Backwoods Bloodbath (15 page)

“Nonsense!” Layton spat. “Anyone too stupid to see the difference deserves to have their throat slit.”

Fargo could not help but grin.

“It depends on why people kill,” Layton went on. “Their motive, as the judge calls it. He says that some motives are higher than others, and the highest of all is to kill for an honorable cause.”

“Interesting notion,” Fargo said.

“The judge is a great man. He has a vision for the future. One day soon that vision will come true and this country will be a better place.”

“What kind of vision?”

Perhaps aware he had said too much, Layton hesitated, then answered, “You should ask him. He’s a better talker than me.”

“You admire him a lot, I gather?” Fargo trolled for information.

“I admire the cause,” Layton said, and quickly amended, “That is, I believe in bringing murderers to justice.”

Fargo thought of the Sweeney family, and the young girl crumpled in a corner of their cabin, her white dress stained scarlet from multiple stab wounds. “That makes two of us.”

The killer’s endurance was worthy of an Apache’s. Mile after mile through some of the heaviest vegetation Fargo had ever encountered, the man held to a remarkable pace. Many times Fargo had to dismount and lead the Ovaro by the reins. The press of growth demanded it.

Layton did not say much. He always hung back and let Fargo lead, which was to be expected. But Fargo did not like having the man behind him. Now and again the skin on his back itched, and he would tell himself that he was being silly. Layton wouldn’t shoot him or do whatever the judge and Draypool had ordered him to do until they caught up to the Sangamon River Monster.

Night found them no closer to their quarry. Fargo made camp in a small clearing. He kindled a fire and put coffee on to brew. Their meal consisted of pemmican on his part and jerky on Layton’s.

They were sipping their first steaming cup when Layton cleared his throat and asked, “What’s it like out there?”

Fargo knew what he meant but asked, “Out where?”

“Out west. We hear so many stories. Are the Indians as fierce and bloodthirsty as everyone says?”

“Some Indians,” Fargo said, “but no more so than some whites.”

“They say you’ve lived with Indians.”

“Who does?”

Layton shrugged. “Oh, people I’ve talked to in taverns and the like.”

“People talk too damn much.” Fargo was in an irritable mood. It rankled him, being used.

“Do they ever. But don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t hold it against you. I know another man who has lived with Indians. Some tribe down in Florida. He dresses like an Indian and acts half Indian all the time.”

“This man have a name?” Fargo asked without really caring.

“Hiram Trask. I doubt you have ever heard of him. He’s not anywhere near as famous as you are.”

Fargo’s gut tightened.
Could it be?
he asked himself. “I have heard of him. He’s supposed to be a damn good tracker.”

“One of the best,” Layton said. “Folks say he can track an ant across solid rock, but folks exaggerate.”

“That they do,” Fargo agreed amiably. Then, as casually as possible, he blew on the coffee and said, “I’ve heard Trask is partial to knee-high moccasins.”

Layton chuckled and said, “He wears the silly things all the time. Once in Georgia we went into a fancy restaurant with him wearing them and everyone stared—” Layton froze, his cup halfway to his mouth.

“So that was Hiram Trask,” Fargo said. “Strange he didn’t introduce himself. Or that Draypool or Harding didn’t mention him.”

“Hiram’s not much of a talker.” Layton tried to undo the damage. “And Mr. Draypool and the judge probably figured you wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand what?” Fargo shammed. “That two trackers working together are better than one? Trask should be with us.”

Beads of sweat had broken out on Layton’s brow. “Maybe the judge wants Hiram handy in case something happens to you.”

“That could be.” Fargo enjoyed making him squirm. “Or it could be Trask is part of the League, like you and Draypool and the judge.”

Layton paled and nearly dropped his tin cup. “The what?”

“The Secessionist League. Why you went to all the trouble to hire me when you have Trask puzzles me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Fargo said. “Just like you don’t know that there is no Sangamon River Monster and never has been. Just like you don’t know that it was you and your friends who murdered the Sweeney family.”

Layton sat stock-still. “You’re ranting nonsense.”

“And you’re a terrible liar.” Fargo made a mental stab in the dark. “When are you supposed to kill me? Or is Draypool leaving that up to Hiram Trask?”

