Backwoods Bloodbath (7 page)

Fargo had seen enough buffalo droppings to know when he was hip-deep in the stuff. “We should play poker sometime.”

Draypool could not hide his confusion. “I’m sorry. What does that have to do with anything?”

Before Fargo could respond, Bryce Avril trotted up beside them. He was leading their packhorse. There was no sign of Vern Zeck. “We are being followed, sir,” he announced.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir.” Avril twisted and pointed.

At the last bend they had passed, well back from the road and screened by trees so no one coming up the road could see him, sat Zeck astride a bay. Raising an arm, he held up two fingers.

“Perhaps they are innocent travelers,” Draypool said.

“Can we afford to take the chance, sir?”

Fargo remembered the man who had followed Draypool the night before, but he did not share the information.

“What would you recommend, Mr. Avril?”

“Fargo and you ride on, sir. Vern and I will catch up after we deal with the two trailing us.”

Fargo could have sworn that Draypool quickly glanced at him out of the corner of an eye, as if worried how he would react. But it happened so fast he could not be sure.

“Perhaps we are being hasty, Mr. Avril. After all, this is a public road, open to everyone and sundry. I suggest that Mr. Zeck keep an eye on the two men but not take any action without my express approval.”

“Certainly, sir,” Bryce Avril said, but he did not sound pleased. Wheeling his mount, he hauled on the lead rope and headed back to tell his partner.

“Shall we?” Draypool showed his teeth. “Please excuse them. They tend to be overzealous on occasion.”

Fargo rode on. He had made up his mind what he would do, but he would have to wait until nightfall.

“You should send them after the Sangamon River Monster. They wouldn’t object to gunning him down.”

“If they could track as well as they shoot and ride, I would.”

After that Draypool fell silent, for which Fargo was grateful. He never had liked people who were not completely open and honest with him. Draypool was no worse than most, but there was something about him that did not ring true. Fargo could not quite make up his mind what it was.

Fargo tried to tell himself that maybe he was being too mistrustful. He was a loner by nature, always wary of others. To most folks that was unthinkable. They were their own worst company, and were happy only when surrounded by other human beings. Fargo was the opposite. He was happiest when he was by his lonesome. When there were just him and the mountains or the prairie, and no one else. Which was peculiar, given his fondness for saloons and doves. But a man needed his pleasures.

“I had a niece,” Arthur Draypool unexpectedly stated.

When the Illinoisan did not go on, Fargo said, “I had a dog once.”

“Please. I am baring my soul.” Draypool straightened. “Her name was Bethany and she was twelve years old. She was murdered by the Monster. It broke my sister’s heart, and she has never been the same.” Draypool looked at him. “It’s part of why I am so determined to end the madman’s reign of terror.”

“Your personal life is your own.”

“Ordinarily I would agree. But it is important that you understand. That you not take me for a fanatic, or a vigilante.”

“What I take you for is the gent who is going to pay me ten thousand dollars,” Fargo said.

“It always comes back to the money, doesn’t it? Somehow I expected more.”

“You’re the one who wants the Monster killed,” Fargo reminded him.

“Touché. Yes, I do, and yes, that is hardly a proper sentiment, but when a person loses a loved one, proper sentiments fly out the window with mercy and compassion. Revenge is all you think about. Revenge is all you live for.”

Fargo could recollect a few such instances in his own life.

“So if I seem too cold and callous, that’s why. When Bethany was little I rocked her on my knee. Now she is six feet under, thanks to a beast in human guise. A rabid animal who deserves the fate of all rabid animals.” Draypool wagged a finger. “I daresay you would shoot a rabid skunk, or a rabid coyote, or a rabid wolf. Yet you won’t bring yourself to shoot him.”

The man would not let it drop.

“I’ll make up my mind when the time comes to squeeze the trigger.” It was the best compromise Fargo could make.

They did not stop at midday. They did not rest at all. Draypool insisted on pushing on until sunset. He wanted to make camp at the side of the road, but Fargo roved among the trees and discovered a clearing where their fire would not be seen by anyone passing by.

