by Jon Sharpe
“You get out of here, Lenihan,” Cain bellered. “Right now you’re hiding behind Pete. But if he wasn’t here you’d be dead, you understand?”
Rule faced Lenihan. Seeing that Lenihan was about to say something—still looking belligerent—he pushed him toward the door and said, “Out and out now, Ned. Right now!”
Lenihan, shaking his head, staring down at his bruised knuckles, looked up and scowled at Cain. And then, still shaking his head, left the sheriff’s office.
“What the hell’s that for?” Sam Raines said.
“I’d say that isn’t any of your business.”
“Well, since I’m the one that cleaned up all your puke a little while ago, I’d say it sure is my business.”
“Well, I’ve been known to clean up your puke when I need to.” Which was true. Sam did his own share of alcohol vomiting, too.
The shack behind the stage line had once been used for drivers to sleep in. It contained two cots, a potbelly stove, wooden flooring and no windows. One driver had remarked that it was one step up from a prison cell. No meals were made or eaten here. The Raines brothers had taken it over after the stage line got a reduced room rate from the worst hotel in Cawthorne for its drivers. At least the hotel rooms had windows and didn’t have the suffocating smell of men to whom bathing was often considered an offense.
After the confrontation with Fargo earlier, Sam had guided his brother back to the cabin where he had promptly sprayed chunky vomit all over the floor. Sam had stashed Kenny against a tree and then proceeded to swamp up the disgusting awful puke. He’d dragged Kenny inside and pitched him on his cot. And then he’d taken some sleep himself.
When he woke up he saw Kenny sitting on the edge of his cot holding his Winchester. Couple of things wrong here. Kenny wasn’t exactly a master with a rifle. Even when they’d been little boys hunting, Sam had been the one with the eye and the trigger finger. The second thing wrong was that Kenny’s shooting hand was wrapped in a bandage. And Sam could tell that it still hurt him because just in the past minute or two Kenny had winced three times. So what the hell was he doing with the Winchester?
“I’m gonna take care of Fargo.”
“You mean Fargo’s gonna take care of you.”
“You hate him, too.”
“I hate him, too, but that don’t mean I want to tangle with him. And anyway, he’ll be gone soon enough. I heard he’s leavin’ tomorrow.”
“Look at this, you son of a bitch.” Kenny held up his wrapped hand dramatically. “I won’t never be able to shoot right again.”
“Well, truth be told, Kenny, you know what the old man said. He said neither of us was worth a whit as fast draws.”
“I killed two men, didn’t I?”
“I just want to relax. I drank a lot myself and I’m sick as hell.”
“I said I killed two men, didn’t I?”
“You killed them from behind. That ain’t the same thing.”
“But I killed them. There’re a lot of men who wouldn’t kill another man no matter what.”
“So you’re going to kill Fargo from the back?”
“No, brother, you’re gonna shoot Fargo from the back.”
Sam spat on the floor. “The hell I am.”
“The hell you ain’t. Unless you want me to tell people what that whore said about you that night in Denver.”
“She was just pissed because I cheated her out of her money.”
“She said you didn’t measure up.”
“Yeah, well you can’t find any other whore I ever been with who said that. I do all right for myself and you can bet on it.”
“So you don’t mind if I talk that around?”
A long, hurt silence. Sometimes it seemed to Sam that Kenny wasn’t his real brother at all. He could get as snake-mean with his own blood as he could a stranger. Many was the time Sam thought of leaving Cawthorne and Kenny behind. But when he started to think it through he always decided against it because where would he go? He wasn’t the sort who made friends fast. He didn’t have any money, he didn’t have Kenny’s way of intimidating people and he had to face it—he got lonesome pretty easy.
“I never shot nobody in the back.”
“You never shot nobody period.”
“Well, that’s a hell of a way to start, isn’t it? Shootin’ somebody in the back?”
“Look at this, Sam. Look at what he done to my hand.” Kenny waved his hand around as if it was on display. “Don’t you have no family pride? You know what our pa would say if he was alive?”
Sam sighed. “Yeah, I know what he’d say. He’d say to kill him any way you had to.”
“That’s right. And you know it.”
“You started it though, Kenny—you rushed him and—”
“You’re just makin’ excuses and you know it.”
Sam sighed again. It was hard to deny his brother when the old man was brought into the argument. Sam had always felt that he’d let the old man down most of the time. And Kenny was sure right about this one. The old man would have raised holy hell if he’d known that Sam wouldn’t avenge the family honor and kill Fargo.
“All right, Kenny,” Sam said, “I don’t want to do it but I guess I will.”
10
Karen Byrnes had been right about Rex Connor’s wolfhound. It was an older version of Helen Hardesty’s animal. And not one iota friendlier. It greeted them with snarls and growls as they reached the property where a tumbledown cabin sat in a grove of jack pines. An ancient mule was tethered to a clothesline pole. Red long johns flapped in the wind.
The door to the cabin opened an inch or two. A disembodied voice said, “You’re welcome here, Karen, but not the man.”
“He’s helping me, Rex. We’re trying to find out who killed my brother.”
