Northwoods Nightmare

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo didn’t want to spoil the surprise. “You’ll find out soon enough. I just hope you’re more understanding than Allen would have been.” He knew mentioning her dead brother was a mistake the instant he did it. Soon he heard sniffling, and she pressed a cheek against his back. His shirt grew damp from her tears. “When will I learn?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. Allen wasn’t the best brother who ever lived but he always stood up for me. And he never mistreated me. A friend of mine has a brother who hits her all the time. Allen never did that to me.”

  “How well did Kenneth and you get along?”

  “Fair, I suppose. He’s a lot older. Well, six years. So we didn’t do a lot together when I was little. I didn’t play with him half as much as I did with Allen. But I was sad when he left.”

  Soon they neared the stand where Fargo had last seen her sibling. He gave the slope below a last scrutiny, then entered the trees. It was so dark he could barely make out his hand at arm’s length.

  Angeline shuddered. “It’s spooky here.”

  Fargo drew rein. He expected Kenneth and the Knife warriors to pop out of nowhere as they had done earlier, but no one appeared. “Kenneth?” he softly called out.

  “This is where I’m to meet him?” Angeline turned from side to side. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”

  “A little patience goes a long way.” Fargo had her dismount; then he did. Again he called out Kenneth’s name, and again the silence worried him.

  “If he said he would be here, he should be here,” Angeline said anxiously. “We should look around.”

  “I’ll do the looking.” Fargo could just see her stumbling around and tripping and maybe breaking something. “Stay with my horse.”

  “You’re awful bossy.”

  Palming his Colt, Fargo moved deeper into the stand. He came on a log. As best he could tell, he was at the spot where he had talked to Kenneth but there was still no Kenneth.

  An uneasy feeling came over him.

  Kenneth had said he would wait there for them. Fargo couldn’t see him going off somewhere, not as much as he wanted to talk to his sister. He called Kenneth’s name again, quietly, and was mimicked by an anxious Angeline. Walking in a circle, he was soon back at the Ovaro.

  “Did you find him?”

  “Do you see him at my side?”

  “What do we do? Build a fire and wait?”

  “A fire can be seen from down below,” Fargo pointed out. He hunkered, then reached up, clasped her hand, and pulled. She obligingly sat next to him.

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit.”

  Neither did Fargo. The minutes turned into half an hour and half an hour into an hour and no Kenneth.

  “I guess he’s not coming,” Angeline glumly declared. “Maybe we should go back down before my mother or father notice I’m gone.”

  “They’re sound asleep,” Fargo said. He couldn’t exactly say why but he was loath to leave. “I’m going to have another look around.”

  “Why can’t we look together? I don’t like being left by myself. Every rustle is a bear or a mountain lion about to eat me.”

  Fargo could cover more ground faster alone but he let her help. They had been at it a while when Angeline stumbled. She would have fallen had he not caught her.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “You tripped over your own feet.”

  “No. There’s something here.” Angeline bent and groped, and gasped. “Oh, Skye! Look!”

  Fargo squatted and roved his hand over the ground, or started to. His fingers brushed cold skin and hair, and buckskins. “Hell.” He rolled the body over, practically touched noses with the deceased in order to tell who it was.

  “Who is it?”

  Fargo swore. The cause of death was easy to determine; someone had thrust a knife into Kenneth Havard’s throat. Kenneth’s own knife was in its sheath. Whoever had murdered him had done it so swiftly, Kenneth had no time to react, no time to pull his own blade and defend himself. Peculiar, Fargo thought.

  Angeline flung he arms over her brother’s chest, buried her face in his bloody buckskins, and burst into tears.

  Fargo let her cry. He searched the rest of the stand for the bodies of the two warriors who had been with Kenneth, but either they had left Kenneth there to meet Angeline alone, or they had gone off in the dark somewhere, and not in the stand. When he came back to the body Angeline had stopped sobbing but was mewling pitiably, adrift in misery. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I should take you back.”