“You must be drunk.”

“Have you seen me take a drink all day?” Fargo countered, watching the backwoodsman’s hands.

“What in God’s name makes you think there’s no Sangamon River Monster?”

“I’ve talked to people who have never heard of him.”

“What’s so peculiar about that?” Layton asked.

“Draypool claimed the killings have been going on for ten years,” Fargo said. “Everyone in Illinois would know about them by now.”

“Not necessarily.” Layton pushed his raccoon hat back on his head. He seemed to be thinking furiously. His face lit, as if at inspiration, and he asked, “If the Sangamon River Monster doesn’t exist, then whose tracks are we following?”

“I was hoping you would tell me,” Fargo said. “Then you can go back and tell your bosses that whatever they are up to didn’t work.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Tell them, too, that I’ll be coming for them. They must pay for the Sweeneys. Why that family, anyway? Did Draypool and the judge pick them out of thin air? Or were they Northern sympathizers?”

Layton’s eyes darted right and left, like those of an animal caught in a cage. “Sheer nonsense, I tell you.”

“Keep it to yourself, then,” Fargo said. “But now that things are out in the open, I’d like for you to hand me your revolver.”

“What?”

“I don’t keep rattlesnakes in my pocket, and I don’t let men out to kill me keep the guns to do it with.”

“Crazy as a loon,” Layton declared.

Fargo extended his left hand, palm up. “Your revolver.”

“Like hell! You have no right!” Layton started to stand but sat back down again. He was a study in nervousness. His jaw muscles twitched. He shifted his legs one way and then another.

“We don’t have all night,” Fargo said.

Like a punctured bladder deflating, Layton’s body sagged and he said resignedly, “I’ll give it to you. But once you realize the mistake you’ve made, I want it back. Understood?”

“You’re stalling.”

“All right, all right. Hold your horses.” Layton set down his cup and lowered his right arm toward his Remington.

Fargo’s gaze was glued to the other arm, to the hand that brushed Layton’s hip. Cold steel flashed and lanced at his throat. With a deft twist of his wrist he threw his coffee into Layton’s face even as he skipped to one side to evade the blade. He thought it would buy him the split second he needed to draw, but Layton was on him before his fingers could close on the Colt’s grip. Again the knife speared at his jugular. He had to throw himself backward to save himself, and in doing so he tripped over his saddle.

Layton was a woodsman. His reflexes were as keen as his knife. He sprang as Fargo fell, shearing the razor’s edge at Fargo’s chest, and it was only by a fluke that the blow missed by the barest fraction.

Fargo got his hand on his Colt and the Colt clear of his holster. A foot caught him on the wrist, numbing it, and the Colt went flying. Inwardly cursing his clumsiness and sluggishness, Fargo rolled to the right and came up in a crouch, his hand sliding into his right boot and groping for the Arkansas toothpick he always carried strapped to his ankle.

Layton did not allow an instant’s respite. He thrust his blade at Fargo’s chest, then sprang back in surprise when Fargo swept the toothpick up and deflected the stab with a metallic
ching
. Eyes narrowing in wary calculation, Layton bent at the waist in a knife fighter’s posture and circled.

Fargo did likewise. It was rash to talk in a fight, any fight, but he did so now. “If you kill me, the judge and Draypool might be upset. It will spoil their plans.” He did not add “whatever those plans were.”

“I have no choice. You know too much,” Layton responded. “We’ll still have your body, and that’s the important thing.”

“My body?” Fargo wondered what in hell that meant.

“You’re not as clever as you think,” Layton said. “You have no idea what we need you for. It’s sure not to track, not when we have Hiram Trask.” Layton snickered. “The only thing you’re good for is being a convenient scapegoat, as the judge calls it. When your body is found near his, everyone will jump to the wrong conclusion.”

“
That’s
why I was hired? To take the blame for killing someone I don’t even know?” To Fargo it still made no sense.

“You don’t know who the man is or you would understand,” Layton said. “Everyone will be so busy trying to figure out why you would do such a thing, they won’t suspect the League.”

“Who are you after?”

“That would be telling.”

