Colorado Clash (14 page)

“Then you won’t mind if I look around?”

“On whose orders?”

“Mine.”

“Not Cain’s?”

“He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

George Lenihan surveyed the farm outbuildings and the small house. “You won’t find anything.”

“I hope I won’t.”

The son looked even more like the father when concern shadowed his face. “He’s a good man. I worry about him. People will believe anything sometimes. That’s why I stay on the farm here. I’ve had enough of people to last me a lifetime.”

Fargo wondered how much George’s dislike of people came from the woman who’d left him.

“I want to believe your father, George.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because I’m like you. I believe that people will believe anything if they hear it often enough. You start accusing somebody of something and pretty soon everybody around begins to claim it’s true.”

“That’s what’s happening to my pa.”

“Well, then let me look around and we’ll prove that they’re wrong.”

The son shrugged. “There’s a collie roaming around here. She’s very friendly. She won’t give you any trouble.”

“A friendly dog,” Fargo said. “Imagine that.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“In the house.”

“Pa and I ain’t exactly housekeepers.”

“I’ll probably get over the shock.”

“This pisses me off.”

“Figured it would. But maybe it’ll help your father in the long run.”

“Yeah, sure it will.”

The wood-framed house was pretty orderly considering there was no woman living in it. The furniture was old, most likely bought by Lenihan’s wife, running to flowered curtains, doily-covered furniture and numerous framed religious paintings on the wall. The place hadn’t been dusted in a long time and the air was sour with cooking smells. Fargo spent most of his time going through the rolltop desk and six wooden boxes that were stuffed with everything from pans that had been burned through to old clothes that could no longer be patched up. He found nothing.

The collie was waiting for him at the back door. She was a handsome golden girl. Fargo had no doubt that she could rip open a human body anytime she chose to but he enjoyed the fact that when he bent down she let him pet her. She had restored his faith in the canine world.

George Lenihan had gone back to his haying near the fence running in back of the barn. From what Fargo could see, the crops were typical for this part of Colorado—onions, sugar beets, vegetables.

He headed downslope to the barn, the affable collie following him. The haymow door was open, allowing light into the shadowy interior. Smells of hay, horse manure, damp earth greeted him. A buggy stood to one side of the barn while farming tools lined the opposite wall. There were four stalls for horses and a makeshift bench for carpentry. Saws, hammers, a keg of nails surrounded butt ends of lumber that had been sawn.

As with the house, he had no idea what he was looking for, just some vague notion that he needed to find something physical to connect Ned Lenihan with the robbery.

The collie stayed with him. During his search, he took several opportunities to pet her. She was a good companion. Beautiful face and such clean gold and white fur.

The first half hour turned up nothing more interesting than a few stacks of yellowed magazines, a small box of toys that had probably been George’s, a few old saddles. The only interesting items were in a box—equipment for gold mining, a sluice box, pans, a pair of pickaxes. Fargo wondered if Ned had gotten caught up in the gold rush and then the silver rush that had brought so many people to the Territory. Everybody who could wield a shovel had gone crazy for sudden riches—and were still doing so. But Lenihan struck Fargo as sensible. He might have spent a few foolish weeks or months in the mountains but he couldn’t see Lenihan spending any more time than that.

Then he noticed that the box with mining equipment in it wobbled slightly. It was sitting on something that made it tilt. He lifted it up and saw that there was fresh earth underneath it. Somebody had dug a hole and buried something in it.

Fargo got down on his haunches. The collie was right next to him. He could smell her hot breath. She was as interested in the loose earth as he was. He started digging with his hands. His first surprise was how shallow the hole was. His second surprise was what it contained.

He got to his feet again. The thing in his hand dripped fresh dirt. He hadn’t bothered to brush it off. He walked out of the barn and into the mountain sunlight. He wasn’t sure what to think. If a man was in a hurry he wouldn’t have had time to bury it deep. But why on his own property would he be in a hurry? On the other hand, being that it
was
his own property, he probably wouldn’t have to care about it being buried deep. Especially since it was in the barn. Especially since it was covered up by a box.

