by Jon Sharpe
Serena’s fingers gently lifted the cloth the sisters had wrapped around Con’s wrist this morning. The white cloth was already discolored with green pus and dark red blood. The scabbing, the healing, was coming slowly.
‘‘You always hear about people doin’ it and it always sounds easy, the way they talk about it. I thought I did a pretty good job. ’Course, I was so drunk I guess I passed out before I got the job done right.’’
‘‘Then I’m glad you passed out.’’
They sat on the cot where he slept. There were four cots in the cramped space of a single small room. There’d been a time when the smells of sleep, sweat, urine, and despair would have driven her from the place. But that had all changed with the little girl, Nellie.
‘‘You still gonna help me write that letter, Miss Serena?’’
‘‘I sure am. In fact, I brought a tablet and a pencil and I thought we’d write it together this afternoon.’’
‘‘She don’t read too good. ’Course, neither do I.’’
‘‘We’ll keep it simple. I was thinking of something along the lines of ‘My Dearest Margaret. I love you. I’ll be home soon. Your husband, Con.’ Think she could read that?’’
‘‘Well, if she can’t, there’s a woman lives upstairs can read it to her.’’
‘‘You should have kept writing her, Con.’’
He smiled at her with broken gray teeth. ‘‘I didn’t have you for inspiration I guess.’’
Serena was about to say more when Sister Felicity appeared in the doorway and said, ‘‘May I talk to you a moment, Serena?’’
‘‘Of course, Sister.’’ The Lunds weren’t Catholics so calling somebody ‘‘Sister’’ was still strange sometimes for Serena. ‘‘I’ll be right back, Con.’’
Sister Felicity, a tall woman made even taller by the habit she wore, led Serena outside to the backyard where clothes on a line flapped in the wind. ‘‘One of the deputies was here. I’m afraid there’s been trouble at your house.’’
Panic fluttered in her chest. ‘‘What happened?’’
Sister Felicity took her hand. ‘‘It seems that Sheriff Tyndale went there to arrest your father but your father chose to run. The deputy told me that they’ll organize a hunting party for him this afternoon. Just an hour or so from now.’’
Serena clutched the nun’s hand. ‘‘Oh, Sister, he didn’t murder my stepmother. I know he didn’t.’’
‘‘We’ll pray very hard for him, Serena. And for you.’’
She needed a moment to sort through all the conflicting thoughts raging through her mind. ‘‘I need to tell Con that I’ll have to write his letter for him later.’’
The nun let go of Serena’s hand. ‘‘Right now you have more things to worry about than Con. I can help him with that letter. You do what you need to for yourself, Serena. We’ll be at the church later, lighting candles for you.’’
Serena didn’t have much faith in all the paraphernalia of the Catholic Church—she was Presbyterian—but she appreciated the nun’s kindness.
‘‘Thank you, Sister. Now I should go.’’
She hurried into the house for her jacket. Her horse was ground-tied at the side of the house.
All she knew for sure was that she needed to find Skye as quickly as she could.
Fargo eased himself carefully up the slope leading to Richard Carstairs’ cabin.
Directly beyond the log cabin structure the mountains soared, jagged and snow-topped against a cloudless blue sky. Carstairs sat on a three-legged stool in front of his easel. Even from some distance Fargo could see that the painting was of the mountains and the sky. Carstairs was so engrossed in his work that Fargo probably could have made considerable noise without the man being aware of him.
But Fargo took no chances. He moved through the fresh mountain air with the easy skill borne of years of hunting animals and humans alike. Gray smoke curled from the chimney of the cabin; a black-and-white cow obviously used for milking stood in a small shed; a few chickens ran babbling and crazy around the back of the place.
And Carstairs, lost in his art, began to put an impressive and imposing vision of the mountains on what had been nothing more than a stretch of blank canvas.
Fargo had his Colt ready. Carstairs might have a gun on his lap. Carstairs might even be trying to fool him. Turn suddenly on Fargo and open fire.
