by Jon Sharpe
“I did, my dear,” Marshal Tibbit said. “But I raised it quietly. I got together a search party and we went up and down the road but didn’t find anyone except this gentleman.” He jerked a thumb at Fargo and then said, “Say, you haven’t told me who you are.”
Fargo gave his name.
“What do you do for a living?” Helsa asked.
“I scout. I track people. I work as a guide. I play cards.” Fargo almost added, “I drink a lot.”
“A tracker, are you?” Marshal Tibbit said. “That’s interesting. Would you be willing to stop by my office tomorrow morning about eight?”
“What for?”
“I’d like to put your skills to use. Maybe you can find Myrtle where the rest of us couldn’t.”
“I’ll think about it,” Fargo said. He had no hankering to stay in Haven a minute longer than he needed to. Not after the reception they’d given him.
“You do that,” Marshal Tibbit said. “Think about how a young woman’s life might depend on how good you can track.” He put his hat on and nodded at Helsa and went out.
“He means well,” she said.
“Where can I put my horse?”
Around back was a fenced area. Fargo removed the saddle and the saddle blanket and draped them over the top rail. A bay was already there, dozing. He didn’t realize Helsa Chatterly was in the doorway watching him until he turned.
“You’ve never seen anyone take a saddle off?” he joked.
She went into the kitchen and Fargo followed her and closed the door behind him.
“I haven’t explained about the few rules I have. Breakfast is at seven sharp. Miss it and you go hungry. I serve light fare around midday if you want any. Supper is at six in the evening and I prefer you let me know in advance if you will be here so I can plan accordingly. There’s to be no rowdy behavior. No drinking, for instance. And no loud noise after about ten. You are welcome to sit in the parlor whenever you like, provided you wipe your boots first and don’t track in dirt and mud.”
“A few rules?” Fargo said.
Helsa smiled. “Perhaps I go a little overboard. You would, too, if you’d seen some of the things my boarders have done. There was one man who put out his cigar by rubbing it against a wall. There was another who snuck whiskey in and got falling-down drunk. Then there was the baritone who fancied he could sing at the top of his lungs any hour of the day or night.”
“You’ve had it rough.”
“I know sarcasm when I hear it. But it’s not easy being a widow in a town where the men outnumber the women three to one.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Fargo said.
“Yes, I do. I owe it to James. He was my husband.” Helsa stopped and stepped to the window and gazed out, her hands clasped in front of her. “A lot of women like to complain about their men, about how worthless they are. I never once complained about James. He was a good man. He came out here on account of me. We lived in Indiana, and I’d heard and read so much about the frontier, I hankered to live out here. James said that whatever I wanted, we would do. That’s the kind of man he was.”
Fargo could think of another reason the man gave in so easily but he didn’t say it.
“So we came west. We got to Prescott and heard about a new town in a beautiful valley. Haven. The Indians left it alone, and the people were peaceful and prosperous. James wasn’t sure because it was so far from anywhere but I knew the moment I heard about it that Haven was the place for me.”
“You wanted frontier life without the dangers,” Fargo said.
Helsa Chatterly turned. “Only a fool courts peril and I flatter myself I’m no fool.”
“Go on,” Fargo said to mend fences.
“All went well until about a year ago when the first of the young women went missing. Felicity was her name. Her parents were our dearest friends, and James took it hard. He liked her. She was sort of the daughter we never had.”
“You didn’t have any kids of your own?”
“No, Mr. Fargo. We did not. It’s none of your affair but we couldn’t. Not for a lack of trying, I might add.”
Fargo ran his eyes from the crown of her luxurious hair down over her enticing body to the tips of her small feet. “I bet your husband tried every night, too.”
For a second she appeared offended but her face softened and she said quietly, “The feeling was mutual. I found James very handsome. He had the most piercing blue eyes. A lot like yours. We did it every chance we had.”
Fargo gave her charms another scrutiny. He liked earthy women. They didn’t put on airs and pretend that “it” was beneath them when secretly they liked “it” as much as most men. “How long has he been dead?”