  Angeline’s long hair swished as she shook her head.

  “I’ll bury him,” Fargo offered to spare her the horror. “In the morning I’ll bring you back up if you want and you can pay your last respects.”

  “I should help.” Angeline looked up, her face pasty pale and slick with wet. “God, who could have done such a thing?” She plucked at Kenneth’s buckskins. “And why is he dressed like an Indian?”

  Fargo told her everything he knew. She listened in silent despair, and when he finished, she tenderly placed a hand on her brother’s brow.

  “To think. He found love, true love, and it was with a savage.”

  Just when Fargo was starting to like her, she had to go and say something like that. He helped her to her feet.

  The burying took a while. The ground was hard. Fargo sweated and grunted and got it done. Angeline helped, stopping several times to cry.

  Done at last, Fargo swung up on the Ovaro. He helped her on behind him. She placed her cheek to his shoulder and wept some more.

  “First Allen, now Kenneth. This has been the worst day of my life.”

  Fargo headed down. He was in no hurry. The glow of the campfire was a welcome beacon in a sea of ink.

  “We have to find out who did it,” Angeline said.

  Fargo agreed.

  “Which of the Knifes, I mean.”

  “What makes you think it was one of them?”

  “It had to be. Didn’t you say two of them were with Kenneth earlier? They’re gone now. So it’s obvious. One or both of them killed him and the pair took off.”

  “Nothing is ever as it seems,” Fargo said.

  “Why are you defending them? You’re always sticking up for Indians.” Angeline straightened. “It was Indians who killed Allen, wasn’t it? So it’s perfectly logical they killed poor Kenneth, too.”

  “Why would they do it?”

  “It’s simple. He was white and they’re red. That’s all the excuse they need.”

  “You’re forgetting something. I told you that they adopted your brother into their tribe. They might kills whites but they don’t murder their own.”

  Angeline snorted. “Now you’re splitting hairs. Adopted or not, he was still white, and for them, white is evil.”

  Fargo still couldn’t see it, and he told her so.

  “Suit yourself. But you have blinders on. You’ve lived in the wild so long, you think of Indians as people when they’re not. They’re animals, is what they are. Murdering, butchering animals.”

  “You’re saying that because you’re upset.”

  “No. I’m saying it because it’s how I feel. The red race is a blight on God’s green earth. We’d all be better off if they were exterminated, as some newspapers have been calling for. Wipe out every last one of them and then there won’t be any more scalping and killing and torturing of white people.”

  “What about the scalping and killing and torturing of Indians?” Fargo countered.

  “What’s the matter with you? How can you sit there and continue to defend them when we just buried another of my brothers? Honestly. I’m seeing you in a whole new light and I can’t say as it’s very flattering.”

  Fargo almost told her to go to hell.

  “When we get back to San Francisco, I think I’ll write to the newspapers and tell everyone what the Knifes did. And then I’ll write to people in government, to important people I’ve met through my father,
and demand they do something about the Indian problem.”

  “Don’t forget to demand they do something about the white problem, too.”

  “That was petty.” Angeline shut up.

  Fargo would have kept on arguing to try to get his point across. She needed to understand that both sides bore blame for the mutual bloodletting. That mindless hate was reaping a bitter harvest.

  The camp was as they had left it: bundled sleepers, dozing horses, McKern with a tin cup glued to his hand. Smiling, he rose and came to meet them. One look at their faces and his smile faded.

  “What’s wrong, missy? You look as if your best friend died.”

  “Close. Another brother.” Angeline held out her arms to him. “Help me down, will you? I’m not in the mood to have Mr. Fargo do it.”

  McKern gave Fargo a questioning look, and Fargo nodded. “Sure, ma’am, whatever you want.”

  Fargo waited until she was walking off to dismount and ask, “Has anyone been up and about? Anyone left camp that you know of?”

  “Not a soul, pard. It’s been so quiet I could hardly keep my eyes open. Now what’s this about her other brother?”