Fargo reached a line parallel with Carstairs and began his walk to where the man sat on his stool. He stopped when he was about fifteen feet away and said, ‘‘Carstairs, put your hands up in the air.’’
The violent way the man jumped off his stool— stunned, shocked, terrified—revealed that he’d had no idea that anybody was sneaking up on him. He knocked over some of his paints and his brush flew out of his hand. The easel wobbled, finally fell sideways to the ground.
Seeing that Carstairs had no weapon, Fargo holstered his Colt. ‘‘I wanted to make sure you didn’t have a gun.’’
‘‘All right for you to have one though, huh?’’
‘‘You know who I am?’’
‘‘The one and only Fargo, from what Alexis told me. She said her husband thinks you’re something special.’’
‘‘When did she tell you that?’’
The bravado faded quickly in the man’s dark eyes. His heavy blue shirt was speckled with yellow, red, blue, green paints. He brushed a hand across his chest. A small hand, not surprising in a man so slight. He had the intensity of his craft. He didn’t seem to belong in the West. ‘‘She told me who you were when you tried to sneak up here.’’
‘‘Not last night in her hotel room?’’
‘‘I wasn’t in her hotel room last night.’’
The lie came easier with every telling. ‘‘A witness saw you.’’
‘‘It must’ve been somebody else.’’
‘‘She didn’t have two lovers with a limp.’’
Carstairs didn’t respond. He stepped over and picked up the canvas that had fallen to the ground. Then he picked up the easel. His entire body jerked when he walked. When easel and canvas were righted, he turned back to Fargo and said, ‘‘All right. I was in her room. But not for long. We had a few words and I left.’’
‘‘Doesn’t take long to kill somebody.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t know. Unlike you, I’ve never taken a life.’’
‘‘What time did you go up there?’’
‘‘Late afternoon.’’
‘‘How’d you know she was staying there?’’
‘‘I saw Delia on the street. She told me.’’
A wind came then, stirring the pines, tilting the easel back and forth. The front door of the cabin banged shut. The chickens sounded crazier than ever.
‘‘Anybody see you after you left her room?’’
‘‘No. I came right back here. Why?’’
‘‘Because the killer probably had blood on him.’’
‘‘You’re wasting your time, Fargo. I didn’t kill her.’’ He reached down by the easel and then turned back to Fargo, showing him the paintbrush he had retrieved—the symbol of his pride, the pride that had enabled him to survive in a world that did not care for creatures that were not whole and fit and like everybody else.
‘‘You’re lying, Carstairs. You know it and I know it. And this isn’t finished by a long shot.’’
Fargo returned to the Ovaro and headed back to town.
Serena Lund stood in the middle of the afternoon street shouting up at Sheriff Harve Tyndale. The lawman was at least a full foot taller than she was. He didn’t seem to be as threatened as her angry words and waggling finger wanted him to be.
Behind him, saddled up and toting rifles of several kinds, sat eleven men on horseback.
Fargo, approaching the situation, knew what he was looking at was a posse, but he wondered why it had been gathered. He dismounted and walked over to Serena and Tyndale. He heard Serena say, ‘‘Just because he ran away doesn’t mean anything! It’s just the strain he’s
under!’’
He came up behind her and put a friendly hand on her shoulder. She whirled, thinking he was an enemy. She was so angry it took her a few seconds to realize that he was a friend.
‘‘Oh, Skye!’’ she said. And fell into his arms.
‘‘Good,’’ Tyndale said. ‘‘You can take care of her. I’ve got a manhunt to lead.’’
‘‘Wait a minute, Tyndale,’’ Fargo said, keeping his arms around Serena, her head tucked into his chest. ‘‘Did you try and arrest Lund?’’
‘‘Hell, yes, I did. He killed his wife. I don’t know where you come from, Fargo, but around here that usually means a man goes to jail. I went to his mansion all nice and peaceful and he chose to run. Knocked me out in the process.’’
‘‘I’m real sorry to hear that. And as for being ‘peaceful,’ I’m pretty sure it was your deputy who took a shot at me when I left Lund’s place yesterday.’’
