Hannibal Rising (12 page)

“Bucklin Anders and you were working together. He shot Emmett. Someone else hired two other killers and they killed Bucklin Anders.” Fargo lowered his hand close to his Colt.

“Who hired you?”

“Where do you get these harebrained notions?”

“I figured out most of it,” Fargo said. It wasn’t hard. Anders had mentioned having a partner and Anders was a local. It stood to reason his partner was the same.

“You figured wrong. I wasn’t in cahoots with him.”

“Who hired you?”

“Are your ears plugged with wax?” Brun growled. “I’ve warned you and you refuse to listen. Don’t ask me that again, you hear?”

“Who hired you?”

“You are a hardheaded son of a bitch.” Brun started to turn and suddenly whipped around, swinging his rifle like a club.

Fargo was ready. He ducked and drew but as he cleared leather Brun’s foot slammed his wrist and the Colt was jarred from his grasp. He lunged for it but Brun’s rifle caught him on the shoulder, spinning him half around. He expected Brun to swing again and sidestepped, only to have a pair of arms twice the size of his own encircle his chest from behind.

“I’ve got you now, little man.”

Fargo struggled mightily as Brun lifted him off the ground and shook him as a bear might shake a hound. Fargo’s hat fell off. He tried to surge free but Brun’s arms were bands of iron.

“I warned you not to rile me.”

The pressure on Fargo’s chest grew worse. The stable swam. He’d swear his ribs were about to stave in. In desperation he drove the back of his head against the Missourian’s face. There was a
crunch
and a spurt of wet on his neck.

“Damn your hide!” Brun roared. “You’ve done busted my nose!”

Fargo rammed his head back again. Brun howled and spun and Fargo was sent stumbling. He smashed against a stall and sprawled onto his side, dazed. A black boot hooked down and agony lanced his ribs. Another blow flipped him onto his back. Struggling to stay conscious, he saw the boot rise over his face.

“I’m goin’ to stomp you to a pulp.”

Fargo drove his own boot up and in and caught Brun where it would hurt a man the most. The hulking slab of gristle and sinew cried out and stumbled, his hands over his groin.

Fargo made it to his hands and knees. He shook his head to clear it, saw Brun’s legs, and slammed into them. His intent was to bowl Brun over and in that he succeeded. What he hadn’t counted on was Brun falling on top of him.

Fargo was pinned. He sought to heave Brun off but it was like trying to heave an anvil. Brun growled and raised his big hands and wrapped them around Fargo’s throat.

“If I can’t stomp you I’ll strangle you.”

Fargo gripped Brun’s wrists and pushed but couldn’t budge them. He butted Brun in the face but all Brun did was grin and keep squeezing. Fargo’s breath was cut off. He sucked air into his nose but it did no good. He was on the verge of plunging into a black well when he did the only thing he could think of to do: he dug his thumbs into Brun’s eyes.

The Missourian howled. The pressure on Fargo’s throat slackened but not enough; Fargo gouged his thumbs deeper. Suddenly Brun had hold of his wrists and Fargo was jerked to his feet. He could breathe and he could see again. Blood was trickling from both of Brun’s eyes. Pits of hell, those eyes—filled with unbridled rage and undiluted hate.

“God
damn
you!”

A knee as big as a sledge smashed Fargo in the sternum. He was hurled against the wall and fell into some straw. Groping to get his hands under him, he felt something hard under his right hand. The shape took a few seconds to register. He gripped it just as Brun gripped him by the shoulders and spun him around. Brun cocked a huge fist. “It ends now.”

“You’ve got that right.” Fargo swung the horseshoe. Metal
thwucked
on flesh and Brun staggered. Fargo hit him again, and a third time.

“Don’t,” Brun said. He was swaying. Scarlet oozed from his split temple as he held out a hand. “I’ve had enough.”

“You started it.” Fargo hit him so hard it hurt his own hand. The crash of Brun striking the ground sent a tingle down Fargo’s spine. He raised the horseshoe to strike once more but lowered his arm. He never could beat on someone once they were down.

Fargo cast the horseshoe aside and wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow. He shuffled from the stable. Every muscle was sore. He was battered and bruised but he would live.

