by Jon Sharpe
‘‘No need for that,’’ Fargo told him, then hit him without great force on the jaw.
The cowboy reeled.
‘‘You didn’t like that and neither did your horse.’’
‘‘I fell off him and it was his fault.’’
‘‘Sure it was. Now c’mon.’’
Fargo helped him up into the saddle but grabbed the reins before the cowboy did. He led the horse half a block down the street. ‘‘Where you takin’ me?’’ the cowboy asked.
Fargo could see that the café was closing up for the night. The owner was turning down the lamps. Fargo tied the reins to the hitching post and said, ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’
He hurried inside, knowing he had little time before the drunken cowboy would fall off the horse again. In a far corner he saw a young woman rising from a table and gathering up a small gray leather suitcase and an umbrella.
‘‘I’ve got a cowboy out there. See him?’’ Fargo said to the owner.
‘‘I see him all right. He’s pretty drunk.’’
‘‘He could use a couple slices of beef and a couple slices of bread and two or three cups of coffee. Big cups.’’
‘‘He packin’ a gun?’’
‘‘Yeah, but I’ll see that he doesn’t bring it in.’’
‘‘Well.’’ The fat, freckled man shrugged. ‘‘It’ll take me another half hour to get closed up. Long as there’s no gun I guess it won’t hurt for him to sit at the counter and eat and have some coffee.’’
Fargo paid him. As he headed out the door, the man said, ‘‘This has been one hell of a night. Lund’s wife getting herself killed.’’
Outside, Fargo walked up to the cowboy and grabbed his wrist. He knew the cowpoke would resist so he said, ‘‘I’ll give you a choice between having the law run you in for being so drunk or sitting in the café and having some food and coffee till you’re sober enough to ride back to the ranch. Which one you want?’’
But there wasn’t much resistance after all. The cowboy said, ‘‘No jail for me, mister. Last time I was in one I got beat up something awful.’’
‘‘Sensible man. Now get down off that horse.’’
‘‘I got a sore jaw. Somebody musta hit me tonight.’’
‘‘Imagine that.’’
The cowboy would have fallen off the horse if Fargo hadn’t helped steady him. He moved in a wobbly way but he managed to get down. He didn’t seem to notice that the first thing Fargo did was snap his Peacemaker from his holster. He just wobbled right up on the board sidewalk and kept right on wobbling inside.
Fargo figured he’d done both the horse and the cowboy equal favors.
He waved to the café owner who waved back. The café man had to help the cowboy find the counter and sit down.
Fargo started walking toward the Reliance Hotel. Unless Tyndale had found her, Fargo figured he’d end the night by seeing if anybody at that hotel knew where Alexis’ personal maid, Delia Powell, had gone.
He was a block away when he heard a muffled cry behind him. He swiveled, his Colt already drawn, to see where the cry came from. A dark shape hugged the street. He wasn’t close enough to know who the person was but he did identify the gray leather suitcase as the one the young woman in the café had carried.
By the time he reached her, she was already struggling to her feet, her black cape spread across her slender body. Her baby-fine long blond hair, a victim of the wind, covered her face. She teetered backward, caught herself, stared briefly at Fargo, and then began to pitch forward.
By now he was pretty sure he knew who she was.
9
Fargo swept the woman up in his arms, reached down to grab her suitcase, and then carried her up the street to his hotel.
At this hour the clerk was asleep behind the desk and the lobby was empty. Fargo redoubled his grasp of the woman and climbed the stairs to his room.
He stretched her out on the bed, loosened her cape, and lit the lamp. He could see that she was conscious but confused.
He sat on the chair and rolled himself a smoke.
She sat up abruptly, touching thin fingers to her breast, surveying herself to make sure she still had clothes on. ‘‘I shouldn’t be in your room. It’s not proper.’’
‘‘Alexis has been murdered, Delia. So right now I wouldn’t worry too much about what’s proper.’’
‘‘That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Fargo. You’re not a lady. I can’t believe any of this is happening. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t fainted. This is the third time I’ve fainted in the last few hours.’’