‘‘I suppose you can prove that.’’
‘‘Yeah, about as well as you can prove that Lund killed Alexis.’’
‘‘I don’t give a damn about your sarcasm, Fargo. All I care about is that I’ve got a dangerous killer on the loose and a hysterical woman who’s been pestering me the last half hour. Now get her out of my way.’’
He said no more. Walked back to his own horse, mounted up, and waved dramatically for his posse to follow. To Fargo they looked like most other posses— the half-drunk dregs of society eager to kill a man with legal impunity. A few of them smirked at him as they rode by. A few of them laughed among themselves. This was all a lark. They’d get out of whatever jobs they had for the day; they could get drunk on the hunt and they could come back with enough tall tales to amaze and amuse their cohorts for weeks.
Fargo helped Serena from the street and away from the curious and unforgiving gazes of the onlookers. If you couldn’t watch the big and important man himself fall into public disgrace, the next best thing was to watch his daughter go all helpless.
He took her into the café, planted her in a chair, and went and got them both hot coffee. By the time he came back she’d dried her eyes, snuffled up her sniffles, and brushed her hair with her fingers. She said, almost coldly, ‘‘He wants to kill him.’’
He didn’t answer her directly. Why make her feel worse? ‘‘Any idea where your father might go?’’
‘‘I’ve been trying to think of that. But I’ve been so damn mad I haven’t been able to think clearly.’’
‘‘We need to find your father before Tyndale does. And you’re the only one who can help us with that.’’
She sat back, relaxed a bit. ‘‘He didn’t kill her, Skye.’’
‘‘I know.’’
‘‘Are you just saying that?’’
‘‘No. I don’t have any evidence of it. But it just doesn’t feel right.’’
‘‘How about me? You wouldn’t admit it but I know you considered the possibility that I might have killed her.’’
‘‘I considered everybody, Serena. That’s what you have to do.’’
Her small, lovely face tightened again. She’d momentarily forgotten the urgency here. But no longer. ‘‘There are two possibilities that I can think of. One is an old shack near where he first discovered the gold. The other is a cave where he hid out when a tribe of Indians went on a rampage. He was with four other men and they were all killed except him. He was wounded but he dragged himself into the cave and survived. He thinks the place is almost mystical.’’
‘‘Do people know about either of these places?’’
‘‘Tyndale might know about Dad’s cabin. But Dad never talks about the cave much. He goes there sometimes. Like a shrine, almost. Sometimes I think he feels guilty that his life was spared but not the others’. A couple of those men were good friends of his.’’ Then: ‘‘Does that sound like a man who’d kill a woman?’’
Fargo smiled. ‘‘I believe you, Serena. No need to convert me.’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Skye. I’m just so damned scared.’’
‘‘All the more reason to get going and try to find him. We’d better take some supplies with us in case this goes all night. You ever slept on the ground before?’’
‘‘No. But right now I’d sleep underwater if I had to. Let’s go.’’
Tyndale was enjoying himself. It felt good to be leading eleven men into a hunt. Some of them he’d dispatched eastward; the others he’d led to the Lund mansion in case Lund had doubled back and was hiding in the house somewhere.
As he walked around in the study, his resentment of Andrew Lund increased. Tyndale knew that he was rough with prisoners but that was due to the kind of jobs he was hired to do. You could see only so many corpses, hear so many lies, watch so many bad men get out of jail or prison and go right back to their old ways . . . seeing and hearing these things killed any possible sympathy you might have had for them.
But a man like Lund, safe and smug in a study like this, he didn’t give a damn what you had to do to bring a boomtown under control. You were just his lackey. And as the town became more and more civilized, some of the gentry started to wonder if all of Tyndale’s violence was necessary. Fine and dandy when he started out but now something of an embarrassment. So much so that the town council had even debated whether to introduce him to a visiting senator from Missouri. Seemed like Tyndale’s reputation extended that far away.
