Hannibal Rising (2 page)

Fargo refilled his glass and took another swallow. The whiskey tasted flat, and he frowned.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing in this neck of the woods? Folks say you’re partial to the prairie country and the mountains.”

Fargo’s frown deepened. The gambler had gone from being one kind of nuisance to being another. “I am partial to not being pestered.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Baxter fell into a sulk. The other players were uneasy and it showed. For Fargo, the joy had gone out of the whiskey and now the game, and he was mad at himself for spoiling things. The next hand, he bet half his winnings on three kings and was beaten by a full house. He could take a hint. He announced he was calling it quits for the night.

Sweetpea stayed glued to his side as he cashed in his chips and watched him put the money in his poke and tuck the poke under his shirt. Beaming, she hooked her arm in his. “Does this mean we can go for a stroll? I would dearly love some fresh air.”

So would Fargo. The cigar and pipe smoke was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

The hurricane deck was almost empty at that time of night. Over in a corner a couple were cheek to cheek. Another man and woman at the port rail were gazing at the myriad of stars that sparkled in the firmament.

Fargo strolled past them to the jackstaff. Thick coils of smoke belched from the smokestack aft of the deck and were borne away on the breeze. The throb of the steam engine never let up. He gazed down at the murky water and listened to the hiss of the bow as it cleaved the surface.

“I lost a good friend last week on the
Celeste Holmes
,” Sweetpea sadly remarked.

Fargo had heard about the disaster. A boiler blew and over sixty people were scalded to death. The
Celeste
limped on, only to run into a snag that ripped her open from bow to stern. According to the few survivors, the boat broke apart down the middle and a second explosion blew most of what was left, and nearly everyone still alive, to bits and pieces.

“They say that pretty near ten boats have gone down in the past couple of years.”

Fargo grunted.

Sweetpea bit her lip and twirled a curl with her finger. “I have nightmares about it happening to me.”

“If it scares you, why work on one?”

She shrugged. “Jobs are hard to come by. This one is easy and it pays well and I don’t have to sleep with a man unless I want to.”

Pulling her to him, Fargo cupped her fanny and grinned. “If you want to sleep with me I won’t fight you off.”

Giggling, Sweetpea pecked him on the chin. “I like you, handsome. You’re fun to be with and you treat a girl decent.”

“Only until I get her in bed.” Fargo nuzzled her neck and was rewarded with a coo of delight.

“Why can’t all men be as playful as you? Most only want to get the poke over with and be shed of the woman. Why is that?”

Fargo nipped an earlobe and was running the tip of his tongue from her ear to her mouth when the
pat-pat-pat
of rushing feet on the hardwood deck registered.

He reacted in instinct, and whirled.

There were two of them, a man and a woman. Steel glittered, and the man came at him with a knife.

Pushing Sweetpea out of harm’s way, Fargo dodged a cut that would have gutted him like a fish. He couldn’t see their faces all that well but he was sure he had never run into either of them before, which made their attempt to kill him all the more bewildering. Shaking off his surprise, he swooped his hand to his Colt but before he could clear leather the woman sprang with lightning speed and gripped his arm.

“I have him! Do it!”

The man’s teeth flashed white and he thrust his blade up and in.

Fargo’s boot was already rising. He caught the would-be assassin between the legs and the knife stopped inches from his chest as the man gasped and staggered back, his thighs pinched together from the pain.

Suddenly the woman holding him let go and a knife glinted in her hand.

“I will kill you myself.”

She had a slight accent that, at the moment, Fargo couldn’t afford to give much thought. He barely avoided a stab at his throat. Pivoting, he went for his Colt again, only to have the woman do the most incredible thing: she leaped high into the air and kicked him with her right foot, catching him across the jaw. Pain exploded as she skipped back out of reach.

Fargo collided with someone behind him. A squawk from Sweetpea told him who. Their legs became entangled and down they went. Dreading the sharp slice of steel into his ribs, Fargo shoved clear and rose to his knees. This time he got the Colt out—but there was no one to shoot.