He hadn’t learned much. He still didn’t know which of the Clyborns had hired Brun and Anders. He still didn’t know which of them had hired the brother and sister. He suspected Tom guilty of the former, possibly Charlotte of the latter. But it could be any of them.

A pair of servants in purple walked by and gave him odd looks. One of them asked, “Are you all right, sir? If you don’t mind my saying, you look positively dreadful”

Fargo supposed he did. “Fine, thanks,” he said, and shuffled on, gaining strength as he went. When he reached the lodge he went straight to his room. He made sure to throw the bolt and as an added precaution propped the chair against the door.

Fargo stood in front of the mirror. He did look awful. He threw his hat on the bed and stripped off his buckskin shirt. His chest and arms were a welter of black-and-blue marks. He filled the basin with water from the pitcher and washed the grime from his face and the dirt from his hair.

Weariness seeped in. It had been a long, eventful day. It was early yet but he stretched out on the bed on his back with the Colt in his hand, and closed his eyes. He tried to sleep but his mind wouldn’t shut down. He reviewed all that had happened since he arrived. One fact was plainer than ever. He couldn’t trust any of them. The Clyborns, Cletus Brun, the brother and sister assassins—any of them might try to do him in.

It promised to be an interesting hunt.

Fargo placed his forearm over his eyes. He yawned and willed himself to relax. It hit him that he was under no obligation to stay. He could leave if he wanted. Take a day’s pay and forget the rest. His life was worth more than two thousand dollars. To him, at least.

He mulled it over and decided that no, he couldn’t go. He owed it to himself to see the hunt through. Too much had happened. He took it personal, the attempts on his life, and Brun trying to beat him senseless. He had never been one to turn the other cheek and he would be damned if he would start now.

Fargo started to drift off. A sound brought him out of himself, the faint scrape of the latch being tried. He opened his eyes. The latch was moving, but slowly. He swung his legs to the floor and crept to the door. He put his ear to it but couldn’t hear anything. As quietly as possible he moved the chair. He eased the bolt, gripped the latch, and flung the door wide.

No one was there.

Fargo stepped out and looked right and left. The hallway was empty. He wondered if it could have been his imagination, but no, he had seen the latch move.

Someone had tried to enter.

Backing into the room, he secured the latch and once again propped the chair against it. He also took the pitcher and placed it next to the chair’s leg so that if someone forced the door the racket would wake him from even the deepest sleep.

Voices from outside drew Fargo to the window. Tom and Charles were under a maple, arguing. Tom looked fit to punch his brother and was shaking his fist in Charles’s face. As Fargo looked on, Charles wheeled and walked away.

What a family, Fargo thought. He laid back down. He must be a glutton for punishment, he told himself, to go through all this when he didn’t have to.

Fargo recollected hearing that pride went before a fall. Maybe so, but he couldn’t look at himself in the mirror if he quit.

One thing was certain. The two people who had died so far wouldn’t be the only ones. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind that before the hunt was over more would be bucked out in gore.

Just so he wasn’t one of them.

Fargo was up early. He splashed water on his face and shrugged into his shirt, wincing from the bruises. Shoving his hat on his head, he went to strap on his gun belt, and remembered—no weapons were allowed. Reluctantly, he left the Colt on the bed. He left the Arkansas toothpick in its ankle sheath. No one knew he had it and he might need it before the twenty-four hours were up.

Fargo thought he would be the first outside but he was mistaken. Too much was at stake. They were all there, waiting for the shot that would start the hunt.

Tom and Cletus Brun were at the bottom of the steps and glared at him when he stepped into the rosy light of the chill dawn. Charlotte was nervously pacing, her cousin at her side. Apparently Amanda had changed her mind about taking part. Charles stood alone, wrapped in his thoughts. Roland was gazing over the woodland.

Samantha wore a coat. She greeted him with, “Good morning, Skye. I hope you slept well.”

“I wish.”

Sam looked around as if to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard and said, “It’s a shame we were interrupted yesterday. After this is over maybe we can take up where we left off.”

“Fargo was studying Cletus Brun. The big backwoodsman wasn’t wearing a revolver or a knife—that Fargo could see. But Brun’s clothes were loose and bulky and could easily conceal a weapon.

