by Jon Sharpe
Layton did not allow an instant’s respite. He thrust his blade at Fargo’s chest, then sprang back in surprise when Fargo swept the toothpick up and deflected the stab with a metallic ching. Eyes narrowing in wary calculation, Layton bent at the waist in a knife fighter’s posture and circled.
Fargo did likewise. It was rash to talk in a fight, any fight, but he did so now. “If you kill me, the judge and Draypool might be upset. It will spoil their plans.” He did not add “whatever those plans were.”
“I have no choice. You know too much,” Layton responded. “We’ll still have your body, and that’s the important thing.”
“My body?” Fargo wondered what in hell that meant.
“You’re not as clever as you think,” Layton said. “You have no idea what we need you for. It’s sure not to track, not when we have Hiram Trask.” Layton snickered. “The only thing you’re good for is being a convenient scapegoat, as the judge calls it. When your body is found near his, everyone will jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“That’s why I was hired? To take the blame for killing someone I don’t even know?” To Fargo it still made no sense.
“You don’t know who the man is or you would understand,” Layton said. “Everyone will be so busy trying to figure out why you would do such a thing, they won’t suspect the League.”
“Who are you after?”
“That would be telling.”
Without warning, Layton attacked, wielding his knife in a flurry, seeking to overwhelm Fargo quickly. But Fargo was expecting it, and he met the whirlwind with all the considerable skill he had acquired, the clang of steel on steel ringing loud and sharp. He was forced to give way, but only for a few yards. Then he planted himself and would not be moved. He countered or evaded every stroke, every feint. Fury crept into Layton’s countenance and he redoubled his effort, but now it was Fargo who forced him back, step by step, until they stood where they had started, both of them swearing and Layton panting as if he had just run ten miles.
“Damn you! No one has ever lasted this long!”
“I intend to last longer,” Fargo assured him.
“Think again,” Layton said, and clawed for his revolver. He had it half out when Fargo’s shoulder slammed into him and they pitched backward into the fire. He stabbed at Fargo’s neck but cleaved empty air.
Fargo gained his feet first. He lashed out with his right foot and Layton’s Remington sailed into the dark.
“Enough is enough!” Layton growled. He was growing desperate, and he proved it by throwing himself recklessly forward, his knife arcing right and left.
Fargo retreated. He made Layton come after him, made Layton overextend himself, and at the next wild slash, he drove the toothpick’s double-edged blade into Layton’s forearm.
Crying out, Layton backpedaled, then stopped and regarded the blood seeping from the wound. He was winded and could not last much longer, and they both knew it. “How about if we call this a draw and you let me take my horse and go?”
Shaking his head, Fargo resumed circling. “You tried to kill me. This ends only one way.”
“Bastard.”
Struck by a thought, Fargo stopped and said slowly, “Unless—”
“Unless what?” Layton eagerly responded.
“Unless you tell me the name of the man the League wants dead. Do that, and I won’t try to stop you from leaving.”
Layton straightened, blood dripping from his wrist. “I can’t. I took a vow. I pledged to be loyal to the League.”
“Is your vow worth dying over?”
“The stakes are. This isn’t about you or me. It’s about sticking up for what I believe in.”
“You’ve lost me,” Fargo admitted.
“The judge calls them ‘causes greater than ourselves, ’ ” Layton recited. “I have an obligation to do what is best for everyone, not just for me.”
“How is murdering someone good for anyone?” Fargo skeptically asked.
“It depends on who. And it’s not really a murder. Not in the way you mean.”
The quibbling annoyed Fargo. “What other way is there?” he demanded. He wondered if Layton was stalling to regain his strength.
“Nice try, mister. You’re fishing, hoping I’ll give it away. But I won’t. I’ve made my decision. I would rather die than betray the cause.”
Fargo’s puzzlement grew. The Secessionist League was devoted to one cause and one cause only. “All this has something to do with the South?”