The pair were fleeing across the hurricane deck, the woman helping the man, his arm over her shoulder. Another couple, the two who were admiring the stars, had come running over and were agape with astonishment.

Fargo gave chase. He lost sight of his quarry in the inky shadow of the overhang. He had his choice of right or left and went to the right, to the head of a passageway that ran nearly the entire length of the steamboat. Enough light filtered from the cabins and from the few lamps to reveal there wasn’t anyone within fifty feet. Quickly, he turned and flew to the head of the other passageway but the only person close enough was an elderly matron hobbling on a cane.

Fargo had lost them. He ran toward the matron, who drew back as if afraid he was going to attack her. “Did you see two people run past? A man and a woman?”

“The only person I’ve seen in a hurry is you.”

Fargo sprinted on but there was no sign of them. He couldn’t understand it. They hadn’t had time to get very far. He wondered if they had ducked into one of the forward cabins and retraced his steps, the matron shying away from him as if he were loco.

Around the corner came Sweetpea and the stargazers. Squealing with relief, Sweetpea threw herself at him and hugged him close.

“Skye! Thank goodness you’re all right! Who were they? Why were they trying to kill you?”

“I wish to hell I knew.”

The other couple, middle-aged and portly, were holding hands. “We couldn’t believe our eyes, Maude and me,” the man said.

The woman nodded. “Harold and I saw them run at you and that young man draw his knife.”

“You got a good look at them?”

“Only a glimpse. They were over in the corner. We thought they were lovers.”

Fargo remembered the couple standing cheek to cheek in the shadows. “Why did you say the man was young?” He hadn’t been able to tell much, as dark as it was.

“Just an impression I had,” Maude answered.

“Were they on the deck before you got there?”

“Now that I think about it,” Harold said, “no, they weren’t. They showed up just a bit before you did.”

Fargo rubbed his sore jaw and pondered. It made no damn sense.

“Maybe they saw you win big at the poker table and were out to help themselves to your poke,” Sweetpea said.

“Could be.” Fargo had a hunch there was more to it. The pair had been as fiercely intent as starved wolves out to bring down a bull elk.

“Let’s hope they don’t try again.”

“Oh my,” Maude declared. “Wouldn’t that be positively awful?”

Hannibal, Missouri wasn’t the sleepy settlement Fargo remembered. It had grown into a bustling town of about three thousand people. Two sawmills provided the lumber for the buildings and sold boatloads more downriver. The four slaughterhouses did the same. Some folks complained about the constant squeals of the hogs being butchered but they were few. To most, those squeals were money in the bank and Hannibal was all about money.

In addition to the sawmills and the slaughterhouses, there were over a dozen general stores—two that sold nothing but hardware—millineries for the ladies, not one but two newspapers, and churches galore. Hannibal had the railroad and a steamboat landing.

It also had, to Fargo’s mild surprise, plenty of saloons. From the landing he made straight for the first one he saw, leading the Ovaro by the reins. He’d paid extra to have the stallion brought upriver and he imagined it was as glad as he was to be off the steamboat and to be able to move about again. He looped the reins around a hitch rail and sauntered into a whiskey den that put saloons west of the Mississippi to shame. An ornate mirror ran the length of the back wall. Overhead hung a chandelier that tinkled whenever the front door was opened. The floor was swept clean, the bar polished to a shine. The bartender had muttonchops thick enough to hide in and wore a white shirt with gold suspenders.

Fargo paid for a bottle and retreated to a corner table. He filled his glass and gulped half, and smiled. He was about to gulp the rest when a two-legged mouse in a suit and bowler timidly approached and gave a slight bow. The man had small, deep-set eyes and no chin to speak of.

“Excuse me, but would you be Mr. Fargo?”

“Go away.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Skedaddle. Light a shuck. Leave me be. Scat. Take your pick but do it.” Fargo drained the glass.

“You’re a bit of a grump.”

Fargo refilled the glass and raised it. “Are you still here? You have nuisance written all over you and I want to relax a spell before I go see the gent who sent for me.”

“Ah, yes, well.” The mouse drew himself up and squared his sloped shoulders. “Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Theodore Pickleman and I was . . .”

