by Jon Sharpe
“You didn’t have to swear,” Karen Byrnes said.
“You should’ve been a nun, Karen,” Rebecca Nolan said.
Fargo, despite the situation, laughed. “Ladies, first of all, I’m headed to the livery and then me and my horse are heading out. Second of all, bickering among yourselves is just going to make things worse for everybody, especially you three. And I’m sure that if you give Tom Cain more time—”
“He’s too old,” Denise Haller said. “And he doesn’t have any experience with things like this.”
“And he admits it himself,” Karen Byrnes said. “He said that right to our faces last night in his office.”
The one thing Fargo feared most of all happened just as he looked longingly down the plank walk to the livery and his Ovaro. Rebecca Nolan began crying. Sobbing, really. Burying her face in her hands. Her entire body shook. A woman’s tears could cow him faster than bullets.
Just as her friends reached over to hold her, three rough-hewn laborers came out of the café and glanced from the women to Fargo.
“What the hell’d you do to her?” one of the men snarled at Fargo. “You got her all cryin’.”
“He was awful to us,” Karen Byrnes said. “We asked him for a little assistance and he refused to help us.”
One of the other men made a clucking sound. “Out here, mister, a lady asks for help, a man is expected to give it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Denise Haller said. “It’s nice to know that there are at least a few gentlemen in this town.”
“Big, strong fella like you,” the third man said. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Denise Haller took her hands from her face. Her cheeks gleamed with tears, But her eyes gleamed with amusement. “He’s just a terrible, heartless man, is all.”
“Now are you gonna help these ladies or not, mister?”
By now Fargo could see that all three of them were trying to hide their amusement. They’d figured out his allergy to tears and had used it skillfully.
“All right, dammit,” Fargo said, resentful that he’d been snookered. “I’ll help you.”
“Now that’s more like it,” the second man said. Then to his companions, “We’d better get to work.”
Before Fargo left the women, he made them all examine the silver button carefully. None of them recognized it.
In the morning light Sheriff Tom Cain looked much older than he had the night before in the Gold Mine saloon. Severe lines were etched into the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. Liver spots dotted the tops of his hands. And the coffee cup he held in his grip trembled slightly.
Fargo saw all this as he crossed the threshold of the sheriff’s office.
Cain raised his cup in salute. “Glad to see you stopped by before you left town.”
“I gave it a try but those women you sicced on me convinced me otherwise.”
“Sicced on you?” The broad smile. “Now that’s an awfully cynical attitude. I simply pointed out that you were the most capable man in this valley to help me out.”
“The crying worked pretty well.”
Cain set his cup down and poured one for Fargo. “I’ve found that a woman’s tears can be as effective as a bullet sometimes.”
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”
“You think you can find the killer that soon?”
“I’m riding out in twenty-four hours, Tom. One way or the other.”
Cain handed Fargo the coffee and went over to sit behind his desk. Fargo took the chair under the glass gun case.
“Three killings in less than a month. I’m pretty sure those three were involved in a stagecoach robbery we had about five weeks ago. Fifty thousand dollars was taken. The stagecoach driver and one of the passengers, an Englishman, were killed.”
“So who’s responsible for killing the boys?”
“I figure somebody else planned the robbery and then decided to get rid of the boys so they couldn’t turn on him.”
“Any names come to mind?”
“I’d start with the people at the stage line.”
“You think the robbers and somebody in the stage company were involved?”
“It’s not exactly unheard of, Skye. But there’s something else. The stage was carrying the fifty thousand in a strongbox headed for the mines up in the mountains. There’d been a few robberies before and the bank wanted this run to be secret. Well, I don’t have to tell you what secret means, do I? Five, six people knew what was on that stage.”
“What about the bank? Somebody there knew about it, too.”
Cain smiled. “See, you’re doing it already.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like a Pinkerton. But no, the bank president is a friend of mine. He swears up and down nobody at the bank would have thrown in with bank robbers. He claims he hires a better class of people.” He snorted. “I’m not sure there is any such thing.”
“What’re the names of the men at the stage company?”
“Kenny and Sam Raines are drivers for the stage line. Kenny’s the one you had the run-in with last night. They’re still around. I talked to them myself a couple of times but got nowhere. And there’s another man who has to be considered. Bob Thomas. He worked there until he was fired two months ago. They claim he was caught stealing from the till. Thomas denies it. He was in pretty good with those three boys. You can’t rule him out either.”
Cain paused for a sip of coffee. “And there’s another man there, the manager, who’s deviled me since I came here.”
“Deviled you how?”
A laugh. “Why how else have I ever been deviled, Skye? A woman of course. A very beautiful widow named Amy Peters. I actually fell in love with her the first time I saw her.”
Fargo rolled his eyes. “You? Fall in love? You’ve slept with half the women in the West and it never came to that before. That must mean that you’ve never been able to get her in your bed. And since you can’t have her you think you love her.”
“Might be some sense to that, Skye. But anyway, there’s bad blood between her man Ned Lenihan and me. I—I wasn’t always what you might call decent to him when I went after his lady. And I went too far. She hates me as much as he does.”
