Arkansas Assault

24

Noah Tillman knew there was only one way he could appease the two remaining dogs. He was too old to chase them down. And if he tried to get to his boat, they’d grab him for sure.

He needed to give them a distraction. A distraction as good as Aaron had been. While they were in the course of dining on human meat, they’d be oblivious to all else around them. What was required was more human meat.

Burgade was wasting his shots. But the very act of shooting seemed to reassure him that he was in control of the situation.

The first two dogs, Noah himself had killed. And that, to be fair, had been easy because all four had collected at the base of the tree. He’d simply fired downward, giving the two dogs behind the opportunity to flee.

Those dogs were now silken shadows with the bloodied teeth of sated wolves, slipping in and out of moonlight, never standing still for even ten seconds at a time. It was clear that in their way they knew damned well what had happened and damned well what was planned for them. They wanted vengeance, owing it to their fallen fellows. And they wanted human meat.

Noah noticed it first, the turbulence in the vast oak tree down the way, the tree on the edge that helped form the natural wall on the shallow shore. Huge branches shook their leaves, the very air—sticky and still this far up—was violated by what appeared to be a terrible battle between night creatures that threatened to bring part of the tree down.

But Noah knew better. There were no nightbirds nor night animals this far up that could cause this kind of turmoil within the interconnected trees. No animal but the human animal. And that animal could only be Fargo.

Noah knew that he should have killed him right back at the cabin and that trying to hunt him was a mistake. You didn’t hunt a man like Fargo. Not if you were sensible. You set your pride aside and did what was prudent and expedient. You killed him the first chance you had. He should have taken the extra minute—he should have denied himself the fantasy of stalking Fargo in this forest—he should have pumped three or four bullets from his Spencer right into Fargo’s head.

Now Fargo was up in the trees and was no doubt planning to attack Noah and Burgade. A man like Fargo didn’t need a gun to make a kill. Not in these circumstances. He could make his way through the trees and attack at will with stones. He seemed to be damned handy with stones.

For the first time in years, Noah Tillman felt trapped. None of his power, none of his money was worth a damn up here.

“What’s that?” Burgade said, noticing how the trees near the top were suddenly moving, something having invaded them.

“Keep your damned voice down.”

“What’s going on?” Burgade said in a quiet voice.

“What do you think’s going on? That sonofabitch Fargo knows we’re up here and he’s come after us.”

“He doesn’t have a gun.”

“I’d still put my money on him.”

“Don’t worry,” Burgade said in his best tough voice. “I can handle it.”

No need to repeat that Burgade was a fool. He was such a fool that he couldn’t even understand the trap they were in. Now they had two enemies at their heels. And Burgade was oblivious to each.

“In fact, I’ll take care of that sonofabitch right now,” Burgade said without any warning.

And then he went berserk, firing round after round into the general area that had trembled moments ago with Fargo’s passage.

He kept firing and firing until Noah, going berserk in his own way, grabbed Burgade’s rifle and snatched it from him.

Burgade was haunched down on a broad limb that was a straight drop to the ground far below. There were a few slender fingers of branches but nothing that would break a man’s fall. What would break such a fall was the ground itself and it would break many other things besides—the skull, the back, the pelvis, the legs.

And then the dogs would close in.

Noah Tillman was as hungry to push Burgade to his death as the dogs were to eat him. He stared at the stupid gunny with rage burning his gaze and his heart pounding hard.

Soon, Burgade, soon.

It took twenty of the sweatiest minutes of his life for Fargo to get the women in position on the broad tree limb that overlooked that shallow shoreline.

By now it was clear that Nancy’s knee had been shattered. She did an amazing job of swallowing her pain.

Fargo spent ten minutes trying to assess where they would land if they got lucky in jumping off the limb. He calculated it four different times to see if there was any way to improve their chances. There wasn’t. The limb was sturdy for about six feet. It then began to taper off. The length of the entire branch was maybe ten feet, its tip close enough to let a person get lucky if he got a good leap. But the useful, safe part of the wide branch ended at about six feet, meaning that even with a good leap they would land in the shallowest part of the water. They might not even reach the water, smash themselves up on the sand. And the dogs would have at them.

If they couldn’t reach the water then they would have to get to Burgade’s boat and stow away there. Once aboard, they could shut the doors to keep the dogs from getting at them.

If they didn’t injure themselves so badly in the jump that they couldn’t move.

If the dogs didn’t attack them instantly.