Desperation compelled Layton to snarl and recklessly throw himself into an attack yet again. He feinted high but sliced low, his intent to bury his knife in Fargo’s groin. But the backwoodsman was not the only one with superb reflexes. Fargo’s had been honed in clashes with Comanches and Sioux, grizzlies and wolves. His arm moved like lightning. He blocked the knife, and before Layton could recover, Fargo reversed his grip on the toothpick and slashed it across the other’s throat.
For all of five seconds Bill Layton stood in stunned disbelief. Then he bleated and staggered, clutching at the cut in a vain bid to stanch the crimson spray that moistened the front of his buckskin shirt. “No!” he gurgled. “Not like this!”
Fargo did not move closer. So long as the man lived, he was dangerous. “Who is the League after?”
Layton glared.
“His name,” Fargo persisted.
“Go to hell!” The words were spat out in a blubbery hiss matched by the hiss of scarlet.
“You first.”
Layton tottered, swore, and fell to his knees. Blood gushed over his lower lip in a thick red flow. He glanced wildly about, as if seeking the Remington, then raised his knife to the star-speckled heavens and tried to shout something, but all that came out of his mouth was more blood and inarticulate sounds. He looked at Fargo and weakly cocked his arm to throw his knife. Life fled, and with a final groan he toppled.
Fargo felt for a pulse to be sure. He searched Layton’s pockets and saddlebags in the hope of finding a clue to the League’s plot, but there was nothing. With a sigh of frustration, he faced to the southwest and then to the northeast. He had a decision to make. Should he go after Harding and Draypool and the rest? Or should he continue tracking and find out who they were after?
Which would it be?
15
Hour after hour the tracks led Fargo north by northeast. The morning passed and the sun was at its zenith when he came to a river. He heard it before he saw it, heard the unmistakable watery rustle, like a sheet sliding across a bed.
The tracks went right up to the river’s edge. There, the killer had sat in the dirt, the impression of his buttocks confirming his lean build. He had removed his shoes and socks. Fargo knew because the tracks to the water were those of bare feet.
The killer had waded right in.
Fargo gazed toward the opposite shore. If the killer could cross at that point, so could the Ovaro. There were no rapids to contend with and the water was not deep.
After so much time in the forest, venturing into the open grated on Fargo’s nerves. The whole way across, he scoured the other side for a possible ambush. It was an ideal spot. He had nowhere to take cover except in the water. One shot was all it would take to pick him off. But none shattered the muggy air, and presently the Ovaro stood on a flat stretch of shore and shook, spraying drops every which way.
The killer had sat to put on his shoes and socks, then jogged into the trees. Instead of traveling northward though, he bore east along the river, paralleling it.
Fargo sensed a purpose to the change of direction. Not quite half an hour later he came on a wide trail that saw frequent use. The trail started at the river and wound to the north. Dismounting, he walked to the Sangamon. The spot was a regularly used crossing. In the distance, to the south, was a small town.
Fargo scratched his chin in thought. Why had the killer crossed farther down rather than use the normal crossing? To avoid being seen? Then why come to the regular crossing at all? The answe
r lay at his feet: the jumble of tracks. The killer’s were now amid a maze of others. Anyone tracking him would find it that much harder.
Leading the Ovaro by the reins, Fargo walked the first half mile, to a fork where a small trail angled to the northeast. Fewer people used it, and there were fewer tracks. He had no difficulty distinguishing those he had been following from the rest. Smiling to himself, he climbed into the saddle.
Ten minutes later Fargo passed an isolated homestead. In a corral attached to the large cabin were two horses. Several small children stopped playing to stare. So did their father, who was curing a hide. A rifle was propped against a nearby stump. Fargo lifted a hand in greeting and the man did likewise.
Twenty minutes more, and another homestead. This one was smaller than the first, with no corral and no horses. No children, either, but a woman was hanging wash on a line, and on hearing the clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves, she called out, and a man emerged with a rifle in his hands. Again Fargo waved. Again the homesteader raised an arm in acknowledgment.
