by Jon Sharpe
“It’s mighty unusual,” Fargo conceded. Which was putting it mildly. According to the will, only one of Clyborn’s children could inherit his enormous wealth and vast holdings. It would all go to whoever won a special hunt. “How far is it to this hunting lodge of yours?”
“As the crow flies, the lodge is about twelve miles from the mansion. Since we left at seven we should be there by noon at the very latest.” Charles sniffed. “I have only ever been there a few times. I am not the hunter Roland is. With him it’s a passion. I’ve never liked the sight of blood or seeing animals suffer.”
“They don’t if you drop them with one shot.”
“You sound like Roland. Me, I would much rather enjoy the comforts of my club. A fine dinner with friends, a friendly game of cards or perhaps chess, a glass or three of vintage port, and intelligent conversation.” Charles gazed about with distaste. “The wilds are not to my liking. The sun burns my skin and the plants makes me itch and don’t get me started on the mosquitoes and other bugs.”
“You’re a city boy at heart.”
“I freely admit it, yes. My life would be complete if Father had left me a paltry million or two. I could spend the rest of my days doing what I love best. But he hated me as much as he hated the rest and he refused my request.” Charles glanced back. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I shouldn’t leave my partner alone too long. He hates the wilds as much as I do.” Reining around, Charles rode back down the line.
As Fargo understood the rules, each of them was allowed to have one person help them in the hunt. Samantha had sent for him. Charles had picked a friend from his club. Charlotte chose a female cousin about her age. Emmett had a friend from town. Tom’s partner was a sullen, hulking backwoodsman. Roland was the only one who intended to hunt alone.
Hooves drummed again, and Samantha took Charles’s place at Fargo’s side. “What were the two of you talking about just now?”
“How much your brother loves the outdoors.”
Samantha was wearing a blue riding habit with buttons up the front and a full skirt. The jacket had white at the collar and white at the ends of the sleeves. She had put her hair up in back, and her top hat was tipped forward. She also wore doeskin gloves and had a riding crop in her left hand. “Charles has disliked nature ever since he was seven and he was bitten by a garter snake.”
“That outfit fits you real nice.”
“Don’t start. I rebuffed your advances yesterday and I will rebuff them today.” Samantha smiled thinly. “I’m well aware of your reputation, Mr. Fargo. It’s claimed that you have bedded more women than Casanova.”
“Who?”
“A great lover. It is alleged that he made love to over a thousand in his lifetime.”
“That’s all?”
For the first time since Fargo met her, Samantha Clyborn laughed. “Humility is not one of your traits, I see. But I must admit there are moments when you amuse me.”
Fargo leaned toward her and raked her body with a hungry stare that left no doubt as to his meaning when he said, “I can do a lot more than that.”
“Honestly.” Samantha shook her head. “You never give up, do you? What will it take to get it through your head that I’m not the least bit interested?”
“I know better.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. If I have refused myself male companionship all these years, why would I possibly indulge in a dalliance with you, of all people?”
“Because there are no strings attached,” Fargo answered truthfully. “We do it and that’s it. You’ll never see me again after this weekend is over and I’ll never tell a soul you indulged.”
“That’s hardly sufficient cause. Can’t you think of anything better?” she mockingly asked.
“I can think of one thing.”
“What would that be?”
“The feeling you get when you gush.”
Samantha jerked her head back as if he had slapped her. “I daresay you are the most brazen man I’ve ever met. You have no respect for a lady.”
“I have plenty of respect,” Fargo disagreed. “I also know something about ladies that most men don’t.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“A lady will part her legs just like any other woman if she is interested enough.”
“I should slap you.”
“I’d slap you back.”
Samantha’s eyes blazed with anger. “You’re the most aggravating man I’ve ever met and that includes my father.” Reining sharply around, she jabbed her heels.
Fargo chuckled. He had planted the seed. Now all he could do was wait and see if it took root. On a whim he jabbed his own heels and rode to the head of the line. “Mind some company?”
Roland was in the lead. He wore the same tweed hunting garb as the day before, and in addition to the stag-hilted hunting knife he had a Smith and Wesson revolver on his other hip. “Not at all. Out of all of them, you’re the only one I have anything in common with.”
“I wanted to ask. Why didn’t you pick a partner like the rest?”
“No need,” Roland said. “I’ve hunted every square foot of this forest. An exaggeration, perhaps, but not by much. Whatever we’re to hunt down, I’m confident I’ll win the inheritance.”
“No one knows what it is?”
Roland shook his head. “It’s a condition of the will. Pickleman is to read the clause that explains everything this evening after supper. All we know is that my father called it a hunt.”
Fargo was surprised by what he said next.
“I’d never admit this to my brothers or sisters, but the reason I’ve spent so much time in the woods was to get away from my father and to get away from them. Father, with his carping and his insults. My siblings, with their never-ending bickering. It got so, I spent more of my time at the hunting lodge than I did at the mansion.”
“You like killing game?” Fargo had met some who lived for the thrill of the chase and the blood of the shot.