Without warning, Layton attacked, wielding his knife in a flurry, seeking to overwhelm Fargo quickly. But Fargo was expecting it, and he met the whirlwind with all the considerable skill he had acquired, the clang of steel on steel ringing loud and sharp. He was forced to give way, but only for a few yards. Then he planted himself and would not be moved. He countered or evaded every stroke, every feint. Fury crept into Layton’s countenance and he redoubled his effort, but now it was Fargo who forced him back, step by step, until they stood where they had started, both of them swearing and Layton panting as if he had just run ten miles.

“Damn you! No one has ever lasted this long!”

“I intend to last longer,” Fargo assured him.

“Think again,” Layton said, and clawed for his revolver. He had it half out when Fargo’s shoulder slammed into him and they pitched backward into the fire. He stabbed at Fargo’s neck but cleaved empty air.

Fargo gained his feet first. He lashed out with his right foot and Layton’s Remington sailed into the dark.

“Enough is enough!” Layton growled. He was growing desperate, and he proved it by throwing himself recklessly forward, his knife arcing right and left.

Fargo retreated. He made Layton come after him, made Layton overextend himself, and at the next wild slash, he drove the toothpick’s double-edged blade into Layton’s forearm.

Crying out, Layton backpedaled, then stopped and regarded the blood seeping from the wound. He was winded and could not last much longer, and they both knew it. “How about if we call this a draw and you let me take my horse and go?”

Shaking his head, Fargo resumed circling. “You tried to kill me. This ends only one way.”

“Bastard.”

Struck by a thought, Fargo stopped and said slowly, “Unless—”

“Unless what?” Layton eagerly responded.

“Unless you tell me the name of the man the League wants dead. Do that, and I won’t try to stop you from leaving.”

Layton straightened, blood dripping from his wrist. “I can’t. I took a vow. I pledged to be loyal to the League.”

“Is your vow worth dying over?”

“The stakes are. This isn’t about you or me. It’s about sticking up for what I believe in.”

“You’ve lost me,” Fargo admitted.

“The judge calls them ‘causes greater than ourselves, ’ ” Layton recited. “I have an obligation to do what is best for everyone, not just for me.”

“How is murdering someone good for anyone?” Fargo skeptically asked.

“It depends on who. And it’s not really a murder. Not in the way you mean.”

The quibbling annoyed Fargo. “What other way is there?” he demanded. He wondered if Layton was stalling to regain his strength.

“Nice try, mister. You’re fishing, hoping I’ll give it away. But I won’t. I’ve made my decision. I would rather die than betray the cause.”

Fargo’s puzzlement grew. The Secessionist League was devoted to one cause and one cause only. “All this has something to do with the South?”

Desperation compelled Layton to snarl and recklessly throw himself into an attack yet again. He feinted high but sliced low, his intent to bury his knife in Fargo’s groin. But the backwoodsman was not the only one with superb reflexes. Fargo’s had been honed in clashes with Comanches and Sioux, grizzlies and wolves. His arm moved like lightning. He blocked the knife, and before Layton could recover, Fargo reversed his grip on the toothpick and slashed it across the other’s throat.

For all of five seconds Bill Layton stood in stunned disbelief. Then he bleated and staggered, clutching at the cut in a vain bid to stanch the crimson spray that moistened the front of his buckskin shirt. “No!” he gurgled. “Not like this!”

Fargo did not move closer. So long as the man lived, he was dangerous. “Who is the League after?”

Layton glared.

“His name,” Fargo persisted.

“Go to hell!” The words were spat out in a blubbery hiss matched by the hiss of scarlet.

“You first.”

Layton tottered, swore, and fell to his knees. Blood gushed over his lower lip in a thick red flow. He glanced wildly about, as if seeking the Remington, then raised his knife to the star-speckled heavens and tried to shout something, but all that came out of his mouth was more blood and inarticulate sounds. He looked at Fargo and weakly cocked his arm to throw his knife. Life fled, and with a final groan he toppled.

Fargo felt for a pulse to be sure. He searched Layton’s pockets and saddlebags in the hope of finding a clue to the League’s plot, but there was nothing. With a sigh of frustration, he faced to the southwest and then to the northeast. He had a decision to make. Should he go after Harding and Draypool and the rest? Or should he continue tracking and find out who they were after?