“Here it’s guilty until proven innocent. They’re already talkin’ about how they plan to hang you from the old oak at the north end of town. Porter had someone go around lookin’ for a suitable rope. He wanted a new one so it won’t break when they slap your horse out from under you.”
Any sympathy Fargo felt for the men of Jacksonville was fading. Meriwether had been wrong to turn the women against them, but now the men were about to do far worse. “Will Porter give me a chance to explain myself?”
“I can’t rightly say. Even if he does, it won’t count for much.” Clover added more beans to his plate.
“He’s changed, Porter has. He was always so kind and considerate but now he’s bitter and vengeful.”
“If I get free, where will I find you?”
Clover shook her head. “Forget about me. It’s sweet, but it will only get you killed. They keep me under guard in a back room of the general store when I’m not workin’.”
Suddenly Asher thrust his head inside. “What’s all the talkin’? And why is it takin’ so long? He’s got his food, girl. You can leave.”
“I was told to wait and take the plate and spoon back with me,” Clover said. “Give him a minute and he’ll be done.” When Asher grunted and turned away, she grinned and whispered, “I fibbed about takin’ the stuff back. I’m just not in a hurry to scrub more floors.”
“Did you say there are women still in town?” Fargo asked.
“Sure. Only about half joined the rebellion, as Porter is callin’ it. The rest didn’t see the wrong in Elly marryin’ Billy and never believed that Porter would kill his own kinfolk.” Clover’s shoulders slumped. “I wish I had listened to them instead of Argent. If I had, you wouldn’t be in this fix.”
Fargo touched the tip of her chin. “You did what you felt you had to.”
“I know, I know. Hindsight is always best. But I’m worried. Porter’s patience has run out, and he’s contemplatin’ drastic measures. Measures that will bury a lot more of us.”
“Where’s my horse?” Fargo thought to ask.
“At the hitch rail in front of the tavern. But don’t worry. Sam is takin’ real good care of it. He’s fed and watered it. And put your effects in the store, by the front counter.”
“Thank him for me.”
“Oh, he’s not doing it out of the goodness of his heart,” Clover said. “He’s taken a shine to your pinto, and Bramwell has given his permission for the boy to have it after you’ve been hung.” She placed a hand on his knee and lowered her voice even more. “If I can, I hope to slip out later tonight and set you free.”
“How, without the key?” Fargo didn’t want her harmed on his account.
“I’ll think of something,” Clover said, but she wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence. Reaching up, she tugged on his beard. “Never give up hope.”
Fargo didn’t intend to. He was about to ask about his Henry when Asher filled the doorway.
“I don’t like all this whisperin’. Time’s up, whether he’s done or not. Leave the plate and the spoon and skedaddle.”
“As you wish, Uncle.” Clover angrily slammed the lid to the pot and rose.
Winking at Fargo, she shut the door behind her.
Fargo admired her sand. He took his time eating the rest of the beans, and when he was done, tapped on the door and had Asher take the utensils so he wouldn’t be interrupted later. Then he resumed his assault on the shackles. Minute after minute, for more than an hour and a half, he pried and twisted but the shackles refused to open.
The file just wasn’t working. Fargo scanned the shed again, seeking something else. But it was now so dark he could barely see. His gaze fell on the bench and a jumbled pile of odds and ends: nails, pieces of wood, a screwdriver and pliers. Holding his wrist chains, he carefully moved to the bench for a better look.
Nothing was suitable. Fargo was turning back when a bucket of nails to the right of the bench caught his eye. Small, thin nails, the kind used on trim in a house. He chose one at random and returned to the stool.
Asher and Seth had moved a dozen feet away and Asher was lighting a corncob pipe. They were talking about the weather, and how they wished it would rain to help their crops.
Inserting the nail into the keyhole, Fargo hoped against hope. Once again the minutes dragged by on turtle’s feet. Once again it proved unavailing. He had been at it over an hour and was about to give up when in frustration he jammed the nail in as far as it would go and when it met resistance he pushed harder. There was a click and the shackle parted.