Then there was another question. Why would a man keep this at all? What good would it do him?

He didn’t like any of this. Maybe he was somehow sorry for Ned Lenihan and coming up with all these questions just to exonerate him. Maybe it was just as simple as it looked. He’d lifted up the box and found the fresh earth and dug it up and found the thing. The thing that would lead any reasonable detective, Pinkerton or not, to conclude that Ned Lenihan had been involved in the robbery for sure and very possibly in the murders.

He walked over to the fence. The collie trotted alongside him. He cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled for George Lenihan. Lenihan stopped his haying, planted his pitchfork in the earth and came over.

Long before he reached the fence, Lenihan saw what Fargo was holding. When he reached the Trailsman, he said, “What’s that?”

But he knew what it was. And he knew what it meant, too.

Fargo held it up. “It’s got the name of the bank stenciled right on it.” The bag was the size of a regular satchel. It had a lock attached to a leather section at the top. The lock had been shot off.

“Where’d you find it?”

“You know what it is and you know where I found it.”

“My pa didn’t put that there.”

“Somebody did.”

George Lenihan’s arms came across the fence and tried to grab Fargo’s throat. “You sonofabitch! You brought that with you and then claimed to have found it in the barn!”

Fargo might have felt sorry for him if the man’s hands weren’t struggling to strangle him. Fargo hit him hard with the heavy bag, knocking him off-balance, sending him stumbling backward and finally falling to the ground on his ass.

“He didn’t do it! My pa didn’t do it!”

The beautiful collie started barking sharply, as if in sympathy.

Fargo dropped the bag and went over and offered George Lenihan his hand. Lenihan slapped it away. “You put it there. You had it on your horse when you came in. You put it there when I was out haying.”

“You know better than that.”

“Do I? This whole town has turned against him.” He put a palm flat against the grassy soil and started the process of pushing himself to his feet. “Cain sent you here to do this. And now you’ll take my pa in, won’t you?”

“I won’t have any choice. I found this in his barn.”

Lenihan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Don’t you see what’s going on here, Fargo? All right, say you didn’t do it. But don’t you see that somebody else planted it? Somebody who wants to ruin my pa.”

“Who would that be?”

“Who do you think? Who’s been chasing after Amy all these years?”

“Cain says he’s given up on her.”

“Cain says, Cain says. Cain says a lot of things and half of them are damned lies. Think about it. He sets up the robbery, he gets all the money after he kills the three boys and now he gets to destroy my father. Maybe he can’t have Amy but he can get the satisfaction of seeing my father hang.”

“Look,” Fargo said. “I’ll check out everything you say. Everything. I promise. And if I think this has been planted here that’s what I’ll tell Cain. And if I think it’s been planted and I suspect it’s Cain, I’ll go after him.”

“What can you do up against Cain? He runs this town.”

“But he doesn’t run me.”

Lenihan choked back a sob. “You don’t know my pa. He’s the kindest man I’ve ever known. And the people in town know that too. But they’ve let all this gossip make them crazy. They’re just layin’ for him. And it scares me.” He paused, stared at the bank bag. “Is there any way—”

“You know I can’t do that. I have to take this in and talk to your father. And most likely take him to jail.”

“He needs to be safe, Fargo. You’ve got to promise me that. That he’ll be safe.”

“I’ll make sure of that.”

The collie responded to Lenihan’s sadness by rubbing against his leg and making a sort of whimpering sound. She was a good dog in all respects.

“I need to get back now.”

The conversation finished, Fargo turned and cut through a small collection of chickens.

He’d gone only a few steps when Lenihan called, “Stop right there, Fargo. I’ve got a gun on you. I want you to drop that bag and then get on your horse and ride out.”

“You going to shoot me?”

“If I have to.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to.”

“I’m not fooling.”

“Neither am I.”

Fargo began slowly moving to his big Ovaro.

“Fargo. Stop.”