Bryce Avril kindled it. He also filled a coffeepot with water from their water skin and put the coffee on to brew. He then left to find Vern Zeck. Twilight had about succumbed to darkness when the underbrush crackled and the two men reappeared. Zeck immediately went to Draypool to report.

“They stopped for the night about half a mile back, sir. If you ask me, they have no intention of overtaking us anytime soon.”

Since they did not want a gunshot to give them away, supper consisted of salted beef, potatoes, and bread.

Fargo ate sparingly and washed the food down with two cups of scalding black coffee. Draypool did not say much all evening; he was preoccupied, wrestling with an inner problem. He did instruct Avril and Zeck to take turns keeping watch. Fargo offered to help, but Draypool would not hear of it.

Shortly past ten, Fargo turned in. He was not tired, but he gave the impression he was by yawning a lot and pretending he could not keep his eyes open. He deliberately arranged his blankets near the horses, removed his spurs, and lay on his side facing the fire, with his hat brim pulled low, but not so low that he could not watch the others. Soon Draypool pleaded sleepiness. Since Zeck had the first watch, Avril chose a spot close to their employer and presently was snoring.

Vern Zeck took his job seriously, but he had been up all day, and along about midnight fatigue took its toll. He was feeding bits of a broken branch to the flames, and his chin drooped. Twice he snapped his head up and shook himself. The third time sleep would not be denied.

Slipping from under his blanket, Fargo padded past the horses and on into the woods. He did not have far to go, and he could be much quieter on foot. When he reached the road he turned south and adopted a dogtrot.

Something strange was going on, and it was high time he had some answers.

The acrid scent of smoke drew Fargo into the benighted woods on the left side of the road. He had gone about twenty yards when he spied the red glow of burning embers and heard a horse nicker. Instantly, he crouched, then stealthily stalked forward until he saw two horses in a small clearing. At the center was the fire, or what was left of it. On either side lay a huddled figure in a blanket.

It struck Fargo that the pair were not expecting trouble or one of them would have been standing guard. Granted, Missouri was not the Rockies, but there were plenty of outlaws. Their lack of caution pegged them as greenhorns.

Palming his Colt, Fargo crept nearer. He would give the pair the benefit of the doubt and treat them as innocent travelers until they proved otherwise, but he would be prepared if they were not.

He came to the edge of the trees and hunkered. He scanned the clearing to ensure there were only the two. Then he glided toward them, making no more noise than the breeze. He had several strides left to take when an ember flared bright for a few seconds, fanned by a gust, and in its feeble glow something glinted in the hand of one of the sleepers.

“That’s far enough, mister. I am a crack shot and will kill you where you stand if you do not do exactly as I say.”

Fargo was furious with himself. He had made the sort of stupid mistake he thought they had made.

“Set your pistol on the ground,” the man commanded.

Any hopes Fargo entertained of diving flat and snapping off a shot were dashed when the second prone form sat up and coldly declared, “You heard him. Do it and do it fast. My trigger finger is itchy.”

Fargo made a mental note to beat his head against a tree at the next opportunity, provided he lived. His lips pressed tight, he tucked at the knees and placed his Colt in front of him.

“Now back up two steps,” the first speaker ordered, “and keep your hands where we can see them.”

In unison the pair rose. The one on the right immediately circled to the right, the other circled to the left. As soon as Fargo was between them, the man on the left extended his revolver and aimed squarely at Fargo’s head. The other man came up and jabbed his revolver into Fargo’s ribs.

“What have we here? Don’t you know it’s not healthy to go sneaking around someone else’s camp in the middle of the night?”

“Who are you?” Fargo wanted to know.

The man snorted. “You have this backwards, mister. We’re holding guns on you so we get to ask the questions and you supply the answers.” He paused. “Who are
you
?”

Fargo debated whether to tell them. It might be wise, he reasoned, to learn more about them first. He used the same name he had given the desk clerk back in Kansas City. “Jed Smith.”

“That’s strange,” said the first man. “There was a trapper and mountain man by that name. The Comanches killed him. Was he a relation of yours?”

“No,” Fargo answered. “Now suppose you fess up to who you are and why you are following us.”