Fargo stared in pleased surprise, then applied the nail to the shackle on his other wrist. One arm free was not enough. He needed both. But although he worked at the second shackle for twice as long as he had the first, it defied every effort.
Disgusted, Fargo sat with his chin in his hands and debated what he should do next. Outside, Seth had curled up on the ground with his rifle between his legs and his cheek resting on his hands.
“I’ll wake you about two to spell me,” Asher said.
Fargo stifled a yawn. He was tired enough to sleep for a week but if he didn’t get the shackles off, his next rest would be permanent. He tried the nail again. He tried the file. He tried a metal spike. And all the while his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, until by two, when Asher roused Seth to relieve him, they were as heavy as horseshoes. Again and again he nearly dozed off. Again and again he snapped them open. Exhaustion claimed him about three. He dreamt he was crossing the plains and encountered a numberless herd of buffalo. He needed to eat, so he snuck through the tall grass to get within rifle range when without warning a strange sound caused the herd to start in alarm and stampede to the south.
Fargo opened his eyes. He had slid off the stool and was on his back on the ground. Something had awakened him but he could not say what. He strained his ears but heard nothing out of the ordinary. Slowly sitting up, he noticed that the top and bottom edges of the door were lighter than they should be. Puzzled, he peered out and was appalled to find he had slept most of the night away. The first rays of the new day were erasing stars from the eastern sky.
Fargo shifted to climb back onto the stool before his guards came to fetch him and felt a hard object under his right palm. He held it up to see it better and could not quite credit his eyesight. It was a key. The key he needed to remove the shackles. Inserting it, he twisted, and the shackle on his right wrist fell to the dirt with a clank . . .
Fargo leaped to the conclusion the key had fallen from Asher’s belt during Clover’s visit, and Asher never noticed it was missing. He raised his face to the crack in the door, and the hair at the nape of his neck prickled.
Seth was on his back, a halo of scarlet framing his head and shoulders. His throat had been slit from ear to ear, the cut so deep, it was clean to the spine.
Asher had a knife buried to the hilt in the socket of his right eye. His arms were out flung, his face contorted in the fleeting horror that overcame him in the few seconds between being stabbed and dying.
Someone had killed them, taken the key, and dropped it inside the shed. “Clover?” Fargo whispered. There was no answer, but he could not think of anyone else who would do it.
Confused and wary, Fargo hurriedly removed the shackles around his ankles and emerged into the brisk breeze of impending dawn. It had occurred to him that if Clover had slain the guards, she would have entered the shed and helped free him. So it must be someone else. But who? he wondered. And why?
Fargo could not say what made him glance to his right. A stone’s throw from town were dark woods. But not so dark he couldn’t see the big black horse, and on it, wrapped in the folds of a long black slicker and wearing a broad-brimmed black hat, was the terror of the Ozarks.
9
Fargo glanced down, searching for a rifle, but neither Asher’s nor Seth’s were anywhere to be seen. Their knives were gone, too. He looked up, and the rider in black waved. The suggestion of a smile or a smirk curled the ride
r’s mouth, then he wheeled the bay and melted into the forest.
What was that all about? Fargo wondered. He was turning to go when the answer hit him like a slap in the face. Jolted, he stared at the bodies. As surely as he was standing there, they had been slain by the rider in black. Which meant it was the killer who placed the key in the shed. The killer wanted him free. But why? To what end?
The crowing of a rooster brought Fargo’s musing to an end. The sun would rise soon, and the good citizens of Jacksonville would be astir. He ran between two buildings to the street. Once he was sure it was deserted, he sprinted to the general store, hugging the shadows so early risers would be less apt to spot him.
The Ovaro was dozing at the hitch rail near the tavern. It heard him, and as he went by it nickered a greeting. Hoping no one had heard, Fargo came to the general store and stopped at the storefront window. No one was in sight. Clover had mentioned she was in a room at the back. There was a narrow hall to the right of the counter, but a curtain had been hung across it.