Sam stared in the direction Fargo was looking. “I heard about the fight. A servant found Mr. Brun lying in the stable. He refused to say what happened but we’ve all guessed. Tom was furious. He told Pickleman that you shouldn’t be allowed to take part in the hunt but Theodore said you hadn’t broken any of the rules.”

At that moment the lawyer emerged. He stifled a yawn, then said cheerfully, “Good morning. Is everyone ready for the day’s excitement?” He grinned, but no one else did. “Yes, well.” He consulted a pocket watch. “The hunt begins promptly at six. Another ten minutes yet.”

“Why not start it now?” Tom said. “We’re all here.”

“Your father stipulated six o’clock and six it will be. The conditions in the will must be met.”

“Leave it to you to be a stickler for Father’s nonsense.”

Pickleman tsked-tsked. “Really now. You can’t fault me for going by the letter of the law.”

“This whole thing is a farce,” Charles said. “Father has set it up so that we’re pitted against one another like roosters in a cockfight or dogs in a pit. He hated us so much, he wants to tear us apart from the grave.”

“It’s despicable,” Samantha said.

Pickleman sniffed and declared, “Whether anyone is harmed is entirely up to all of you. Conduct the hunt fairly or be underhanded and mean. It’s your choice.”

“Too much is at stake to be fair,” Tom said. “This isn’t an inheritance hunt. It’s a death hunt.”

Sam stepped forward and raised her arms to get their attention. “I want everyone to know that I don’t intend to fall for Father’s ruse. I refuse to harm any of you.”

Tom laughed. “You expect us to believe that?”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’ve always treated every one of you with the utmost respect. You know that, Thomas.”

“I know that with millions of dollars at stake I’d be a fool to trust you or any of the others. Siblings or not, it’s every man, or woman, for him- or herself, and the devil take the hindmost.”

“Exactly the attitude Father wanted to provoke.”

Tom smirked. “Then he’s succeeded. Make no mistake, dear sister. I want to win. I want the inheritance. If I lose, I lose everything. I’ll be left with the clothes on my back and nothing more. I can’t have that.”

“Nor I,” Charles said. “But I refuse to conduct the hunt like some animal. I won’t harm any of you if you don’t try to harm me.”

Sam smiled and nodded. “That’s two of us. How about you, Charlotte? Roland?”

Roland answered first. “I intend to keep to myself and expect the rest of you to do the same. Should I run into you in the woods I won’t lift a finger against you unless you lift one against me.”

Charlotte stopped her pacing. “I’d like to believe that none of us will hurt one another but Tom is right. Too much is at stake.” She looked at her brothers and her sister. “It’s not just that I
want
to win. I
need
to win. I need to find that damn chest because I refuse to be poor. I refuse to live like the common people do. I was born into luxury and I am going to go on living in luxury, the rest of you be damned.”

“Thank you for being honest with us,” Charles said dryly.

“Spare me your sarcasm,” Charlotte shot back. “You’re the same as me, what with your expensive men’s club and your expensive clothes and your expensive food and drink. You need to win as much as I do.”

“True,” Charles conceded. “But I refuse to stoop to Father’s level and resort to violence to do it.”

“Sweetness and love. Isn’t it glorious?” Tom laughed his brother to scorn. “All this is well and good but you’re forgetting a few things, dear brother, as Fargo pointed out yesterday. You’re forgetting Emmett, murdered by a killer who must have been hired by one of us. You’re forgetting that other pair of assassins who are undoubtedly out there somewhere right this minute, waiting to do us in.”

“I certainly didn’t hire them,” Samantha said.

“So you claim,” Tom rejoined. “But how can we be sure? Charles and Roland have both said they will play nice but how do we know one or both of them hasn’t paid to have the rest of us killed?”

“The same applies to you,” Charles said.

“That it does,” Tom agreed. “So it won’t do me any good to give you my word that the assassins aren’t my doing.”

“As if we would believe you anyway,” Charlotte said.

A strained silence fell, broken only when Sam turned to Theodore Pickleman. “I have a question about the hunt.”

“Anything I can answer, I will,” the lawyer assured her.

“Father said the chest is buried within half a mile of the lodge. Is that correct?”