Even though she wasn’t quite pretty, she was appealing in her odd way. He wondered if Alexis had liked her because she was such a contrast to herself.
She caught herself slouching and sat up straight. Fargo’s eyes inevitably traveled to the thrust of her small breasts against the gray linen of her blouse. She flushed when she realized that he was appraising her body. ‘‘I need your word that I’m safe here with you, Mr. Fargo.’’
‘‘Completely safe. And please call me Skye.’’
She just looked at him. Still not sure of the reason for her being here.
‘‘Did you talk to the sheriff?’’
‘‘Yes. He’s a very coarse man.’’
‘‘Mind telling me what you said to him?’’
‘‘Why, I told him the truth. I told him that Alexis and her husband had had a terrible argument and that she was afraid of him and that she told me to pack things for both of us and that we took one of the buggies and came to town.’’
‘‘You had the room next to hers?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Could you hear anything from her room?’’
She paused. ‘‘I’m not sure if I should be talking to you.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
He had to admire her loyalty. The longer he watched her, the more pleasing she became. She wasn’t naive but she’d managed to maintain an air of innocence in some pretty rough situations.
She surprised him. She was on her feet in less than a few seconds, glancing around for sight of her gray leather suitcase. ‘‘I ran out. I stayed away from the hotel after it happened because I didn’t want to face the fact that Alexis was dead. But I’m better now. I thank you for helping me when I fainted, Mr. Fargo. But our business is finished here.’’
‘‘Any idea where you’ll go?’’
‘‘That isn’t any of your business.’’
‘‘Did you bring any money with you when you left the mansion?’’
‘‘I never had to worry about money. Alexis always brought it.’’
‘‘In other words, you don’t have any money. Or not much anyway.’’
She walked over to her suitcase, tying her cape around her as she moved. ‘‘As I said before, Mr. Fargo, that really isn’t any of your business.’’
‘‘You know, sleeping on the sidewalk can get pretty cold.’’
He could see the worry in her eyes when she turned to him. No money, nowhere to go. He was right, but she was stubborn and didn’t want him to see that he was right.
‘‘I’d be glad to give you the bed and sleep on the floor.’’
‘‘I wonder how many women you’ve told that one to.’’
He laughed gently. ‘‘Well, let’s put it this way. A, I’m very tired and need to get some sleep. B, The floor is probably just about as comfortable as that mattress. And C, I hate to say this but I’m sure I can resist your feminine charms. Believe it or not.’’
‘‘Well, that’s a terrible thing to say.’’ She sounded surprised and hurt.
‘‘It probably is. But it should reassure you that you’ll be safe sleeping in the bed.’’
She looked at her suitcase as if her last friend were about to desert her. ‘‘Do you promise, Mr. Fargo?’’
‘‘I promise.’’
‘‘And no more questions. I’m tired, too.’’
‘‘All I need are the names of her lovers. And if you
heard any of them in her room tonight.’’
‘‘I knew there was some trick to this!’’
‘‘I’m surprised you aren’t more interested in finding out who killed Alexis.’’ He reached in his pocket for the makings. ‘‘Or maybe you already know.’’
She gave up, then. She went over to the bed and sat down on the edge and said, ‘‘They were all there. All three of them. And Mr. Lund himself.’’
‘‘So which one killed her?’’
‘‘That’s where I blame myself. I went downstairs for a quick meal and when I came back she was dead.’’
For a weary moment he thought the case might have been solved. Maybe she hadn’t told Tyndale anythinguseful because she didn’t like him. Maybe she was going to tell Fargo, though.
Instead, she said: ‘‘I suppose you’ll want the names of all three of them.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘I suppose I will.’’
Sheriff Tyndale’s stomach had produced so much acid tonight that he found sleeping difficult. The pharmacist had given him two different medicines for his ailment but neither one of them was working.