Ducking low, Fargo darted to the front door and gingerly tried the latch. The door wasn’t locked. Opening it wide enough to slip his right arm in, he groped above his head. Some stores had tiny bells over their doors so the proprietor knew when customers came and went. He ran his fingers the width of the jamb but did not find one.
Slipping inside, Fargo eased the door shut and stalked to the counter. His saddle and other possessions were right where Clover had said they would be. Eagerly sliding the Henry out, he levered a round into the chamber.
Somewhere someone coughed. Fargo turned to stone just as the partition parted and a hefty man in overalls and suspenders ambled out, wearily rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “I’m hungry, too,” he said over a shoulder. “As soon as they get here, I’m going home to have breakfast.” Fargo hunkered below the counter, only his eyes showing.
The guard walked to a shelf lined with jars of honey popcorn balls, gumdrops, and other hard candy, opened one, and helped himself to a piece of peanut brittle. “Do you want some?” he hollered.
“Taffy would be nice,” came the reply. “Or some of that fudge Mabel makes. I’ll be right there.”
The crowing of the rooster reminded Fargo he did not have much time. Hill folk were early risers. Someone might show up at any moment.
Again the partition parted and out stepped a scrawny specimen toting a shotgun. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth. When I was knee-high to a calf, I’d lick my finger and dip it in the brown sugar and Ma would throw a hissy fit.”
Fargo glided toward them.
Now both were at the shelf, and the man with the sweet tooth was taking a thick piece of fudge from a large container. “This is from last week’s batch. It’s hard as a rock.” That did not stop him from stuffing half into his mouth. “Mabel better make some more soon.”
They turned, and Fargo chose that moment to unfurl and point the Henry. “Easy or hard, it’s your choice.”
Dumbfounded, the pair gawked.
“No one has to die,” Fargo stressed to forestall a rash act. “All I want is the woman. Put your rifles down and your hands behind your backs.” As he spoke, he moved closer. He was only several feet from them when the scrawny one blurted, “Like hell!” and jerked the shotgun up.
Fargo was on them before the man could fire. He rammed the Henry’s muzzle into the scrawny one’s gut, and when the man doubled over, brought the stock crashing down on the top of his head. That left the peanut brittle lover, who had hold of his rifle by the barrel and swung it like a club. Ducking, Fargo planted his left boot on the other’s instep, and when the man yipped and hiked his leg in reflex, Fargo stretched him out like a limp rag.
Once more the rooster crowed.
Dashing to the partition, Fargo flung it aside. Two doors were on the right, one on the left. He tried the nearest and there she was, over in a corner, her arms and legs in chains, as his had been.
“Skye!” Clover cried.
Fargo hastened to her side and inserted the key into one of her shackles. The key worked. In moments he had her free.
“A key?” Clover said quizzically. “Where in the world did you get that?”
Pulling her to her feet, Fargo replied, “We’ll talk later.” Keeping hold of her forearm, he ran toward the front of the store. He thought he had heard a sound and worried that one of the men he had slugged was still conscious. Shoving past the partition, he saw them sprawled where he had left them.
Clover shifted toward the front and blurted, “No! Not now!”
Someone else had arrived and stood just inside the front door. An older man, in his seventies if he was a day, his gray beard neatly trimmed, his attire consisting of a jacket, white shirt, and pants. A straw hat was pulled low over his beetling brows.
Fargo remembered seeing him before, that first day in Jacksonville, sharing a plug of tobacco with Bramwell. He pointed the Henry. “Out of our way.”
Amazingly, the man stood his ground. He calmly regarded the pair on the floor, and equally calmly regarded Fargo and Clover. “Well, well. This is a surprise. How on earth did the two of you get loose?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Fargo demanded.
The man drew himself up to his full height. “Do you have any notion who I am, outsider?”
Until that instant Fargo hadn’t. Belatedly, he saw how strongly the man resembled Bramwell—the same eyes, the same big hands, the same build. “You’re Porter Jackson, the head of the clan.”
Porter smiled and nodded. “I advise you to surrender. Or need I bring up that your life is in my hands? All I need do is give the word and you and the rebel will be snuffed out like candles.”