“I’m getting to that. You see, James tried hard to find out what had happened to Felicity. He would go out at night, late, which wasn’t like him, and when I asked where he was going, he wouldn’t say. He told me it was best I didn’t know but that he had an idea about who had taken her. That surprised me. At the time there was a difference of opinion.”
“Difference how?”
“Felicity had gone off for a walk in the middle of the afternoon as she usually did and she didn’t return. Some assumed it must have been Apaches. Others thought maybe a bear or a mountain lion got her. Still others that she got lost in the woods and couldn’t find her way back. James was convinced a foul misdeed had been committed.” Helsa’s features clouded. “And then he disappeared, too.”
Fargo’s interest was growing.
“His horse was found about a mile from Haven with blood on the saddle. But there was no sign of James. Since then three other girls have vanished, which proves he was right about a sinister purpose.”
“You stay to honor his memory?”
Helsa smiled. “Something like that, yes. And because I truly do love it here.”
“Do you have any notions on who killed him?”
Sadness wiped her smile away. “I wish I did. I wish I knew so the marshal could arrest whoever it is and put them on trial and they could be hung by the neck until they are dead.” Helsa’s frown deepened. “Everyone in Haven is on tenterhooks. We would all of us like to get to the bottom of the mystery and find the person responsible.”
“Not everyone,” Fargo said.
“Excuse me?”
“Whoever is taking the women doesn’t want to be found.”
Helsa moved to the hall. “Look at me, talking my head off when it’s so late and you probably want to turn in.”
“How many folks live here?”
“In the town itself or all together? Counting the farmers and ranchers and their families, I believe the total is one hundred and twelve but I could be mistaken. The assessor would know. Why?”
Fargo did the numbers in his head. She had said there were about three men for every woman. “That makes about seventy to eighty of them men?”
“Over eighty, I believe. So yes, the marshal has a lot of suspects, if that is what you’re getting at.” Helsa sadly sighed. “It’s so frustrating. Two families have left because of the disappearances. Now with Myrtle gone and her dog killed, it wouldn’t surprise me if more go.”
“Aren’t you worried it could happen to you?”
Helsa shook her head. “No. None of the women taken were married. As a widow, I should imagine I’m safe. Whoever is to blame hankers after young unwed girls.”
“Or he likes green pastures,” Fargo said.
“In what way?”
“Girls are more likely to be virgins.”
“What a sick thing to say,” Helsa said.
“For some men that’s important. Me, I like females with experience.” Fargo stared at her bosom.
“Show more respect, if you don’t mind. I’m beginning to have second thoughts about letting you stay.”
Fargo went over to her. He didn’t touch her; he stood so close that he could feel the warmth of her body through the robe and she could feel the warmth of his. “I have plenty of respect. As yo
u said, it’s not easy being a woman alone. But a woman alone has the same needs as a woman who isn’t. All I’m doing is letting you know I’m interested.”
“Well,” Helsa said, and blushed. “You come right out with it, don’t you? What makes you think I would care?”
Fargo looked at a spot on her robe below the belt.
“I should slap you.”
“You won’t.”
Helsa started down the hall, saying over her shoulder, “There will be no more talk about that, not while you’re under my roof. I’m glad I only have to put you up for one night.”
Fargo liked how her backside swayed as she walked. “I just might stay longer,” he said to himself, and grinned.
4
At quarter past eight Marshal Marion Tibbit came up the street, yawning and scratching himself. His clothes looked as if he had slept in them. His hat was pushed back on his head and he squinted in the glare of the morning sun. A rolled-up newspaper was under one arm. He came under the overhang and groped in his pocket. Producing a key, he inserted it into the lock and was about to turn the latch when he glanced over and gave a start. “Mr. Fargo! My word. I didn’t see you leaning there.”
Fargo straightened and came out of the shadows. “You said something about wanting my help. And we have things to talk about.”