“Why do you think Lenihan is involved?”
“Well, since Lenihan is the manager at the stage company, he’s a suspect in the robbery. Lenihan himself was the one who put the money on the stagecoach. And he’s got a need for money. He’s got a little farm that him and his son have had bad luck on. The bank is calling the note in on it. More coffee?”
Fargo shook his head. Cain got up and went to the stove and poured himself another cup.
Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed. “What the hell’s going on here, Steve, Tom or whatever the hell your name is?”
“Nothing’s going on here. I’m asking you for help.”
“You don’t ask people for help. You’re too arrogant.”
Cain shrugged. “Used to be too arrogant. Not anymore. Not in this town anyway. Town tamers have a limited number of years when they’re in favor. They make a lot of enemies and sometimes those enemies come into some power and start pushing for new blood to wear the star. That’s happening here.”
“They’re forcing you out?” Fargo saw that the trembling had stopped in Cain’s hand. Had Cain been faking it for sympathy? Fargo wouldn’t put it past him. The man was an actor.
“The town council isn’t meeting this morning because they have any faith in me. I’ve got one friend there and he tells me they’re going to force me to call in the Pinks. I’d rather work with you. And that’s what I’m going to tell them. You’re here right now. It’ll take a few days to get a Pink operative here. That’d be my argument.”
“Even though I don’t know more about detective work than you do?”
The irritating arrogant laugh. “That may be true, Skye. But they don’t know that and after I get done pumping up your credentials they’ll think you’re Pinkerton him
self.” Seeing that Fargo was going to balk, he held up his hand. The trembling was completely gone. “Most people know your reputation. They’ll help you. And you do actually know how the Pinks operate.”
“Somewhat.”
“Somewhat is good enough for me, Skye. I have no doubt you’ll find the killer. And then you know what? I can leave this town. I don’t want to leave it with this hanging over me. I’ve still got one or two more towns left in me. Three unsolved murders wouldn’t look good.”
“What happened to your hand?”
“My hand?”
“It was shaking like hell when I came in.”
“Oh, this?” He held up his hand and after a moment made it start shaking. “Pretty good, huh? I needed to look a little helpless.” The laugh again. “It’s just in my nature, Skye. Guess I’m a frustrated thespian.”
“You’re a frustrated something all right,” Fargo said, resenting that he’d allowed himself to be trapped into this. Hell, he wanted to be on his way to Denver. And he never wanted to see Tom Cain or whatever he was calling himself ever again.
Fargo could still see the shape of Clete Byrnes’ body where it had lain in the grass next to the tree. He hadn’t taken the time yesterday to really scout the place the way the Pinkertons usually did. Now he was combing the area for signs of anything that might indicate who had killed him. His Pinkerton friends had told him that if you looked over a crime area carefully you’d be surprised what you’d find. And the silver button had proved the Pinkertons correct. But where did the button come from? What did it have to do with the death of young Byrnes? Or did it have anything to do with it at all?
There were traces of blood in the grass leading from a narrow dusty trail to the beginning of the front yard of the soddie he had seen yesterday. So: shot in the road, dragged to the tree. The person who lived there might have seen something if she’d been in the yard.
The soddie he approached had been upgraded from the usual soddie you found on the frontier. A shingle roof had been built to save the place from leaking rain for one thing and an actual wooden door had been installed. No doubt the place was still home to vermin of every kind—not to mention snakes—but at least the top wouldn’t collapse every time the weather turned bad.
A dozen chickens ran frantically around to the left of the place and a wolfhound stood alert watching him. A good time to stop. Fargo made sure his hand was nowhere near his Colt. He raised his voice and spoke to the closed door. “My name’s Fargo. I’m working with Sheriff Cain. I’d like to talk to you.”
Yesterday he’d walked up to the door. But the wolfhound hadn’t been here. And today he sensed that somebody was inside.
“I’ll have to keep coming back unless you come out and talk to me. You could save both of us a lot of trouble.”
At first the only sound was the wind soughing through the huge pines nearby. He took two steps forward. Another sound—the wolfhound growling, the mouth opening to reveal gleaming white teeth.
The door opened and a tiny woman who was probably in her sixties came out toting a Winchester that was aimed right at Fargo’s chest. She wore a flat-crowned black hat, a buckskin shirt, black butternuts and buckskin boots that came up to her knees. She might have been pretty once but years out here had scrubbed most of the prettiness away. She had hard, harsh green eyes. She might have weighed one hundred on a good day.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“Don’t start none of that ‘morning, ma’am’ bilge with me. My name’s Helen Hardesty and I ain’t no ma’am.”
“I’m working with Sheriff—”
“What the hell you think I got here? Brick walls? In case you didn’t notice, this is a soddie. Meaning I can hear everything you said. And don’t try and make me cooperate because you’re working with that show-off sheriff. He’s nothing to me.”
One hundred pounds of pure prairie grit, Fargo thought.
“I found a dead man here yesterday.”
“Good for you. I don’t know anything about it.”