He sat at a table in his three-room apartment above the general store. The lamplight played rough on his lined face and tired eyes. In front of him were clippings from his various law enforcement jobs over the years. He was reading these to remind himself that he’d left each of his jobs on good terms. In all six towns there had been parties for him and gifts and the appearance of all the important people telling him what a fine job he’d done. Each new town meant more responsibility and more pay. Town councils understood ambition in a man. And no hard feelings.
Reliance was the only town he’d be humiliated by, voted out of office. All because Lund, who’d hired him to be as rough as he needed to be, turned against him when his daughter and her gentrified friends got the notion that the town should be more ‘‘civilized.’’ Imagine that: a boomtown—civilized. What a joke.
He’d buried a wife from tuberculosis, never had any children, contented himself with whores for company, and concentrated on the task of keeping a town from sliding into chaos.
For all this he had only one thing to show: his reputation. He figured that he had one more town in him after Reliance. Bigger town, bigger pay. But would there be a bigger town and bigger pay for a man who’d been tossed out of town by the voters, his reputation now dubious?
Probably not.
So there was only one way to satisfy himself now and that was to see that Andrew Lund—high and mighty Andrew Lund—was tried and convicted for the murder of his whore wife.
That would revive his reputation. He’d be the man who’d brought down Andrew Lund, the man who’d gone up against the most powerful man in the Territory and put him on a path to the gallows.
He’d met with all three of his deputies after Lund and his lawyer had left the sheriff’s office tonight. He’d told them what he wanted them to do in the morning. And he wanted it kept up all day. All day and all over town. From the wealthiest to the dregs who puked their guts up every night in the streets. He wanted everybody to know that whatever their doubts about his time in Reliance, he was not afraid of taking on the powerful when murder was involved.
By tomorrow night a torchlit mob was going to gather outside the jail screaming for the life of the man inside. The man named Andrew Lund.
10
Brett Norton’s large stone mansion rested in a small valley that was surrounded on the east by sprawling foothills and on the west by a ragged stretch of limestone wall. As Fargo approached the place on his Ovaro, he searched for sight of guards who might want to dissuade uninvited visitors.
He soon found out why Norton didn’t need to hire human guards. From somewhere in the pines close by the east side of the house rushed four long-haired German shepherds. They raced to within ten feet of Fargo and his stallion and began snapping and growling with a ferocity that crackled on the morning air.
One glimpse of their white, saliva-dripping teeth reminded Fargo of the one time he’d had a run-in with a trained guard dog. Short of killing trained animals, there was no way for anybody but an expert to subdue them. And Fargo was no expert.
His lake blue eyes scanned the mansion windows. Whoever was inside must be hearing the threatening, guttural sounds of the dogs. But no one appeared.
Fargo looked around for another way to reach the mansion, but even as he searched he knew it was hopeless. Wherever he went, the dogs would go.
The wine red front door of the mansion opened and a colored man in livery stepped out on to the wide stone steps.
He appeared to be in his sixties, though from this distance Fargo couldn’t be sure. The first thing he did was half shout a single word. The word sounded Indian to Fargo. The dogs stopped growling and snapping immediately. But they didn’t lie down. Their bodies remained tensed, stretched like missiles poised to strike Fargo.
‘‘And you would be wanting what, may I ask, sir?’’
‘‘I’d like to speak to Mr. Norton.’’
‘‘And what would your name be, sir?’’
‘‘Skye Fargo.’’
‘‘And your business?’’
‘‘I’m here about Alexis Lund being killed.’’ Fargo wished that he was close enough to see the servant’s reaction.
The man’s tone didn’t change at all. ‘‘I’ll convey this to Mr. Norton.’’
‘‘I appreciate it.’’
The man repeated the word he’d used earlier on the dogs. But this time it wasn’t necessary to shout. The dogs immediately lay down but their bodies remained alert, their eyes watchful.
Fargo had managed to get three hours’ sleep. He’d bought the primly fetching Delia Powell breakfast, then had given her money to take a room in the hotel where he was staying. He had joked that she probably wasn’t used to such common lodgings. She’d surprised him by smiling, something she didn’t seem to do much of. Understandable, considering that her employer had been murdered, leaving Delia basically out on the street. ‘‘I’ll have to get used to it, won’t I?’’ she’d replied.