“If you mean the lynching, I consider the matter closed. You may press charges if you so wish but no jury will convict those men, not given the circumstances.”
“It’s those circumstances I’m interested in.”
“Well, then, please, come on in. Would you care for a cup of coffee? I can’t start my day without four or five.” Tibbit opened the door and went over to a potbellied stove in the corner.
The office was Spartan: a desk, a chair behind the desk and another in front of it, the stove, a small cupboard where the coffee and cups and other things were kept, and a cell for prisoners. At the moment the cell was empty.
Fargo sat in the chair in front of the desk and placed his left ankle on his right knee. On the desk were a tobacco pouch and a pipe. It explained the odor.
“How was your stay at widow Chatterly’s?” Marshal Tibbit asked as he kindled a flame in the stove. “I trust it was pleasant.”
“I liked it so much I might stay a few nights more.”
“That’s fine. Just fine.” Tibbit took the lid off the coffeepot and got a pitcher down from the bottom shelf of the cupboard. The pitcher was filled with water. “I hope you don’t expect me to pay,” he said as he poured. “I agreed to one night and one night only. Any more and you must pay for them yourself.”
“That’s fair.”
“What’s your reason for wanting to stay there, if I might ask?”
Fargo pictured the widow’s face and lips and bosom, and felt a twinge low down. “I’d like to see the landlady bareassed naked.”
Tibbit’s mouth fell open and he started to straighten so fast, he nearly dropped the pitcher. “I trust you are joshing.”
“Why?”
“She’s not that kind of woman. Helsa is a respectable lady and must be treated as such.”
“You don’t sleep with many females, do you?”
“What a thing to ask,” Tibbit retorted. “I don’t see where that’s any of your business. But for your information I have slept with my share.”
Fargo was willing to bet he could count them on one hand and have fingers left over but he changed the subject. “Last night you mentioned putting my tracking skills to use.”
“That’s right. I did, didn’t I?” Tibbit got the coffee down. “How good a tracker are you?”
There were plenty of veteran army officers and seasoned frontiersmen who would rate him as one of the best but all Fargo said was, “I can trail a buffalo good enough.”
“A buffalo?” Marshal Tibbit said, sounding disappointed. “Why, anyone can do that. They leave tracks as big as pie plates. I need—” He stopped and stared. “Wait a second. You were pulling my leg, weren’t you?”
“Might have been,” Fargo conceded.
Tibbit chuckled. “It’s nice you have a sense of humor. Take that incident with the rope, for instance. Give yourself time and you’ll laugh about it.”
Fargo thought of Harvey Stansfield and Dugan and McNee, and his neck and face grew warm. “Not in this life.”
“What I’d like to do is take you to the Spencer place and let you have a look around. She was only taken last evening so there might still be sign.”
“Didn’t you look?”
“I did, yes, but it was dark. I used a lantern, which didn’t help much.” The lawman shrugged. “I freely admit I’m terrible at it. I couldn’t track a cow down the middle of Main Street. In my defense, I’ve never hunted a day in my life so I’ve never really had to do much tracking.”
“What did you do before you pinned on that badge?”
Tibbit came and sat behind the desk. He propped his boots up and laced his fingers behind his head. “Promise not to laugh?” He didn’t wait for Fargo to answer. “I was a traveling salesman. I sold ladies’ corsets, if you can believe it.”
“I can believe it,” Fargo said.
“I got tired of always being on the go and always scrabbling to make ends meet. About a year and a half ago I came to Haven. I only intended to stay a couple of days and sell as many corsets as I could and then catch the next stage out. But I liked it here so much that I asked a councilman’s wife if she knew of any jobs that were to be had, and as it happened, there was one.”
“You went from corset salesman to lawman?”
Tibbit laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. What did a seller of ladies’ corsets know about the law? I admit I knew little. But my enthusiasm impressed the town council. And as it so happens, I’m a fast reader. I’ve gone through every law book and statute there is.”