But Fargo kept moving. By now he was sure the kid wouldn’t shoot. He turned when he reached the stallion. Lenihan looked pathetic. He had a useless gun in his hand and what appeared to be tears in his eyes.

Lenihan didn’t say anything and neither did Fargo. There was nothing to say.

The bank bag, still showing traces of the dirt in which it had been buried, lay on the desk of Sheriff Tom Cain. He raised his pleased gaze to meet Fargo’s eyes.

“In Lenihan’s barn, you say?” Cain said.

“You heard me. No need to gloat.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“It strikes me as strange that he’d bury it in such an obvious way,” Fargo said.

Standing next to him, Pete Rule said, “I agree. Ned’s a smart man.”

“He’s also a good friend of yours, Pete. You and Fargo here just don’t want to admit he’s guilty.”

Cain had been enjoying one of his smelliest cigars. Late afternoon sunlight was turned blue by the smoke. There was also the faint aroma of whiskey on the air. Cain had been known to take a drink during duty hours.

Cain took his feet down from his desk finally and sat up straight. “Since I make the decisions in this town—I’m the duly appointed law here as some people seem to be forgetting these days—I’m going to go arrest him myself.”

“I found the bag. Let me go make the arrest.”

“I don’t remember appointing you as a deputy.”

“Then give me a badge.”

“And why should I do that, Skye?”

“Because you’ll take too much pleasure in arresting him for one thing. And for another, you won’t give him a chance to explain himself.”

“In other words, you’ll let him come up with some story about the bank bag being planted there. And how about the story old Rex told you? That he saw Lenihan talking to the three boys down by the creek? You don’t believe that, either?”

“I believe it but I’d like to hear Lenihan’s side of it.”

“You should give him a chance to talk anyway,” Rule said.

“Why don’t you go arrest him, Pete?” Amusement played in Cain’s voice.

“Well, I—”

Cain stood up. “Well, look at this. Fargo finds the bank bag and hears a man swear that he saw Lenihan talking to the boys and he still doesn’t think Lenihan’s the one we’re looking for. And poor Pete here’s so much a friend of Lenihan’s that he won’t do his sworn duty and go arrest him.”

“I’m still thinking you might be behind all this, Tom,” Fargo said. “You set up the robbery and you killed those boys.”

“Now, Fargo—” Rule started to say.

“No, no, Pete. Let him talk. That’s been on his mind the whole time. Fargo thinks I’m the one he’s looking for.”

“It’s a possibility,” Fargo said. “Same as Lenihan’s a possibility.”

“So I’m as much of a suspect as Lenihan? Did you find a bank bag in my house, did you?”

“No. But you could’ve planted that bag in Lenihan’s barn.”

“Trusting soul, aren’t you?”

“I want the badge, Tom. Now.”

“I have to admit, Skye, it would give me a whole lot of pleasure to arrest Lenihan and then march him down the street.”

“I’ll be bringing him in the back way.”

One of Cain’s theater smiles. “Why, you’re no fun at all, Skye.”

Then he dug up a badge for the Trailsman.

 

The Winchester barrel gleamed in the sunlight of the dying day. Out on the river a pair of fishermen in a rowboat waved to Sam and Kenny Raines. Kenny waved but Sam was too busy lining up his next shot. Five bottles sat on top of two boxes. He had fired three times and hit one bottle. Kenny had replaced it with a new one.

“I would’ve busted all five of them by now.” The disgust in Kenny’s voice was clear. “And if I had my gun hand back, Fargo’d be dead by now too.”

“I’m doing what I can.”

“You’re one of those shots got to be right on top of a man before you can kill him. We ain’t gonna have that chance with Fargo. You’ll have to shoot him from a distance.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Now get back to practicing.”

“I get sick of you pushing me around sometimes.”

“Well, I get sick of you lettin’ me down all the time. You could’ve killed him the other night at the Gold Mine and you didn’t. I would’ve killed him for you.”

Sam made a face and started sighting along the barrel again. He squinted, steadied himself, fired. Third bottle from the left exploded jagged pieces of glass into the winterlike chill coming off of the river.