“I don’t kill just to kill, if that’s what you’re getting at. I hunt for food. That might sound silly given how well-off we are but I’d rather eat venison than beef any day, and the butcher doesn’t carry bear meat.”
“What will you do if you end up with all your father’s money?”
“Give shares to my brothers and sisters. It’s only right, the hell we’ve endured. The rest I’ll sock away in a bank and live pretty much as I have been all these years. I don’t care about controlling everyone, like Sam does. Or only wearing the best clothes and being a member of the most expensive men’s club in Hannibal, as Charles does. To me the forest has always been enough.”
Fargo decided he liked this man. “I hope you win.”
Roland shifted and gazed down the line. “Don’t let Sam hear you say that or she’s liable to take her riding crop to your head.” He grinned as he said it but he was serious.
“Everyone keeps saying how mean she is but I’ve yet to see it,” Fargo mentioned.
“It’s not that she’s mean so much as she is controlling. She loves being in charge, and woe to anyone who bucks her.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“No doubt you can in the mountains and on the prairie. But this is Missouri, and Sam is a power to be reckoned with. If she wanted, she could have you arrested and the key thrown away.”
“On what charge?” Fargo skeptically asked.
“Take your pick. Right now you’re in her good graces but whatever you do don’t cross her.”
On that dire note Fargo fell back in line. He kept to himself for the next couple of hours. The humidity got to him but for the most part he enjoyed the Missouri woods as much as he would any other.
In addition to bear and deer, Missouri was home to elk and—or so he had heard—a few moose. The streams and rivers were favorite haunts of beaver and muskrat while wood-chucks were the bane of many a farmer. Smaller game like rabbits, foxes, and raccoons were everywhere. The day sky was ruled by eagles and h
awks, the night sky by owls and bats. Catfish and carp were fished out of deep pools while bass thrived in the ponds and lakes and trout ran the swifter waterways.
Fargo could see why Roland liked it here so much. There was plenty of animal sign for those who knew how to read it.
Their little caravan stopped about midmorning to rest the horses. Roland called a halt in a clearing and Fargo dismounted to stretch his legs. He had taken only a few steps when a petite bundle of winsome legs and young innocence imitated his shadow.
“Can we talk, Mr. Fargo?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m right popular today.”
“It’s about my sister.”
“What about her?” Fargo figured either Samantha had told her of his remarks about ladies spreading their legs or Samantha was having second thoughts about hiring him.
“What have you done to her?”
“Not a damn thing. Why? What did she say?”
“She confided in me that she thinks you are just about the most interesting man she ever met.”
“Are you sure she was talking about me?”
“Yes, indeed.” Charlotte bobbed her chin and her lustrous hair bobbed with it. She put her hands on her slim waist and squared her shoulders, which had the effect of thrusting her bosom against her dress. “I’ve never heard her say the flattering things about any man that she does about you.”
“You must have heard wrong.”
“No, I did not. It only came up because I happened to mention I think you are uncommonly handsome and she—”
“You do?” Fargo interrupted, and smiled. “I happen to think that you’re uncommonly handsome, too.”
“Honestly, Mr. Fargo,” Charlotte said in mild exasperation. “Women aren’t handsome. They’re beautiful or lovely or pretty.”
“You’re all of that, too.” Fargo bent close to her ear. “You remind me of a ripe cherry in a cherry tree.”
“I do?”
“I want to pluck you and eat you.”
Charlotte gasped and put a hand to her throat. “Mr. Fargo! The things that come out of your mouth.”
Fargo stared at her bosom. “It’s the things that go into my mouth that I’m fond of.”
“Surely you can’t mean—” Charlotte stopped and flushed a vivid scarlet. “You are scandalous, sir. How can you talk about me this way when I’ve just told you that my sister thinks so highly of you?”
“I like greener pastures as much as the next hombre.”
Charlotte’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite frankly, I don’t think I want to.” She peered at his face as if trying to see through him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you are undressing me with your eyes.”
“I am,” Fargo said with a grin, “and I like what I see.”
“Well, I never.” Charlotte turned and said over her shoulder. “I will keep this between us to spare Sam. But if you ever talk to me like this again, I’ll slap your face.”
“That’s fine by me.”
“It is?”
“I like it rough.” Fargo smothered a laugh at her shock and hasty departure.
Two seeds planted, he thought to himself. He gazed at the ring of trees and noticed the glint of the sun off of metal a score of yards into the undergrowth. One of their servants, he reckoned. But glancing about, he realized that everyone was accounted for.
The next instant a shot blasted.
7
After the two attempts on his life Fargo took it for granted this was the third. As the shot shattered the muggy Missouri air, he dived flat. He didn’t feel the searing pain of lead ripping through him and thought the shooter had missed. Then he glanced up.
Emmett Clyborn had a hole in the center of his forehead and an even bigger hole on the back of his head where the slug had burst out. He was swaying, his eyes wide with shock. Many of the others were gaping at him in stunned disbelief.
“Get down!” Fargo bellowed.
A second shot cracked.
Charles Clyborn had started to duck and his hat went flying. He dropped flat just as a third shot rang out but the third one didn’t come from the woods; Roland Clyborn was shooting back.