‘‘Unless you find another wealthy woman to work for.’’
She’d shaken her head. ‘‘I think I’ll go into another line of work now. Maybe learn to be a teacher. I’ve been a servant my entire life. I’m tired of waiting on people.’’
‘‘I would’ve been tired of that a long time ago.’’
‘‘My parents did it their entire lives. They even missed how much more difficult wealthy people in England were. They sort of looked down on Americans because they were a bit more informal with their servants.’’
‘‘Sound like gluttons for punishment.’’
She’d smiled. ‘‘That’s a terrible thought but you may be right.’’ Then, with unexpected warmth, she’d said: ‘‘I’m sorry I was so suspicious last night. You were a perfect gentleman.’’
‘‘I’m almost sorry to hear that.’’
She had blushed. ‘‘You’re kind of overwhelming, Skye. Do you know that?’’
As the front door of the mansion opened again and a man he recognized from the ballroom the other night appeared in a white shirt and black trousers and carrying a Peacemaker in his right hand, Fargo wondered if Brett Norton would find him overwhelming.
‘‘You don’t have any right to be on my property. Now get out of here before I set my dogs on you.’’
‘‘I’ve talked to a witness who will swear that she heard you in Alexis Lund’s hotel room last night around the time she was murdered.’’
‘‘You’re lying.’’
Fargo was already tired of shouting back and forth across the expanse of brown grass. ‘‘Then I’ll go right to Tyndale and tell him about it. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him later today.’’
Fargo started to turn his Ovaro back in the direction of the road but Norton snapped, ‘‘Hold on, then. Ride up here and we’ll talk.’’
‘‘No tricks with the dogs.’’
&nb
sp; Norton clapped his hands once and then spoke another of those strange words. The dark dogs rose, turned, and began peacefully trotting to the mansion. They disappeared around the side of it.
Fargo rode up to the wide steps where Norton stood. He dropped from the saddle and faced the man.
‘‘You don’t have to tell me her name.’’ Norton’s sneer was practiced and impressive. It was clear that Norton didn’t think much of the rest of humanity. ‘‘Little Miss Perfect. Delia Powell. Little bitch, if you ask me. I never could understand why Alexis liked her so much. She’s the one who claims I was in Alexis’ room, right?’’
‘‘If you say so. The point is that you were in the room and you had a reason to kill Alexis.’’
Norton glanced down at the Peacemaker in his hand as if he’d just discovered it there. ‘‘I take it you’re working for Andrew. From what I heard last night, Tyndale’s ready to arrest him.’’
‘‘Lund says he didn’t kill her.’’
An angry laugh. ‘‘And you believe him because he’s paying you to believe him. That’s how this works, isn’t it? Well, I’ll tell you something, Fargo. Yes, I was in her room last night. She saw me when she got into town and told me to come up later. Which I did. But I didn’t have any reason to kill her. She was just another woman to me. I know a number of women, Fargo, as you may have heard. I’m not bragging. I’m a bachelor and there’s nothing wrong with doing a little tomcatting.’’
‘‘Even when the women are married? I hear that’s your favorite sport.’’
A smile that was even uglier than his sneer. ‘‘Forbidden fruit. That’s the sweetest taste of all. And despite what the ministers like to tell you on Sundays, it’s the same for women as it is for men. Men like to sniff around and so do women. I like to think I bring a little cheer into their lives. I try to make sure that it never gets serious or out of hand, and I also try to make sure that it doesn’t go on too long.’’
‘‘That’s very decent of you.’’
Norton’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘You’ve been hanging around Little Miss Perfect too long, Fargo. She’s sarcastic all the time, too. Very moral about everything. Between us, if I ever got her in bed, I’d turn her into a whore. She’s the kind of girl who’d want sex twenty-four hours a day once she got the taste of it.’’