Arkansas Assault

12

Maybe when his wandering days were over, Skye Fargo could get himself a job as a baseball pitcher.

The rock he threw at the burly man guarding the side entrance to Noah Tillman’s mansion struck him right on the side of the head and pitched him sideways to the ground.

Fargo moved fast.

He jumped down on the man, striking him hard twice more on the side of the head to keep him out for awhile. He untied the man’s bandana and used it to gag him with. He bound the man, wrists and ankles, with the man’s belt and shirt. Fargo had learned long ago how to roll up a shirt so that it held like a strong, tight rope.

He eased up to the side door, put his ear to it, and crept inside.

He stood at the base of four stairs that led to a closed door. He drew his Colt, proceeded forward. Voices, now. Male. He listened again. The voices spoke in a Mexican dialect. He could piece together enough of the conversation to know that the voices belonged to servants. Apparently, they were finishing up their work for the day.

Fargo just hoped that neither one of them opened the door.

They finally broke up and went in separate directions. Fargo listened until their footsteps could no longer be heard.

The door. He stood on the second step, turned the doorknob, peered at what lay on the other side.

With the guttering sconces, the huge paintings, the pedestals bearing objets d’art of every kind, the marble floors, the vast hallway resembled a museum more than a home. Doors opened off of the hallway. He needed to get started. Somebody was likely to find that sentry soon enough.

He moved on tiptoe down the shadowy hall, the barrel of his Colt leading the way. The open doorways were easy to peer inside. The closed doors presented more of a danger. He listened first and then pushed his way through, but found no one. Each room was decorated so lavishly that the fussiness began to detract from what could have been a simple beauty. He suspected that all this represented not the taste of a tough old bastard like Noah Tillman but the taste of a woman decorator that Noah Tillman had hired. She must’ve been damned pretty to convince a ruthless land baron like Tillman to accept all this.

He spent fifteen minutes downstairs. The silence surprised him. The feeling was of a church late in the day, when nobody but old women prayed at the Communion rail.

He was just about to go upstairs—something he wasn’t happy about, it being so damned easy to get trapped on a second floor—when he heard a male gringo voice barking an order. An order for a bourbon and water and go easy on the water this time, dammit, Manuel.

Noah Tillman, undoubtedly.

He’d been so intent on listening to Noah Tillman that he heard—too late—the faint shuffle of shoe leather behind him.

The cold reality of gun metal chilled the back of his neck.

“I do not believe you were invited here tonight,” a Spanish voice said. “Now I will have to turn you over to the guards.”

The man moved around in front of him. Fargo looked at the man who’d been shooting at him from the roof earlier today.

“He was your cousin?” Liz Turner asked.

“Yes, ma’am. My first cousin.”

Her name was Bernice Cooper. She lived in a flat above an ice cream shop. She was old enough that her skin had a papery quality and her voice quavered from time to time. But her brown eyes gleamed with health and life. Liz had found her name among her late husband’s notes on Noah Tillman, and decided to visit her. Apparently, Richard had never gotten around to it.

“And he came here why?”

“He worked on boats.”

“Worked on?”

“Repaired them.”

“I see.”

A breeze came through the west window. In the lamplight, the small living room had a quaintness about it that made Liz feel at home. There was a couch, two chairs, a bookcase, and a tiny table where, she suspected, Bernice took each meal. The walls were covered with religious paintings.

“And he came here—”

“He came here to fix Noah Tillman’s boat.”

“There wasn’t anybody who could do that locally?”

Bernice shrugged. “Bobby Lee was the best, I guess. At least that’s what folks said. Plus he wasn’t that far away. Just a day’s ride, over to Simpson.”

“And you saw him?”

Bernice nodded. “Two or three times. He took me out for supper twice. He was a nice man, Bobby Lee.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“I don’t know what else I could think. He just vanished. Never came around to see me again, never went back to his own place, either. He was just—gone.”

“Did you ever talk to Noah Tillman about him?”

She made a face. “You ever try to talk to Noah Tillman about anything? He just sort of waves you away, like he’d never stoop low enough to speak to you.”

“And all this was—”

“Two years ago. About now, in fact. Fourth of July coming up and everything.”