In the act of swallowing, Fargo started to laugh and snorted whiskey out his nose. “Damn. Look at what you made me do.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Pickleman?”

“I am afraid so, yes. I’m a lawyer and I’ve been . . .”

Again Fargo cut him off. “I was right about you. If there are bigger nuisances than lawyers I have yet to meet them. Go away.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. You see, as I was saying, I represent the Clyborn family and I’m here at the request of the person who wants to hire you.”

“Sam Clyborn? Why didn’t you say so?” Fargo fished the telegram from his pocket. “I was in Saint Louis when this reached me.” He unfolded it and read it again out loud. “Skye Fargo. Urgent you come immediately to Hannibal. Will pay two thousand dollars for your services.” He flicked it toward the lawyer. “It’s signed Sam Clyborn.”

Pickleman picked up the telegram. “I know what it says. I’m the one who sent it.”

“How did you know I was in Saint Louis?”

“Sam read in the newspaper about how you were recuperating from a run-in with hostiles. Something about an arrow in your leg.”

“I’m fond of Saint Louis,” Fargo admitted. “It has almost as many bawdy houses as Denver.” He chuckled and downed another half a glass and sat back. “Tell you what. Pull up a chair and you can tell me what Clyborn wants.”

“I can’t. I’m under strict orders to fetch you straightaway. The
Yancy
was early for once or I’d have caught you at the landing. As it was, a couple named Harold and Maude pointed you out to me as you were going off up the street or I’d have missed you entirely.”

“I aim to drink and eat before I go anywhere,” Fargo informed him.

Pickleman fidgeted and said, “I am sure Sam will have the cook prepare a meal for you. Bring your bottle if you wish but please accompany me or I will be in hot water.”

“You sound scared.”

“It’s not that so much,” the lawyer replied. “But when Sam wants something done, it had better be done the way Sam wants or there is hell to pay.”

“Sounds like him and me won’t get along,” Fargo predicted.

Pickleman uttered a strange sort of bark. “To the contrary. Based on what I’ve been able to learn about you and your proclivities, I’d say the two of you will hit it off.”

“My what?” Fargo seemed to recollect hearing the word before but he would be damned if he could remember when or where.

“Your fondness for whiskey and cards and—how shall I put this?—other things.” Pickleman clasped his hands. “Please. I’ll beg if I must. I can’t afford to have Sam switch to another attorney.”

Fargo was loath to go. His stomach was growling and the whiskey they served here was damn good. “You need to learn to stand up for yourself.”

“No one stands up to the Clyborns.”

“There’s more than one?”

“Oh, goodness, yes. There are six now that Thomas Senior has passed on. His wife died years ago. That leaves their four sons and two daughters. Sam is the oldest.”

“Didn’t I see the name Clyborn on one of the general stores?”

“That you did. Thomas was one of the first to settle here. He saw potential where others saw only wilderness. He realized that where Bear Creek flows into the Mississippi was the perfect spot for riverboats to put in. He started up the first sawmill, and the family still holds a controlling interest. He started up the first slaughterhouse, as well. I daresay half the businesses in Hannibal owe their existence to him.”

“So the family is rich?”

“Thomas’s net worth when he died was over ten million dollars. Yes, you heard right.
Million
. A sum to stagger the imagination, don’t you think?”

It staggered Fargo’s. The most he ever had at any time in his life was ten thousand, which he promptly lost in a game of five card stud.

“Now can we go?” Pickleman requested. “I have a carriage waiting. You can tie your horse to the back. The estate is about three miles south of town and we’ll want to reach it before nightfall.”

“Afraid of the dark, are you?” Fargo poked fun.

“If you read the
Hannibal Journal
you would understand. A scoundrel called Injun Joe has been terrorizing the territory. He is believed to be to blame for several murders and a score of robberies. I wouldn’t put it past him to stop our carriage and demand our money.”

Fargo patted his Colt. “He’s welcome to try.”

“Yes, I have heard you are uncommonly quick and accurate. But Injun Joe isn’t to be taken lightly. He shows no mercy and he has no remorse or he wouldn’t do the horrible deeds he does.”