“I can’t help you there. Now you both git.”
The door slammed.
“He’s afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I’m not sure. Ever since the killings started.”
“Afraid somebody’ll come after him?”
“That’s what I thought. But I wonder.”
A chill wind smelling of pine brought a foretaste of winter as they stood staring at the cabin door.
“I talked to Ingrid this morning, Rex. She said you saw somebody talking to my brother and the other two one night. It would help us a lot if you’d tell us who you saw.”
“You need to leave, Karen.”
“You must be out of bread, Rex.”
“I don’t care about bread. Now you go along and take that big man with you.”
The wolfhound growled, as if to second its master’s command.
“Well, I don’t know what to do with this bread. I have two loaves here and one of them is cinnamon.”
A long pause. “Cinnamon?”
“Yes. I know that’s your favorite.”
“Who’s the man?”
“His name’s Skye Fargo. He’s helping me like I said. We really need to talk to you, Rex.”
“I don’t want to get nobody in trouble.”
“You read the Bible, Rex. And you know what the Bible says about telling the truth.”
Another long pause. “Are they both cinnamon, did you say?”
“One of them’s cinnamon. But if you’ll talk I’ll make you another loaf of it next time, too.”
The door creaked open. A short man with a long white beard dressed in a green flannel shirt, grimy jeans and boots that laced up to his knees emerged. The first thing he did was spit out a stream of chaw and the second thing he did was hitch up his britches. He had only one suspender.
“You sit right there, King. If that feller makes a move, you get ready.”
The wolfhound must have understood the tone if not the exact meaning of the words. Its magnificent head swept around to Rex Connor, as if it had understood everything.
“I told Ingrid not to say nothing.”
“Her son’s dead, Rex. My brother’s dead. We nee
d help.”
“What’s this Fargo got to do with it?”
“He’s helping Tom Cain.”
“Tom Cain.” He spat more tobacco. “I wouldn’t trust Tom Cain if my life depended on it.”
“Maybe your life doesn’t, but since we haven’t caught the killer yet maybe somebody’s does.”
Fargo realized that this could go on a long time. He said, “If you know something you need to tell us. If somebody else gets killed you might be partly responsible. We don’t have much time. So I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know who you saw with the three boys that night.”
“What if I said I didn’t recognize him?”
“Then I’d say you’re a liar.”
“Skye!” Karen said. “Don’t insult him!”
But the Trailsman was tired of the conversation. He took two steps forward, knowing he would set the dog off.
“One more step and he’ll jump you, Fargo,” Connor said.
“Then he’ll have to jump me.”
Fargo felt Karen’s hand clutching his shirt. “Skye, it’s not worth it.”
“Yes, it is.”
Fargo raised his right leg and started to take a step. His eyes were fixed on Connor’s face. He hoped the old buzzard would relent. He was betting on it.
The wolfhound stood up. Arched its body.
Fargo began to put his foot to the ground, to take the final step.
“Cinnamon, you say?” Connor said. “That’s the only reason I’ll do it. Not because I’m afraid of this here gunfighter.”
Fargo swallowed his smile. Every man wanted to save face. No man wanted to be seen backing down. Not even this old coot. He did it himself. “Good thing you agreed to it. The dog would’ve made a mess of me but I would’ve pumped you full of lead before he killed me.”
“Oh, God,” Karen Byrnes said, “is it any wonder I hate men?”
When Amy heard about the fight between Ned and Tom Cain, she rushed from the general store and began running to the stagecoach office. The two men who had taken great delight in telling her about it came out on the stoop in front of the store and clucked their disapproval of both Amy and Ned Lenihan. They were of the mind that Lenihan had killed the three boys to keep them from revealing his part in the robbery.
Amy stumbled twice, once nearly falling to the ground, saved only by a man who reached down and brought her to her feet. But not even that slowed her. She wanted to hold Ned. Keep him safe. Tom Cain had been an enemy before. Now he could afford to openly pursue Ned.
She was startled to see Ned at the counter filling out a form. As if nothing had happened. When he raised his head she saw a small bruise on his right cheek. Otherwise he looked fine.
There were no customers so she didn’t worry about pushing through the wooden gate and going to him. She lifted the pencil from his hand and took him in her arms.
She said nothing, just held him. She could feel his heart beat. The way it raced, she knew that he was afraid too. What he’d done had been reckless. She didn’t blame him. Cain had pushed him far too long. His rage must have been overwhelming. By rights he would not stand a chance against Cain. But he’d likely snapped and pounced on Cain before the lawman knew what was happening. In other circumstances she would have been happy for Ned. But not now. Not when so many people in town thought he was guilty. Not now when Cain had been waiting for some excuse to move on Ned.
She found herself kissing him passionately. She found herself weeping, her tears dampening the faces of both of them.
As he tore off pieces of cinnamon bread and stuffed them into his mouth, Rex Connor managed to salt his white beard with bits of bread and sprays of his own spittle. It wasn’t a pretty sight, especially since he was more concentrated on his eating than answering Fargo’s question.
Standing in the thinning sunlight outside Rex’s cabin, Fargo said, “So you saw a man talking to the three boys that night?”