Liz was trying to make some sense of this story. The woman wasn’t a hysteric, wasn’t accusing anybody of anything, hadn’t even asked for help. Liz had had to seek Bernice out. But here was one more tale of “vanishing,” one that Richard had found during the course of his investigation, one that he’d obviously planned to follow up. She now planned to talk to every person Richard had listed in his notes about this story.

“If I could ever get a grand jury together, would you be willing to testify to all this?” Liz said.

“Why, sure.”

“A lot of people are afraid of Noah Tillman.”

Bernice laughed. “Well, I’m not one of them, Missy. The way he treated me when I asked him about Bobby Lee—well, to hell with him. Excuse my language.”

Liz stood up. “I appreciate all the help you’ve been, Bernice.”

Bernice walked her to the door. “It’s the least I could do for Bobby Lee. He was a good man.”

Noah Tillman had an outsize head and white ringlets that together resembled the bust of a Roman senator or general.

He sat all splendid in his chair in his splendid study and when the servant brought Fargo in at gunpoint, he looked up with a splendid smile and said, “Thank you, Manuel. I was looking for a little entertainment this evening.”

Fargo hadn’t known what to expect. He still didn’t. Noah Tillman was treating this situation as if the carnival had just rolled into town.

Manuel explained, in Spanish, that he’d found Fargo lurking in the grand hall and brought him directly to the study.

“But, Manuel, you don’t seem to realize that our guest has a considerable reputation.” Noah Tillman’s droll tone continued. “He’s known as the Trailsman. And he seems to’ve earned his reputation. He’s a fast man with a gun. And a smart one, too, I’m told. Are you smart, Mr. Fargo?”

“Apparently not,” Fargo said, matching Noah Tillman’s tone. “Manuel here caught me, didn’t he?”

The way Noah Tillman’s head was angled to the right reminded Fargo that the man was hard of hearing.

“Yes, but in order to get into the house, you had to get through a dog and a sentry and another guard.”

Fargo smiled. “Well, maybe I am smart, after all.”

“Manuel, get us a drink. How does a brandy sound, Mr. Fargo? And please, take a chair.”

Now what the hell was this all about? Fargo wondered. You catch a man invading your property and your house and you invite him to have a drink?

Well, whatever was going on here—and something clearly was—Fargo didn’t have much choice but to sit down and find out what it was.

Tom Tillman was just leaving the sheriff’s office when he realized that he wouldn’t be able to keep his pledge after all. He had promised himself that he would avoid seeing Liz Turner until he could get control of his feelings again. Though he didn’t love his wife, he respected her and respected the vows he’d taken when they’d gotten married, even though his father had bullied him into the union. Sara came from a “prestigious” family. And Noah, for all his rough ways, liked the idea of being prestigious. And then Tom got Sara pregnant and there had been no choice. As soon as she was confirmed with child, the marriage was hastily put together.

But for the first time in his life, he was in love. And it was a guilty, painful thing that haunted and taunted his days as well as his nights. But he couldn’t give Liz up. Couldn’t and wouldn’t.

He stood on the raised sidewalk and when she reached him, he helped her up.

She waved a note at him. “Your father is going to have company tonight, Tom.”

“Oh?”

“Fargo is planning on paying him a visit.” She paused and said, “I’m sorry about the other night, Tom.”

“It was my fault.”

She laughed. He loved that rich, womanly laugh of hers. “Well, let’s share the guilt, then.”

“It won’t happen again.” He’d gotten angry at himself that night, said that he had no business being with her, made her, as she’d said through her tears, “feel like a whore.”

She touched his arm. He felt a passion he tried to deny. There in the moonlight, he saw the face of the woman he loved. Not just for sex, or because she seemed to understand him. But because she’d done all the things he’d wanted to do—gone off on her own and faced the world and wrestled it to the ground. Her terrible childhood in the streets of Baltimore where she survived by being a thief in her early teen years. And then working in a convent as a trade-off with the nuns who taught her to read and write, until she ventured west to get into the raw and often dangerous business of frontier journalism.

There was warmth and wisdom in this woman. No bitterness. No remorse. And seemingly no fear. He ached for her sexually but he ached for her in so many other ways, too.