“He was laying right back there. He was probably shot on the trail and dragged by that tree.” Fargo turned and pointed. “Seems like you might’ve heard or seen something.”
“Guess you didn’t hear me, mister. I don’t know anything about it.” She waggled the Winchester at him. The wolfhound growled. “You simmer, Samson. I can handle this tinhorn.”
Fargo thought, you had to like her. The Eastern papers always talked about “the pioneer spirit” and this was surely it. A slight woman defending herself from a stranger at gun-point. It was too bad she was lying. She needed some real practice when she decided not to tell the truth.
“Is your husband around?”
“Yep. Back of the soddie. I buried him there three years ago.”
“You like living alone?”
“What the hell’re these questions about? I already told you I don’t know nothing about no killing and I mean exactly what I say.”
Maybe if she could look at him when she lied he’d be more likely to believe her. Also, the way she kept gnawing on her lower lip when it was his turn to talk told him that she was nervous about something. He also suspected—brazen as she was with him—that she might be afraid. She put on a hell of a good show. But what if she’d seen the killer and he’d threatened her?
“I’d like to help you, Helen.”
“You would, huh? Then you git on that horse of yours and ride out. That’d help me a lot.”
“I think you’re afraid. I think you saw something and somebody threatened you.”
She lost her grit just for a moment. “Who told you that?” But the tone was plaintive. Then: “It’s a lie. I didn’t see nothing and nobody threatened me, either.”
“Whoever threatened you, he’s killed one man, maybe more. And maybe he’ll decide to kill you.”
“I’m tough. I’ve got this.” The barrel of the Winchester gleamed in the sun. “And I’ve got Samson. Show him, Samson.”
The wolfhound stood up abruptly and growled. On cue. As in a circus act.
“I know you’re tough. I’ll bet you’re tough enough to tell the truth.”
“And tough enough to get you off my property. Go, Samson!”
The wolfhound leapt directly at Fargo. Teeth bared. Growl deep in its chest and belly. It landed just a few feet in front of Fargo and went into attack formation. But then it stopped.
Fargo felt sweat slick his face. He couldn’t think of a single man he was afraid of. He could think of a whole list of animals who gave him nightmares.
Helen Hardesty cackled. “That’s my warning shot. You should see your face, mister. You don’t look so strong now. I taught Samson to leap like that but then stop short. Scares the hell out of intruders. The next time I give him an order, though, he don’t stop short. He goes right for your throat.”
“You’ve got it all figured out.”
“I sure do.”
“Except for the killer. You’re worried he’ll come back on you and you don’t know what to do about it.”
“We’re done here, mister. Now I’m goin’ back inside and Samson’s gonna sit right where he is. I give him the order, he’ll tear you apart. You understand?”
She was true to her word. She did an about-face and stalked back to her soddie. Samson stayed in place.
She was right, Fargo thought. They were done here.
Less than a minute later he was in his saddle and headed out.
5
Karen Byrnes came home to the small frame house on the edge of the creek and put herself to work. Her mother had not been able to sleep all night. She’d sat in her rocker crying endlessly about her dead son. Now, exhausted, she slept.
Karen wanted to find the killer. She knew that Skye Fargo was working with Tom Cain but she assumed that she could help Fargo by talking to some of her friends. Her grief would come later.
Once home, she changed from her gingham dress into her Levi’s and green woolen sweater. She needed to start ma
king candles today, not her favorite task but they were running low. She wanted to work in the large garden she’d planted. She’d been putting up vegetables for the coming winter for three months. But right now candles had to come first.
She set herself up and began the tedious process of hand-dipping. The problem was that if you topped the candle it would get too hard and would snap in two.
Somebody knocked on the door.
“Come in.” She spoke softly, not wanting to wake her mother. She didn’t mean to be unkind but she needed a rest from her mother’s sobbing.
Ingrid Haller was a typical frontier woman. Many men were open about wanting to marry stout women because they were like having a second horse. Some women found that sentiment amusing. The slender Karen wasn’t one of them and she resented the fact that men thought of women that way. Karen’s outspokenness had frequently caused her trouble.
Karen put a finger to her lips. Ingrid, square-shaped in a man’s red-and-black-checkered shirt and jeans, nodded her understanding and walked over on tiptoe.
“My mother’s sleeping. She had a terrible night.” She nodded to the blanket strung across the rope. The two beds were on the other side.
“I’m still having a lot of terrible nights myself.” Ingrid’s son Michael had been the first victim of the killer.
Ingrid knew not to interrupt Karen’s work. She drew up a thatched chair so she could sit close enough to talk without raising her voice. Karen continued to work.
“There’s something we need to talk about, Karen.”
“Oh?”
“The others don’t want to talk about it and neither did I, but now I don’t have any choice and neither do you.”
Her bluntness surprised Karen. She had a feeling that Ingrid was going to tell her something terrible.
“It’s what everybody’s talking about—behind our backs.”
“You’re being very mysterious, Ingrid.”
“You’ve had the same thoughts I’ve had but you’ve been afraid to admit them.” The woman had a wide, pleasant, freckled face. “I don’t like to think about them, either.”