Cautious but friendly. Typical backwoodsmen.
Over an hour later Fargo came on the next homestead, the smallest yet. A dog tied to a stake barked in warning, and a young man and young woman came out, the woman cradling an infant to her bosom, the man with the inevitable rifle. They smiled, and the young man called out, “You’re welcome to light and set a spell if you want!”
Fargo reined across the clearing and stopped. “Mind if I ask you folks a question?” he asked politely.
“Is that all?” the man said. “We don’t get many visitors. How about a cup of coffee? My wife makes the best you’ll taste anywhere.”
The woman blushed and said, “Oh, pshaw.”
Fargo wouldn’t mind, but he had to push on. “Maybe on my way back. I’d like to know if you saw anyone else go by today?”
“Sure didn’t,” the young man responded. “But I’ve been inside mostly, making a cradle for the baby.”
“I did,” the woman said. “I saw him out the window. It wasn’t the usual one.”
“How’s that?” Fargo asked.
It was the husband who answered. “There’s a fella who has a cabin deeper in. We don’t often see him, maybe once every three or four months.” He looked at his wife. “But it wasn’t him?”
“No,” the woman confirmed. “About the same height and just as skinny, but this one didn’t have a beard and was carrying a rifle, not an ax.”
“An ax?” Fargo said.
The husband nodded. “The man who lives past us always has an ax with him. Never a gun, just the ax. Carries it like it’s part of him.”
Fargo touched his hat brim. “I’m obliged.” He reined around, then stopped to say over his shoulder,
“Keep your eyes peeled. More men might come by, late today or early tomorrow. Stay shy of them. They’re not to be trusted.”
“What’s it about?” the young man asked in sudden concern.
“I’m not sure,” Fargo said. “But I suspect they’ve already killed one family and wouldn’t hesitate to harm your wife and you.”
“You should go to the law.”
“Without proof there’s not much a lawman could do,” Fargo said, and gigged the stallion.
“Thanks for the warning, mister!”
Fargo had a lot to ponder. For starters, what was he to make of the fact that the man he was following looked a lot like another man who had a cabin farther in? Could it be the woman was mistaken? That the man she saw was the same man, only he had shaved his beard and traded his ax for a rifle? Or was the second man a friend of the first? Or was it something else entirely? Answers were elusive. He had too little information to go on.
The trail meandered interminably into the shadowed depths of the woodland. Birds were everywhere. Squirrels scampered in the upper terrace. Deer that had seldom set eyes on human beings stared without fear.
Once, Fargo spooked a young black bear that ran off grunting and huffing.
It was the ring of an ax that alerted Fargo he was close. Coming to a stop, he dismounted, drew his Colt, and led the Ovaro warily forward. The steady thunk-thunk-thunk of the ax grew louder.
The homestead was a work in progress. The cabin was the smallest yet. Many of the trees around it had yet to be cleared. A tall, lanky man with a broad chest was attending to that task, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms. Every stroke of his ax was powerful and precise. Another backwoodsman, if ever there was one.
The tracks Fargo had been following did not enter the clearing. They veered off the trail into the forest.
Squaring his shoulders, Fargo walked into the open. The man swinging the ax did not appear to notice him. Ten feet behind him, Fargo stopped.
Without stopping, the man asked, “Are you fixing to shoot me, citizen?”
“Put it down,” Fargo said.
The tall man turned and regarded him intently but not unkindly. He acted more amused than anything else. “This?” He held out the ax.
“That,” Fargo confirmed.
“It would be foolish of me to drop my only weapon while a complete stranger holds a gun on me, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You don’t have any choice.”
“I beg to differ. I can go on chopping, or I can invite you in for some refreshment. I have lemonade. It’s not cold, but it will slake your thirst.”
“Drop it,” Fargo repeated, mystified by the man’s behavior.