“Something’s going on here, Tom. Fargo knows it and I know it. And you know it, too, but out of loyalty to Noah, you won’t look into it. I don’t like the idea of Fargo going out to the mansion. Too many people have vanished in the last ten years.” She hesitated. “I had to say that, Tom.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about it myself.”

“Would you be willing to confront Noah about it?”

“I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?” He paused. “I need to get home. I haven’t been spending enough time with the kids.”

That was another thing he admired about Liz. Where other women in her position would resent the time he spent with his family, she encouraged it. She’d come from such bitter circumstances herself that she didn’t want his children to endure the same pain.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said.

She was soon lost in the night as she made her way back to the newspaper office.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Mr. Fargo,” Noah Tillman said.

Cigars, brandy, a crackling fireplace, deep leather chairs. And a courteous host who should, by rights, be mad as hell because Fargo had trespassed on his property.

“I’m sort of curious, Mr. Tillman.”

“Noah is fine.”

“All right, Noah it is. Why aren’t you having me arrested?”

Tillman made a sweeping, dramatic gesture with his cigar-filled hand. “Because I believe somebody is using you to get to me. And I want to set you straight. I don’t want you to think ill of my little town. And it is ‘my’ town, Mr. Fargo, as everybody will tell you.”

“Set me straight about what? About why Manuel shot at me this afternoon?”

Noah smiled. “Manuel gets very protective of me. Sometimes, he gets carried away.”

Sip of brandy. Long pull on his cigar. Exhaling the smoke through the side of his mouth, his outsize cuff link catching the golden light of the desk lamp. “I want to set you straight about this legend people like to keep alive. This legend about vanishing people, Mr. Fargo.”

“Then it’s not true?”

Noah laughed. “It’s true if you’re the type who believes in vampires and werewolves. You hear those kinds of stories, too. And not just from Indians. From a lot of white people in town. They’re always seeing zombies and things like that. And for the past seven or eight years, they’ve convinced themselves that a number of visitors have disappeared.” He smiled, his eyes considering the heft of his cigar. “I’m sure they think that werewolves carted them off.”

“Whenever people in your town don’t want to talk about the missing folks, they try to say it’s all as crazy as werewolves and vampires. And anyway, if you don’t have anything to do with it, why would you care what people think?”

“For a very simple reason, Mr. Fargo. This town, as I said, is mine. I built it, I support it, I’m getting it ready for the future. But what kind of a future are we going to have if there are all these stories about vanishing people going around? Would you want to settle in a town like that?”

Fargo sipped some of his brandy. Excellent. But then would you expect less from a man like Noah Tillman? “Has there ever been a serious investigation into these disappearances?”

“Several, by the man who was sheriff before my son.”

“He was also a relative of yours, I believe,” Fargo said.

“That doesn’t discredit him.”

“You said there were several investigations.”

“That’s right,” Noah said, brushing some ash from his smoking jacket. “Including one by the local newspaperman.”

“He was killed if I’m not mistaken,” Fargo said. “Back-shot, I believe.”

“That’s true. But it didn’t have anything to do with the so-called disappearances.”

“That isn’t what the man’s widow told me.”

“Ah, Liz,” Noah said grandly. “Quite a figure on that lady, isn’t there?”

Fargo said nothing.

“And she’s quite a newspaperwoman, too. Good editor, I mean. Knows what sells and what doesn’t sell. Knows that if you want to keep your readers happy, you have to give them raw red meat. And what’s the best way to do that? Why, attack powerful people. Your everyday, average person resents powerful people. And loves to hear hints that powerful people are untrustworthy and corrupt. You can’t go wrong with stories like that and Liz knows it. So she’s always coming after me. And with anything she can get her hands on. She still tells anybody who’ll listen that I had her husband shot. And the same with how I run my various businesses. That I bribe legislators whenever I want to get a right-of-way or want to get some kind of edge on my competition. She’s even implied in a couple of stories that I was behind several fires my competitors suffered.”

“And you weren’t?”

Noah paused and looked solemnly at Fargo. “Do you hear how I speak? I have a second grade education, Mr. Fargo. But when I got wealthy, I hired a tutor. I even learned a little about art and serious music. We have musicals out here sometimes. My late wife, God love her, wanted me to become a civilized man and by God I did it.