“There’s more to wearing a tin star than law books.”
“I grant you that, yes. But don’t you see?” Tibbit spread his hands in delight. “I have a job I love. I have a roof over my head and the roof is my own. No more endless travel. No more having to listen to customers carp about their corsets. I’m in heaven.” The gleam of happiness faded from his eyes and he put his boots on the floor. “Or I was until this whole missing women horror started. The first one, I thought for sure the Apaches were to blame. Everyone knows they take white women to their wigwams and have their way with them.”
Fargo smothered a laugh. Most Apaches regarded white women as weak and helpless and unable to endure the Apache way of life. Apache warriors would much rather have a woman of their own kind.
Tibbit had gone on. “Then three months later the second woman disappeared, and I wasn’t so sure anymore. By the time the third woman went missing after another three-month interval there was no longer any doubt. It had to be a white man.”
“Or men,” Fargo said.
“Eh? Oh, yes. Possibly.”
“Were the women always taken three months apart?”
“Give or take a week or two. Isn’t that strange? There must be a reason but it eludes me.”
Fargo could see where a lot might elude Marion Tibbit.
“The town council is demanding action and I don’t blame them. Those poor women, vanishing into thin air. I would like nothing better than to find them and restore them to their families. But I’m at my wit’s end.”
“So you clutch at a straw and ask a tracker for help,” Fargo said.
“It can’t hurt, you taking a look. You don’t mind, do you? You’d be doing this community, and me, a great favor. And I did save your life last night, if you’ll recall.”
“You must have been good at it,” Fargo said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Corset selling. You could talk rings around a tree.”
Marshal Tibbit laughed. “I guess I was, at that. I admit I am a talker. On the rare occasions a man gets drunk and rowdy in Haven, I don’t drag them here to the cell against their will. I
talk them into spending the night of their own free will. I prefer to use my tongue, not my pistol.”
“I like to use my tongue, too.”
“You do? You could have fooled me. You’re rather the laconic type, I’ve noticed.”
“Laconic?”
“Yes. You don’t speak unless you have to and even then ...” Tibbit stopped. “You just did it again, didn’t you? Pulled my leg?” He got up and went to the stove and touched the coffeepot. “It shouldn’t be long.”
“Why haven’t you asked for help before this?” Fargo asked.
“From whom? The Rangers? They mainly deal with Indians, and they might disband soon, anyway, I hear. The army? Most of the troops have been recalled east because of the war. The county sheriff? There isn’t one because they haven’t gotten around to forming a county yet.” Tibbit shook his head, and sighed. “No, there’s just me.”
“And four missing girls.”
“And a missing man. Didn’t Helsa tell you about her husband?”
“She did.”
“That makes five that I know of. I also got a letter six months ago from a woman in Illinois wanting to know if I’d seen her brother, who was supposed to be in this area. I told her I never had.”
“The tally is climbing.”
“Yes. Worrisome, isn’t it? Makes me wonder exactly what I’m up against.”
The coffee was soon done. The lawman filled two cups and filled his with cream and enough sugar to gag a goat. Fargo took his black.
Outside, the street was alive with people moving to and fro. A buckboard clattered past. A man and his family of five were about to go into the general store across the street.
Tibbit had been unusually quiet but now he pointed and asked, “Do you recognize him?”
Fargo looked. “The farmer who cut me down last night.”
“Sam Worthington. As fine a gentleman as you’ll find anywhere. Notice anything about his family?”
“He has a girl about eighteen.”
“She’s all of twenty but not married yet. Her name is Melissa. A pretty thing, and smart. She came to me about a week ago, in secret. Said she thought someone was spying on her. I thought maybe whoever took the other girls would try to take her, so I was keeping watch on their farm. And wouldn’t you know? It was Myrtle Spencer who disappeared.” Tibbit took a sip of his coffee-flavored sugar water. “I’d like to take you out to the Worthington farm after we talk to the Spencers, if you’re willing. There’s something I’d like you to see.”