  As they walked toward the fire, Fargo explained, ending, “It has to be one of them.” He swept an arm at the sleepers and the tents.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s right about the Knifes. Lord knows, they’ve killed a lot of whites.”

  “You, too?” Fargo said, and sighed. He poured coffee and drank half the cup in two gulps, then squatted on his boot heels.

  “I bet that right about now you regret ever taking this job,” McKern commented.

  “I told them the risks before we left. They didn’t believe it was as dangerous as I claimed.”

  “That’s how most are. They go through life with blinders on, thinking bad things only happen to other folks.”

  Fargo was raising the cup when McKern gave a start and started to level his Sharps.

  “I wouldn’t, were I you,” said a familiar voice behind Fargo, and there was the click of a gun hammer.

  Something hard jabbed Fargo’s nape. A rifle muzzle, unless he was mistaken. “What the hell are you up to, Cosmo?”

  The manservant came around and stood where he could shoot either of them if they so much as twitched. He was dressed in a shirt and pants but the shirt wasn’t tucked in, as if he had thrown them on in a hurry.

  “Let’s not play the innocent, shall we? I saw you leave, so I followed you. I know what you did.”

  “What who did?”

  “You killed Kenneth Havard. Don’t deny it. I saw you huddle with Angeline before I went to bed, and it made me suspicious. So I stayed up and watched out my tent.”

  “Listen, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence. I can pull this trigger as easy as anything.”

  McKern came to Fargo’s defense, saying, “How do we know it wasn’t you who killed him?”

  “What possible motive would I have?”

  Fargo answered him. “To get more of the inheritance for yourself.”

  “You know about Theodore’s will? Someone has been talking out of school. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.” Cosmo raised the rifle and sighted down the barrel.

  20

  Fargo threw his coffee in Cosmo’s face. As he did, he sprang to one side in case the rifle went off. It did, booming loud in the confines of the canyon, the slug kicking up dirt where Fargo had been squatting.

  Fargo’s natural inclination was to draw his Colt and shoot the son of a bitch dead. But the rifle was a single-shot. And Fargo wanted answers about Strath, about Santee, and about Kenneth Havard. So instead of shooting him, Fargo swatted the rifle barrel aside and slammed the barrel of his Colt against Cosmo’s temple.

  Cosmo oozed to the ground, his eyelids fluttering.

  The shot roused the sleepers and brought everyone on the run, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, others brandishing weapons. A confused babble arose as they all asked questions at once.

  Theodore Havard came shouldering through, imperiously shouting for quiet. Edith was in his wake, tying a robe.

  Angeline came running, too, still dressed. She stayed well back, as if afraid her parents would see her and wonder why she had all her clothes on.

  Theodore saw the prone form lying in the grass, and stopped in dismay. “Cosmo!” he cried. Dashing forward, he dropped to his knees and put a hand on Cosmo’s shoulder. “What is the meaning of this? What happened here?”

  “He tried to shoot me,” Fargo said.

  “What? Why? And you did this to him?” Theodore bent and shook Cosmo lightly but Cosmo didn’t respond. Turning a mask of fury on Fargo, Theodore cried, “If you’ve killed him, I will see that you pay! So help me God I will!”

  Edith had folded her arms and was regarding her husband with undisguised contempt. “Quit making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “Hush, woman,” Theodore snapped. “When I want your advice I’ll ask for it.” He bent over Cosmo again. “Look. There’s a bump on his temple. Damn you, Fargo.”

  Edith said, “Stop your blubbering. For God’s sake, pretend you’re a man. Try to act like one for once.”

  Whipping around, Theodore pointed a bony finger at her. “Bitch. Don’t think I don’t know how happy this makes you. To see him hurt. To see him lying here. In your eyes he is only getting his just deserts.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth, my dear husband.”

  Theodore appeared about to throw himself at her but instead he turned to Fargo. “I’m waiting for you to explain.”

  Fargo figured it might as well be now as in the morning. “He thinks I killed your older son.”