“Us?” the second man repeated. He was stockier than the other, with a bulbous nose and a jutting chin.

“Cover him,” the first man said. “I want a good look at his face.” Squatting, he poked a stick in the embers, added kindling, and blew softly on the tiny flames that flared until he had rekindled the fire. “Now then,” he said. Rising, he gripped Fargo by the arm and turned him from side to side, studying him.

Fargo repaid the favor and discovered it was the man in the dark suit who had shadowed Draypool back to Draypool’s hotel. The one the desk clerk called Frank Colter.

As if in confirmation, the other man asked, “Do you know this tall drink of water, Frank?”

“I can’t say as I do, Jim,” Colter said. “But I would swear I should. Something about him is familiar.”

Jim wagged his revolver. “What is your connection to the League, mister?”

“The what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Jim snapped. “By your own admission you are a friend of Arthur Draypool’s. That alone is enough to incriminate you.”

“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about,” Fargo said. He was losing his patience, and his temper. He never liked being held at gunpoint.

“Sure you don’t,” Jim scoffed. “That’s why you snuck up on us intending to murder us in our sleep. We’re not stupid.”

“No, we are not,” Frank Colter interjected. “We will go easier on you if you admit the truth. Otherwise, we must take whatever steps we deem necessary.”

“I still don’t know what you are talking about,” Fargo said.

Jim took a half step nearer. “Let me work on him. He won’t be so smug after I break a few fingers or bust a few teeth.”

Fargo tensed his legs. He would be damned if he would just stand there while they beat on him.

“There will be none of that,” Frank Colter said. “Only as a last resort will we do anything drastic.”

“As you wish, sir,” Jim said with great reluctance. “But you know as well as I do what’s at stake. If you ask me, stooping to their level is only fair.”

Colter nodded at Fargo. “I’m only offering him a chance to be reasonable. First the carrot, then the stick.”

Jim glowered, a keg of powder fit to explode. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he thumbed back the hammer of his revolver. “Say the word and I’ll start with his legs and work my way up until he confesses. We must find out what they are up to before it is too late.”

“What who is up to?” Fargo asked.

“It won’t work,” Jim scoffed. “Pretend all you want, but we know that you know, and you know that we know you know.”

Fargo’s patience snapped. “Were you born an idiot or did you have to work at it?” Without warning, Jim swung the revolver at his head. Instinctively, he ducked, but he was not quite quick enough. The barrel clipped him across the temple, not hard enough to knock him out but with sufficient force to drop him to his knees. The world spun chaotically.

“You damned traitor!” Jim snarled, and raised his revolver to do it again.

“Enough!” Frank Colter sprang and seized the other’s wrist. “Damn it, Sloane! You will do as I tell you.” He held on until Jim Sloane lowered his arm, then said, “I should have brought Pearson along. He knows how to control his temper.”

“But the rumors,” Sloane said. “The consequences.”

“That’s no excuse. We will not stoop to their level, as you put it, so long as I am in charge. Do you understand?”

Fargo’s head had stopped spinning but was pounding with pain. A moist sensation spread down his cheek. He touched his fingers to his temple. Blood was trickling from a small gash.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sloane apologized to Colter. “I just don’t want to see a hundred years count for nothing because—”

A twig snapped loudly in the nearby woods. Fargo glanced up just as a shot boomed and saw the slug catch Jim Sloane high in the right shoulder. The impact jarred Sloane backward. Instantly, Frank Colter spun and fired into the woods, only to be answered with a hail of lead. Colter was hit in the leg, and he, too, staggered, but he did not fall. Suddenly turning, he looped his free arm around Jim Sloane and, limping feverishly, propelled the two of them toward the vegetation. More shots split the night, but they made it to cover.

Fargo saw his Colt on the ground. Shaking his head to clear a few lingering tendrils of dizziness, he scooped it up. Footsteps pounded, and a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Arthur Draypool asked with legitimate concern. He held a smoking short-barreled Remington. “What in God’s name are you doing out here by yourself? What did you hope to accomplish?” He did not wait for an answer but motioned instead to the frock-coated pair who had materialized on either side of him. “After them! They must not escape!”