If Noah and Burgade didn’t open fire on them as soon as they landed.

But there was no way he was going to risk the lives of the ladies. He’d already made up his mind to that. This perch near the top of the tree sure wasn’t ideal but at least the dogs couldn’t get at them. The women could survive here for some time if they needed to.

There was also, he’d come to realize since doing his calculations, no way that he could dive or jump from this limb. He was simply too high up. Even landing in the water would probably break a couple of ribs if he landed flat. He would need to climb back down the tree a few inches at a time, the same way he’d come up.

He told the ladies his plan. They listened, sitting where the branch grew from the huge oak. Stephanie had seated Nancy so that she could elevate her leg, providing her with only slight relief from the constant pain.

“I’m being selfish here, Fargo,” Stephanie said. “But what if the dogs get you? Or Burgade shoots you? How’re we ever going to get down from here? We could starve to death. Those dogs could be on this island a long time. There’re plenty of animals to eat.”

Nancy was the sentimental one. “Hell, Fargo, I’m worried about you. My sister’s a very nice girl but she’s a little self-centered. You’re taking a big risk down there on the ground.”

“The only hope we’ve got is to get our hands on some guns,” Fargo said. “Kill the dogs and then kill Noah and Burgade if we have to.”

“I know,” Nancy said. “But the burden’s all on you.”

“I didn’t mean to sound so cold, Fargo,” Stephanie said. “I’m sorry.”

“You were just telling the truth. I may not make it down there. But right now I’m the only chance we’ve got. If the dogs or Burgade get me, you’ll have to do the best you can.”

The first rifle shot spanged off the bole of the tree about eight inches above Fargo’s head. Three more shots followed quickly. The women ducked, Fargo dove for the branch and clung to it.

Pieces of bark, leaves, even some nuts stored there by squirrels began falling on their heads. The shots had been way wide of their mark but they’d done considerable damage to the tree.

“That’s all we need,” Stephanie said bitterly.

“Now we need a gun more than ever,” Fargo said. “I’ll have to kill Noah and Burgade right along with the dogs.”

“They might be able to see you climbing down the tree,” Nancy said.

“I still have to do it, Nancy. I’ll try to find a way down the far side of the tree. It’s so wide I doubt they can pick me off ’til I get close to the bottom. And from there I can drop to the ground.”

“And run into the dogs,” she said.

“Well, I know I sound selfish again, but we can’t just sit here and do nothing, Sister. One of us has do something to get us to freedom. And Fargo’s chances are better than ours.”

Fargo nodded.

Talk was through. What mattered now was trying to find a firearm or two.

Fargo began his descent.

Noah was already planning what he would tell people when he got back to town. There would be too many questions—and questioners—for him to play the aloof land baron role he was accustomed to.

Fargo, Burgade, and the sisters would be no trouble. A mass grave right here on the island would take care of them.

The other two, Liz and Tom—they would take some explaining. But that was where Fargo would be the proper villain. Tom found him raping Liz. Fargo killed both of them and then dumped their bodies out on the island where Noah’s dogs savaged them. Noah would be forced—for the first time—to admit that he had dogs like these. But that would help him look like the good citizen. He was so afraid of keeping the dogs anywhere near town that he put them on the island.

As for Fargo, Noah would insist that he’d escaped. And then offer a huge reward for his capture. He would claim that Aaron was missing, too, and that he believed Fargo had likewise killed him and buried the body somewhere.

His final act would be to burn down everything on the island and keep it off-limits to the town, posting a guard to make sure the ban was enforced.

“You even listening to me, Noah?” Burgade said.

“What?” He knew that he sounded old and a bit confused. He had rarely been forced to explain himself to anybody. This story he had to concoct needed to cover so many things, would it satisfy people? Or would all the people who envied and hated him see this as the first serious opportunity to bring him down?

All these deaths tonight, it was supposed to have been a night of hunting, of the singular pleasure of stalking and killing the most challenging prey of all, your own species. Now, all he could think about was going back to the estate and getting a good night’s sleep, safe and comfortable in the knowledge that he was Noah Tillman by God and nobody could touch him.

“I was saying that I think the dogs are hiding. They know we’ll kill them if they come out in the open. So they’re playing hide-and-seek with us. They won’t show themselves until we go back down.”

Noah snorted. “You give them a hell of a lot of credit. You sound like they can think the way humans do.”