“And the same with business, Mr. Fargo. Everything I’ve got, I got for myself. Of course I’ve cut a few legal corners here and there—when all else fails, I’m perfectly willing to bribe a few state legislators, that’s just part of the business—but I don’t do anything that my competitors don’t do. And I sure as hell don’t spirit visitors away when they come to town. Think about it, Mr. Fargo. Why would I do something like that? What would I do with these people? And what would I get out of it?”

He was pretty damned convincing. He’d be tough in a court of law. He would overpower all but the most clever of prosecuting attorneys. And he’d do it all with reason, a rich and deep voice, and absolute charm.

“So there’s nothing to it.”

“If there was, do you think I’d invite you in to have a drink and explain myself? I’d have you arrested. Discredited. So that nobody would listen to what you have to say.” He rose, ending the meeting. “I invited you because I have nothing to hide.” The smile. “And because I knew that a man of your reputation would probably enjoy a rest and a little expensive brandy. You’ve had an awful lot of adventures in your life, Mr. Fargo.”

Fargo finished his brandy, stood up, accepted the hand this splendid, domineering actor offered him. He hadn’t believed a word of it—was convinced now that Noah Tillman did indeed have something to hide—but decided to pretend that he’d been taken in. “Appreciate the brandy.” He picked up his hat.

The servant appeared in the doorway.

“Manuel will show you out, Mr. Fargo. I enjoyed meeting you.”

Manuel walked him to the front door. His steps were loud, especially on the long stretch of parquet flooring.

“You’re a pretty lousy shot, Manuel.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“But even lousy shots get lucky once in a while.”

“Please. We should not be having this conversation.”

“The thing is, I kind of resent being shot at. I’d guess that’s a pretty normal reaction, wouldn’t you? Man’s walking down an alley to save some time and there’s this shooter up on a roof trying to kill him.”

They reached the door. Manuel opened it for him.

Fargo caught him just below the sternum. Manuel might be a slick, tricky protector of the old man’s but he couldn’t take a punch worth a damn. He bent in half, staggered out onto the porch, and promptly threw up.

“I’d say we’re about even now,” Fargo said as he prepared himself for the lengthy walk back to his horse.

Ten minutes later, Fargo was on his stallion and headed back to the main road when he saw another horse and rider leaving the estate and heading toward town. From a distance, traced by moonlight, the rider resembled Noah Tillman. White hair, wide shoulders, imposing stature.

But where would Noah Tillman be headed at this time and at this speed? Wasn’t he the kind of man who did all his work through his hired gunnies?

Fargo reached the road and started toward town. The rider was still behind him but closing fast. Fargo’s Ovaro stallion loped along.

When the rider was still some distance back, Fargo’s hand slid to his Colt. Since he didn’t know what the hell was going on here, he wanted to be ready for whatever happened.

The rider did some talking to his horse. The timber of his voice was much like Noah Tillman’s. The rider’s horse slowed so that it could match the lope of Fargo’s stallion.

“Evening, Mr. Fargo.”

His first impression was that he was looking at Noah Tillman. Only after staring at the rider did he see the difference. The nose straighter. The eyes slightly larger. The subtle air of menace not present in the gaze nor the way the rider held himself. Otherwise, he could have been Noah himself with the expensive suit and the pure-bred horse.

“The name’s Aaron. Noah’s brother.” A crooked and somewhat sad smile further set him apart from his sibling. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me. When the town isn’t talking about what a ruthless bastard my brother is, they’re talking about what a drunken, gambling, womanizer I am.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good time, anyway.”

“I am, as a matter of fact. Except when my brother puts me in one of those special hospitals they have for the insane. He dries me out and I stay clean for a while and then go back to my old ways.”

The sadness that had been in his smile was now in his voice. He’d made a pass at sounding like a merry drunkard and degenerate but you could tell he didn’t have any more respect for himself than Noah did. Noah wouldn’t be forgiving of weakness.

Fargo let him do the talking—or not talking. They rode in silence for some time, the hooves of their horses loud in the humid air and the half-moon world of this night.

“I was hoping to catch up with you, Mr. Fargo.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

Aaron had inherited the family penchant for drama. He let a long moment go by and then said, “I thought I’d tell you what happened to all those missing people.”