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” The backwoodsman chuckled. He had an easygoing manner about him. “I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, and you are not the kind to kill someone in cold blood.”
“You take awful chances,” Fargo said.
“We take risks our whole lives. Day in and day out we must choose between a course that is safe and a course that is less so. But we can’t take the safe course if the safe course is not the right one.”
The man spoke so earnestly. Fargo studied him anew; his face was bony and angular, the nose prominent, the ears large, but then the man’s head was large, too, large and craggy and stamped with character born of experience. It also mirrored an indefinable hint of sadness. One look at him, and Fargo could not imagine him slaughtering an innocent family. He lowered his Colt.
A smile touched the tall man’s lips. “You’re not going to kill me, then?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Fargo said. “I don’t savvy any of this. Why do they want you dead? Who are you?”
“You don’t know?” The man placed the head of his ax on the ground and leaned on the handle. “But why should you, unless you have heard me speak, or seen a likeness in a newspaper?” He gestured at the cabin. “My place is a carefully guarded secret. I like to get away by myself from time to time, to go back to my roots, as it were, to spend my evenings reading Shakespeare or the Bible.” He paused, then bluntly asked, “Who is it wants me dead?”
“They call themselves the Secessionist League—” Fargo began.
The backwoodsman held up a bony hand. “We will finish this discussion inside. I would be remiss as a host if I did not offer you that refreshment.” Without awaiting a reply, he swung the ax to his shoulder and strode toward the cabin.
More perplexed than ever, Fargo twirled his Colt into his holster and followed. There was no hitch rail, but there were several pegs in the front wall for hanging tools and whatnot, and Fargo looped the reins around one of them. The cabin was a single room, sparsely furnished, with the bed over against the rear wall. There was a table with a lantern on it, and a rocking chair. A bookcase was the only other furniture. A black pot hung on a tripod in the fireplace.
“Would you like some of my lemonade? Or I can make coffee or tea.”
“I’m not all that thirsty.” Fargo stayed in the doorway so he could watch the woods, and the trail. “I don’t see a gun anywhere.”
The man was about to place his ax on the table. Patting it, he said, “I’ve carried one of these since I was kn
ee-high to a calf. It is the best tool a man can own.”
“You can’t drop an enemy at a hundred yards with an ax,” Fargo replied.
“I would rather persuade an enemy than slay him. Alive, a man has worth and can contribute to the common good. Dead, he is of no use to anyone.” He set the ax down. “But I am willing to concede there are times when that is impossible. Times when an enemy leaves us no recourse but to resort to violence.” The sadness in his face became more pronounced. “You have slain quite a few, I take it?”
“More than my share,” Fargo confessed. “But I never go hunting trouble. Somehow, it just seems to find me.”
The backwoodsman grinned. “In that we are much alike. But with the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attends us, we can overcome any difficulty.” He moved to the counter, where a half-empty pitcher of lemonade sat beside a bucket of water. “I am being remiss. I will have your water in a jiffy.”
“There’s no hurry. I’m not going anywhere.” Not until Fargo got to the bottom of the mystery. “You still haven’t told me your name.” He gave his own.
“How unusual. I seem to recall it from somewhere. What is it that you do for a living, if I may ask?” The man poured water into a glass.
“I work as a scout,” Fargo disclosed. “I also guide wagon trains now and then. Sometimes I’m hired as a tracker.”
“I see.” The man brought the glass over. “Did the Secessionist League hire you to track me?”
“To track someone,” Fargo said, and briefly related the trail he had followed for the past day and a half.
“Then whoever you tracked is out there right now, spying on us?”
“That would be my guess, yes,” Fargo said. “The League wants you dead. They concocted a story about a killer called the Sangamon River Monster and hired me to find him. But all I really am to them is a scapegoat. They intend to murder you and have me take the blame.”
“Why you?”
“If I knew that, I’d be a happy man,” Fargo said sourly.