  Theodore recoiled. “Kenneth? You’ve seen him? Where is he? Are you saying he’s dead?”

  Surprise was writ large on every face, with one exception.

  Fargo noticed and was troubled. He told them about Kenneth. He left out the part about Kenneth not wanting to talk to his parents, and ended his account with his clash with Cosmo.

  “Dear God,” Theodore said in bewilderment. “Kenneth was alive all this time? And now I won’t get to talk to him, to hug him, to tell him how much I love him.”

  “Oh, please,” Edith said. “You never did any of that when he lived at home. But then, you never were good at showing affection.”

  Theodore stood, his fists bunched. “Speak for yourself. When did you ever show me any love? From the day we married you were a cold fish. And you only became colder.”

  “Don’t blame this on me.” Edith nodded at the figure at his feet. “Put the blame where it belongs.”

  “How dare you? You were the same before he came as you have been after. If you must look for fault, go look in a mirror.”

  Cosmo groaned and stirred, and Theodore dropped down and gripped his arm.

  “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” Como blinked and winced. “Except for the pounding in my head.” He went to sit up.

  Theodore bent. “Here. Let me help.”

  Fargo was watching Edith. Disgust twisted her face, disgust and something else: hate. Hate so potent, her eyes seemed to glow red in the light of the fire.

  “God, I loathe the two of you.”

  “For the last time, woman, shut the hell up.”

  Edith’s lips compressed into a slit. She stared at the sky, and then at the ground, and slid her hands into the pockets of her robe. “Not anymore. I’ve taken all I can.”

  “What’s that?” Theodore had Cosmo halfway to his feet and wasn’t looking at her. “What are you on about now?”

  “There is only so much a person can bear. You pushed me into the abyss a long time ago, but I was too timid to do anything about it.”

  “What are you blathering about? What abyss?”

  Cosmo straightened and gingerly touched his temple. “I flatter myself that I understand her, Theodore. Much to my sorrow.”

  “What else did you
expect?” Edith shot back. “God, what a hypocrite you are.” Her right hand bulged in her pocket, as if she were making a fist.

  “Now, now, my dear,” Cosmo said soothingly in that urbane manner of his. “Your problem is that you jump to conclusions. You mistake things that aren’t for things that are.”

  “Save your drivel for my idiot husband. I’m not as gullible. And I’m stronger than you or anyone else ever imagined. I’ve learned I can do what I have to, and the consequences be hanged.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not making much sense.”

  “Then let me speak plainly. I hate you. I hate you more than I have ever hated anyone. I hate my husband. I used to care for him but he has killed my love as he has killed our marriage. We’re a man and wife in name only. He has shamed me beyond all endurance.”

  “Typical woman,” Theodore said. “Overreacting.”

  Edith grew red in the face and the bulge in her pocket rose slightly. “You miserable worm. Let me tell you something. When I made up my mind, when I finally decided to do what I should have done years ago, it was a relief. I held everything in for so long, you can’t imagine how I felt.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Freedom,” Edith said. “To be free of you and the shame. To be free of him”—and she nodded at Cosmo—“and the insult. Fargo was a stumbling block. For all his sinful ways, he’s a man of his word. I knew he’d try to stop me. Or take me to the authorities, after.”

  “After what?” Theodore said impatiently. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  Cosmo had a worried expression. “I think I know but I pray I’m wrong. Reconsider, Edith. What would it get you except years behind bars?”

  “Satisfaction. I was going to do it in secret, as I did Kenneth, but now I don’t care anymore. Now I just want to be free.”

  “What was that about Kenneth?” Theodore asked in exasperation. “And free of what?”

  “You,” Edith said, and her hand came out of her robe pocket holding a nickel-plated five-shot Smith & Wesson .32 caliber revolver. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t threaten or posture. She shot her husband in the face. Whether she aimed or by chance, the slug caught Theodore in the left eye and blew his eyeball apart. Before anyone could stop her, she swung toward Cosmo.