Burgade defended his two remaining dogs. “We’ve trained them to hunt and kill, Noah, that’s all they know. They can use more of their senses, that’s what makes them so dangerous.”

“Right now, I’m more worried about what Fargo’s up to.”

“Maybe all those shots—maybe I killed him.”

Noah refrained from tearing into Burgade. Good as Burgade was in some ways, he always tried to convince himself that everything would be fine. Noah knew better. For things to be fine—for things to go your way—you had to manipulate everything from behind the curtain, like a puppeteer. You couldn’t count on killing a man by pounding fifteen shots into a leafy hiding place a good ways away.

“He’s alive,” Noah said.

“What makes you think so?”

“What makes you think he’s dead?”

“All those bullets—he must’ve—”

“Did you hear him fall out of the tree?”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

“Did you hear him scream?”

“No.”

“Then assume he’s alive. And that he’s coming for us.”

“I can handle him.”

“Oh, sure, Burgade. We’re sitting up in a tree with two insane animals waiting to rip us apart. And we’ve got the Trailsman trying to figure out how to kill us.” He spat. “Yes, it really sounds like you’ve got things under control.”

Burgade was a sulker and he started sulking now. He was sick of this rich old bastard always challenging him, questioning him. If Burgade was such a know-nothing then why had Noah hired him in the first place? And if Burgade was such a know-nothing, how was it that he’d run the island so efficiently and effectively all these years?

Nobody had ever snuck on for long. Burgade took care of them. Noah had said that he wanted the most vicious dogs a man could train. And Burgade had trained them just that way. So well, in fact, that they were now hiding from the animals.

And Noah was trying to make himself feel better at Burgade’s expense. But Burgade was sick of being berated, scorned, made fun of by this old bastard.

Burgade leaned out over the sturdy branch they sat on, stared down at the ground.

The thought came out of nowhere. If the dogs were hiding, waiting for them to leave the tree, what if he pushed Noah off the branch. What if Noah became his decoy?

While the dogs were feasting on the old man’s body, Burgade would have enough time to sneak away to the boat—and escape from the island.

He looked at the old man in a whole new way, smiling at Noah as he did so.

Noah wasn’t a human being—he was a big, juicy side of beef.

Just the kind those dogs had dreams about.

Fargo made his descent into a darkness as complete as the inside of a coffin. This side of the tree was angled in such a way that moonlight did not reach it. The interwoven branches from other trees also hampered his climb down. He had to forage through leafage as thick as bushes in some places. He also had to find branches that worked as handholds and ladder rungs for his feet. They weren’t always readily available.

The work was slow. During the descent, he had to worry about falling from the tree and breaking his bones. While crashing probably wouldn’t be all that bad, that wouldn’t help him with the dogs. The dogs would likely be on him in seconds.

He slipped twice and damned near slid down several feet of rough-barked tree. Another time a branch his hands clung to snapped. Luckily, his feet found a solid, if slender, branch a few feet below. The tree was far too wide to wrap his hands around but while he slipped down those few feet, he hugged the tree the way he would hug a grizzly he was wrestling—he never let go of the damned thing.

Darkness. Sweat. Barked knuckles, scraped palms. Awareness of the waiting beasts. Awareness that Burgade and Noah could start firing again at any time.

Then there was the snake. Someday this would make a great story to be told over whiskey in a saloon. But at the moment it happened, nothing at all was funny about it.

As his feet touched a sturdy branch below, he automatically reached up to reposition his hands on the branch he presently held. But in repositioning them, he accidentally moved them over about a foot, taking a moment to flex them. They were badly cramped from the descent.

If there had been any light, he would have known better because he would have seen the snake. At least an outline of it. And so he would have put his hands back where they’d been and quickly dropped down to the next branch, keeping an eye on the creature so that it didn’t, in its spitting anger, dive down for it.

The furious rattling noise it made, just as it was about to strike, startled Fargo so much, he jerked his hands from the branch and crouched down instinctively. This, in turn, caused him to fall backward and crash down through heavy leafage. He might have gone all the way to the ground if he hadn’t reached out blindly and grabbed a handful of leaves and fragile tiny branches that stopped his fall. He swung like an ape from this spot, better than forty feet from the ground, until his feet, desperately searching for a perch, found a gnarled knot of stunted branch that allowed him to hug the tree and stand erect.

He once again pressed himself to the tree. Closed his eyes. Let his hot, ragged breathing find its natural rhythm and pace.