Rex nodded. His mouth was too full to speak.
“And you recognized him?”
Another nod.
“But you’re afraid you’ll get him in trouble if you tell us who you saw?”
Rex gulped down some bread and said, “That’s right.”
“What if he was the killer?” Fargo said. He was tired of taking his time with this old fart. If Karen hadn’t been here he would have grabbed him and shaken the truth out of him. “You want to protect a killer?”
“He ain’t no killer.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Instead of answering, Rex tore off another piece of bread with his grimy hands. “I’ve known this feller a long, long time. I guess I’d know if he was a killer or not, wouldn’t I?”
“People surprise you sometimes.”
“Not this feller. He don’t surprise me.”
“Rex, please, please tell us who you saw,” Karen said. “We won’t hurt him. We’ll just talk to him.”
“And she baked you that bread,” Fargo said, feeling ridiculous. What the hell was he doing, talking about bread when he should have been grabbing this bastard and choking the answer out of him? He steadied himself. “And from the looks of your beard, you seem to be enjoying it.”
“I’ll just get him in trouble and he’s got trouble enough with his farm.”
As soon as he said it, Rex looked shocked, as if somebody else might have said it. But it had popped out and now, even without naming the man, both Fargo and Karen knew who he was talking about.
“You’re saying it was Lenihan.”
“That ain’t what I said, Fargo.”
“Maybe not. But it’s what you meant.”
“Ned,” Karen said, as if she couldn’t believe it. “Ned Lenihan.”
“See, just what I told ya,” Rex said, chawing around a piece of bread. “Now you’ve got him tried and convicted and you don’t even know what he was doin’ with them boys.”
“You saw him only that one time?”
“Yep. Only that one time, Fargo. And you’re makin’ way too much of it.”
“But you don’t have any doubt who you saw.”
“Nope. None at all.”
Fargo watched Karen’s face grow tight with concern. On the one hand, Lenihan was the name most often heard when people talked about the chief suspect. On the other hand, Lenihan’s few defenders were positive that he was innocent.
There was only one way to find out.
“Thanks, Rex.”
“You’re gonna go after him, ain’t you, Fargo?”
“I’m going to find out why he was talking to those boys. That’s all.”
Rex looked genuinely sorry. “He’s a good man. I shouldn’t a said nothing.”
“It’s all right, Rex,” Karen said. “You did the right thing.”
“Make trouble for an innocent man?” Rex scoffed. “You call that doing the right thing?”
But he went right on eating.
The son’s name was George Lenihan. He was an inch or two taller than his father but was stamped with the same small, fine Irish facial features and slight if wiry body. He wore a black seaman’s sweater, in deference to the increasingly chilly day, and a pair of jeans. He stood in front of a white barn and watched Fargo approach. He’d been working and had a pitchfork in his hand.
Fargo dismounted, walked toward him. He’d gotten the name and some background on the son from Karen. The son had lived here since his wife left him two years ago. They’d been childless, the wife suffering three miscarriages in as many years. It was Karen’s impression that this had contributed to the wife’s leaving.
Fargo noted wryly that no angry dogs had yet put in an appearance.
“Afternoon,” Fargo said amiably.
“Who the hell’re you?”
“Name’s Fargo.”
“Oh. My pa told me about you. You’re the one who works for Tom Cain.”
“Not ‘for.’ ‘With.’ I’m just lending him a hand. But I don’t take orders from him if that’s what you’ve got in mi
nd.”
“Right now I’m wondering what you’ve got in mind.”
“I was wondering if you’d let me look around the farm.”
Narrow eyes grew narrower. Knuckles whitened on the pitchfork. “For what reason?”
“You want a nice little lie or the truth?”
“The truth.”
“A good share of Cawthorne thinks your father had something to do with the robbery and the killings of those three men.”
“They were boys. Not men. Hell-raisers. And anybody who thinks my pa had anything to do with any of it is wrong.”
“Then you won’t mind if I look around?”
“On whose orders?”
“Mine.”
“Not Cain’s?”
“He doesn’t even know I’m here.”
George Lenihan surveyed the farm outbuildings and the small house. “You won’t find anything.”
“I hope I won’t.”
The son looked even more like the father when concern shadowed his face. “He’s a good man. I worry about him. People will believe anything sometimes. That’s why I stay on the farm here. I’ve had enough of people to last me a lifetime.”
Fargo wondered how much George’s dislike of people came from the woman who’d left him.
“I want to believe your father, George.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because I’m like you. I believe that people will believe anything if they hear it often enough. You start accusing somebody of something and pretty soon everybody around begins to claim it’s true.”
“That’s what’s happening to my pa.”
“Well, then let me look around and we’ll prove that they’re wrong.”
The son shrugged. “There’s a collie roaming around here. She’s very friendly. She won’t give you any trouble.”
“A friendly dog,” Fargo said. “Imagine that.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“In the house.”
“Pa and I ain’t exactly housekeepers.”
“I’ll probably get over the shock.”
“This pisses me off.”
“Figured it would. But maybe it’ll help your father in the long run.”
“Yeah, sure it will.”