo laughed. “You like them big?”
“I am an Italian girl. We are a sensual country. We take our pleasure seriously. Why not have a lover who can fill you up and make you gasp?”
Her words were making his lance even stiffer. The blinding tension leading up to lovemaking was on him. His breath came in short animallike gasps. But he knew there was no way he could fit her into this small tub.
Her mouth found his, her tongue driving him up from the tub, dripping soapy water as he rose. But she arched herself away from him as her tongue flicked through his entire mouth, making him even harder. “It wouldn’t be right to get my dress wet. Let me spread towels out for us. And then I will undress.”
Fargo stepped out of the tub, his spear leading the way. Watching her undress only made his lust more urgent. She was a ripe woman with beautifully turned breasts and sumptuous curves. The curly hair at the top of her legs was as dark as her flashing eyes. He watched her bend over spreading the towels and could no longer hold himself. He eased up behind her and pressed himself against her. His entire body lurched as she gasped, “Oh, God!” Her breasts spilled over his hands. He held them tight and then began playing with one of them between his thumb and forefinger. She began insinuating herself against his manhood with greater passion than before.