And then not to be man enough to just fire Tyndale . . . to undermine him instead in a ‘‘fair’’ election. Tyndale’s right hand shot out now and grabbed the neck of the brandy decanter. He hurled it across the room, smashing it into a wall filled with accolades for Lund. He enjoyed hearing the glass shatter, watching the brandy seep down over the framed tributes.
In the other parts of the house he could hear the posse members doing likewise—trashing things. He could also hear the servants crying out for them to stop. But the men only laughed and went on breaking whatever they chose. They’d no doubt be stealing things, too. There might be repercussions to all this, of course, but right now Tyndale didn’t give a damn.
He walked over to the massive desk and began yanking drawers out. He started hurling drawers as he’d hurled the decanter. Papers, pens, folders, rulers, stamps—the air was filled with blizzards of the stuff that had filled the drawers.
He wondered what Lund would think of all this when he came back here. But then Tyndale checked himself. Lund wouldn’t have the chance to come back here. Tyndale had decided that Lund was going to die in a shoot-out. Reasonable enough, wasn’t it? Man kills his wife and knocks out the lawman trying to arrest him, and then flees into the countryside? How else you going to bring a fugitive like that to justice? Everybody knew about Lund’s bad temper, didn’t they?
Before he left the study, Tyndale smashed two windows and took his bowie knife and carved deep lines in the surface of the expensive desk.
13
Lund’s right hand was already swelling from where he’d fallen on it fifteen minutes earlier. Tyndale’s horse had proved difficult to control and had bucked him off as Lund had crested a hill. The animal galloped away, leaving Lund alone with a gun hand that just might be broken. Lund had no choice but to keep moving on.
At midafternoon, the skies had turned cloudy. He could smell and taste impending rain. So damned many things on his mind it was difficult to concentrate on what he knew he needed to do. The cave. For now that was his only hope. If nothing else, he could sleep there and then try to think through everything that had happened. All he knew for sure was that he hadn’t killed Alexis. But then who had? Tyndale had no interest in finding the killer. His last act in Reliance would be to disgrace and kill his onetime benefactor, Andrew Lund.
Only now, after being on the run for more than two hours, did Lund realize the mistake he’d made by knocking Tyndale out and stealing his horse and running away. If he’d turned himself over to the lawman, Tyndale would have put him in jail but Lund could have appealed to Judge Congreve and probably bee
n freed within the hour. After all, Congreve always played Santa Claus at all the Lund Christmas parties.
But now that he was on the run . . . he’d given Tyndale the perfect chance to kill him and get away with it. Even now a liquored-up posse would be coming for him. Every man in it would want bragging rights as to who’d brought down the mighty Andrew Lund.
For a time he was disoriented. He was approaching a dark wood made even darker by the gray clouds obscuring the sun. The temperature felt as if it had dropped several degrees since he’d fled the mansion. He glanced down at his hand. It was at the point in the swelling where the skin begins to stretch like taut leather. A purple discoloration was spreading on the right edge of his thumb.
Five steps into the woods, the temperature seemed to drop even more. It was as if a door had opened and he’d stepped into a colder, darker world. He heard the chatter of a dozen different kinds of animals, smelled loam and mud and the carcasses of a myriad of creatures. The trees had just begun to bud for the spring so at least he didn’t have to fight heavy foliage. But where was he exactly?
As he stumbled along a crude, winding path he had to consciously force himself to forget his aching hand. All he could worry about now was finding the cave. He’d been close to it when the horse had thrown him . . . but somehow he’d become lost.
He smelled water. Somewhere in the maze of tree and underbrush and limestone that comprised this leg of the forest, there was water. Probably a creek.
He hurried to the sudden sound of water breaking over rock. He was close by now. He would have some relief for his pulsing hand.
The creek was narrow but at least two feet deep. Its surface was covered with the dead leaves of autumn and winter. Up near its curve a moose stood with its nose ducked down into the chilly wetness.
Lund dropped down on his butt and shoved his hand into the water. It was so cold it numbed all feeling instantly. Exactly as he’d hoped.