“What are you—” Fargo began, and then saw that the street was filled with people. Twenty to thirty, most of them men, including Bramwell, but a few women and children, as well. They were staring at the general store, waiting for their leader to reappear.
“You can’t get away,” Porter said smugly. “Even if you reach your horse, you will be shot dead before you climb on.” He extended his right hand. “For your own sakes, give me your rifle. I give you my word your trial will be as fair as possible, and when we hang you, it will be quick and painless.”
Fargo could not help chuckling in amusement. “I didn’t live as long as I have by being stupid.”
Porter’s face and tone became harsh. “Must you compound your evil? Haven’t you done enough?”
“I haven’t done anything,” Fargo snapped, anger washing through him like bitter bile. “And I’m not telling you again.” He centered a bead on Porter’s chest. “Move or die.” He was bluffing. It went against his grain to gun down an unarmed man, even one this misguided.
The patriarch glared his refusal. Then Bramwell shouted his name, and Porter’s anger was replaced by a devious grin.
“Pa? What’s takin’ so long? Have them bring her out so we can get this over with.”
Before Fargo could think to stop him, Porter cupped his hands to his mouth. “They’re free, son! Both of them! And they have a gun on me!”
A roar of inarticulate rage from Bramwell was the catalyst for eight or nine men to rush the general store. Swiveling, Fargo banged off two shots through the front window, aiming high so none of the women or children would be hit. The hill folk thought they were being fired at, and scattered. One man shot back, the slug imbedding itself in the ceiling, but stopped shooting at an angry yell from Bramwell.
“Quit firin’, you idiot! My pa is in there!”
Porter made no attempt to run. Leisurely folding his arms, he smiled and asked, “Now what, outsider? They’ll surround the store. You’ll never get out alive.”
Striding over, Fargo gripped him by the scruff of his shirt and shoved him toward the counter. “They won’t try anything so long as I have you.”
“Think so?” Porter responded, and threw back his head. “Bramwell? Orville? Do you hear me? You’re to rush in and kill the stranger! Now! Right this instant!”
>
Fargo swung toward the door but the street remained empty.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Porter shouted.
Glowering faces jutted from corners and peered through windows across the street. Bramwell appeared, a bulge under his shirt where a new bandage had been applied. “We hear you, Pa! But we won’t risk you being killed!”
“Damn him,” Porter fumed. “When this is over, I’m taking a hickory switch to his backside.”
“He’s a little old for a spanking,” Fargo mentioned, his eyes on Bramwell, who was gesturing to someone he couldn’t see.
“No son or daughter is ever too old,” Porter said.
“Spare the rod and spoil the child. That’s always been my view. And no one can accuse me of spoilin’ mine.”
A shadow flitted across the far end of the front window. Fargo caught sight of a swarthy bearded face and the dull glint of a revolver. He fired at the same split second as the would-be assassin, and the bearded face dissolved in a crimson spray. The man’s death wail rose loud to the sky, and he pitched to the dirt, his frame racked by violent convulsions.
“Matthew!” Porter cried, and started toward the door.
Fargo reached Porter just as he reached the threshold. Seizing hold of the back of Porter’s jacket, Fargo pushed him to one side. The clan patriarch collided with a rack of dry goods and both crashed to the floor.
A shot rang out. Lead smacked into the jamb a handsbreadth from Fargo’s head, and he crouched behind the nearest cover: the pickle barrel.
“Damn you!” Porter raged. “That was my second oldest son you just killed!”
“He was trying to kill me.”
Porter threw a bolt of cloth off his legs and shook a fist in seething fury. “I’ll see you suffer! I’ll see you on your knees beggin’ for your life! You’ll know the torment of the damned before I’m through!” Trembling with rage, he rose and charged, his fingers hooked like claws. The man was practically beside himself.
Fargo did not dare stand up. He would expose himself to the hillmen outside, who would cut him down without a second’s hesitation. If he was still alive, Porter would pounce and keep him there long enough for the others to rush in.
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