Fargo whipped out his Colt and added to the hail. He fired at where he had seen the gleam of metal, two swift shots, and then he was up and running toward the woods, zigzagging to make it harder for the shooter to hit him. Roland ran with him and together they charged toward where tendrils of gun smoke hung in the air.
“Where?” Roland roared, turning right and left.
Fargo spied movement off through the trees. “There!” He pointed and weaved among the boles on the fly. All he wanted was one clear shot. Just one. The crash of the undergrowth and the hammer of hooves told him he wasn’t going to get it. In anger he snapped off a shot in the direction of the sounds and came to a stop. The hoofbeats rapidly faded.
“We should go after him!” Roland fumed.
“And leave the others?” Fargo shook his head. Especially since in both previous tries on his life there had been two would-be assassins, not one. Which begged the question: Where was the other one?
Roland jerked his Spencer rifle to his shoulder but he didn’t fire. With an oath he jerked it down again, then said in horror, “Emmett!” Wheeling, he raced for the clearing.
Fargo followed, watching both their backs.
Everyone was gathered around the body. Charlotte was on her knees, clutching Emmett’s limp hand and bawling hysterically. Samantha was seeking to comfort her. Charles and Tom appeared to be in shock. Pickleman was as pale as a bed-sheet. The servants were staying respectfully back and whispering among themselves.
Out of all of them only one person didn’t appear the least bit upset—the backwoodsman Tom had picked as his partner. The man was picking at his teeth with a fingernail.
“Who would do this?” Charles said, aghast. “Why kill poor Emmett?”
Fargo was scanning the woods. That the second assassin hadn’t opened up on them didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. Or did it? A disturbing thought struck him, a thought he kept to himself. He did say, “We can’t stand around in the open like this. We’re sitting ducks.”
Some of the others gave him angry looks.
“He’s right,” Roland said. “We should make haste to the lodge. We don’t know but whoever did this might come back.”
Samantha had an arm around Charlotte and was saying, “There, there. You need to calm down. You need to control yourself.”
The younger woman’s face contorted in disbelief. “Calm? How can any of us be calm at a time like this? Emmett is dead.”
“I know that, dear,” Samantha responded, “and I don’t want any of the rest of us to share his fate. Please. We must collect our wits and get out of here.”
It was done quickly. Servants were directed to wrap Emmett in a blanket and drape him over his horse. Fargo was going to take hold of the reins but Tom snatched them before anyone else could.
They pushed hard. Every moment was an eternity of suspense. They never knew but when another shot might thunder and another of them might wind up wrapped in a blanket.
Fargo had time to think and came to several conclusions. Again, he kept them to himself. They had gone about a mile when he slowed and let some of the others pass him so he could rein alongside Tom. On the other side of him was the hulking backwoodsman. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
Tom glanced at the horse he was leading, and the body. “Whoever killed him will pay. Mark my words.”
“Any idea who it could be?”
“How would I know?” Tom snapped. “It’s not as if we haven’t made enemies. When you’re rich and powerful you can’t help stepping on toes.”
“So you think it’s someone with a grudge against your family?”
“What else?”
Fargo didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Your friend, there, didn’t seem bothered.”
The backwoodsman had been gazin
g into the forest but now he turned his craggy face and gave Fargo a withering look. “You talkin’ about me, mister? ’Cause if you are, I ain’t Mr. Tom’s friend. I hardly know him. I hardly know any of them.” He motioned at the family members up ahead. “So no, it doesn’t bother me a lick that one of them was shot.”
“Must you be so cold about it?” Tom demanded. To Fargo he said, “This is Cletus Brun. He’s about the best hunter in Hannibal, next to Roland. I’m paying him for his services this weekend just as my sister is paying you.”
Brun snorted. “Shucks. Your brother ain’t all that great. I beat him once out to the fair in the turkey shoot.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Tom warned.
“Don’t you underestimate me,” Brun said.
“Whoever shot Emmett and almost shot Charles is bound to try again,” Fargo mentioned.
“Have you ever been to our lodge?” Tom asked, and answered his own question. “No, of course you haven’t. It’s a fortress. We’ll be safe there.”
“For how long?”
Tom didn’t hide his annoyance. “Why are you bringing this up? To upset me? Isn’t it bad enough I’ve lost one of my brothers? Must you rub my nose in the fact I might lose more of my family?”
“So you really care about them?”
“Go away,” Tom said. “I didn’t like you when we first met and I like you less now. So what if I haven’t gotten along with them in the past? They’re still my brothers and sisters.”
Cletus Brun said, “You heard Mr. Tom. Go pester someone else, little man, and leave us be.”
Fargo couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him “little.” But the woodsman was a lot wider across the chest and shoulders and must outweigh him by sixty to seventy pounds. “Suit yourselves.” He tapped his spurs and rode to the head of the line.
Roland was a study in glum. “I just don’t get it,” he said as Fargo came up. “I just don’t get it at all.”
“Get what?”
“Why the killer chose Emmett. He could have shot any of us. Why Emmett? Emmett was just a kid.”
“He also shot at Charles.”