He gave himself a few minutes to put his mind and body back together and then began his descent into utter darkness again. This time, he moved more cautiously.

The closer he got to the ground, the more keenly he listened for the dogs. He began to peer around the tree, holding on with one hand, using the other to part leaves for a look at the shore. Burgade’s boat, traced by moonlight, looked like a means of holy deliverance straight out of the holy book itself. If he could only get to that, find a weapon aboard. . . .

When he was ten feet from the ground, he stopped and listened as intently as he could. He could hear, faintly, the voices of Noah and Burgade—not the exact words—but he certainly heard the urgency of what they were saying. They had to know that if Fargo got a weapon, the first thing he would do once he got past the dogs—if he got past the dogs, of course—was to come after them.

What he didn’t hear was any evidence of the dogs. Just those voices and all the surrounding clamor and clutter of the animals, large and small, dangerous and docile, that inhabited the forest.

He spent five long minutes listening to the night and the woods. Now, he had no other choice but to try to reach Burgade’s boat.

He wondered which would attack him first. The dogs or Noah and Burgade. These were the times he had to consciously hold his fear at bay and work on pure instinct.

He eased himself down the remaining circle of tree. Dropping to the ground would make too much noise.

One foot had barely touched the sandy soil when he heard the scream.

It would have been funny if they’d been mind readers. They both had the same idea. Noah would push Burgade’s ass out of the tree, the dogs would attack him and give Noah cover to reach the boat and safety. Not the row boat. Those damned dogs would jump in the water to get him. He needed a cabin where he could lock himself in as he was pulling away from the shore.

Burgade’s plan varied only slightly. He planned to push Noah out of the tree, wait for the dogs to attack him and then shoot the dogs while they were beginning their meal. If Fargo had a weapon of any kind, he would have used it by now. And that meant that Burgade, with Noah and the dogs dead, could easily stroll to the boat, get it ready for sailing and push off. He could feel a southeasterly wind starting to build now. He could be in Little Rock in under two days.

They sat and watched each other.

Noah thought: he gets leg cramps about every ten minutes. Then he stands up. Next time he stands up, I’m going to push him right off this branch. Just take my Spencer and shove him right in the crotch to get him off-balance, and then give him another poke of the Spencer and knock him all the way down. He’ll be dead when he hits the ground. Or he’ll wish he was.

Burgade thought: so what I do is get up real gentle, like I’ve just got another cramp or somethin’, and then when I get on my feet I just kick out and knock him right off this branch. He’ll be dead when he hits the ground. Or he’ll wish he was.

They eyed each other some more and continued to assess each other, refining their plans all the while—just a bit here, a bit there—and then they talked and waited to fill the time. Noah waited for Burgade while Burgade waited for some instinct to tell him that this was the exact right moment to stand up and give a boot-shove to old Noah, sending him to certain death.

“Legs,” Burgade said.

“Huh?”

“Legs. Cramps.”

“Oh.”

Here we go, Burgade thought.

Here we go, Noah thought.

And that was when it happened. If either of them had known a damned thing about the stress two full-grown bodies put on a tree branch the size of the one they were cohabiting at the moment, they would have listened carefully to the faint creaking, the faint cracking the branch made from time to time.

Burgade leaned back against the trunk of the tree, ready to lunge suddenly and push the old man off his perch.

Noah hefted his Spencer, pretending to be examining it out of sheer admiration, but ready of course to plow its butt right straight into Burgade’s crotch and send him shouting and cursing to his death, his well-deserved death.

The moment was upon them, now.

Both ready to betray and murder the other.

And then it happened.

All those tiny creaks and cracks.

All that weight on this one branch.

A scream.

Fargo’s first impression was that only one man was screaming.

Then it became obvious that it came from the both of them.

By the time he realized this, he heard their bone-crushing landing on the ground. And then something remarkable happened—or didn’t happen. No dogs appeared. No dogs barked. No dogs even whimpered.

Something was wrong here.

Fargo edged his way from behind the tree to the narrow shoreline. In the distance, he could see two prone human bodies lying in the moonlight. One of them—Burgade, it appeared—was carefully raising and moving his right arm. Noah didn’t move at all.

Here was his chance for a weapon. He couldn’t move directly on Burgade. Even injured, the man could kill him. Fargo would have to move through the forest and come up behind him.

Fargo slipped back into the darkness of the woods. He wondered what the ladies were making of all this. Screams. The hard landing. And now the strange silence.

He found a narrow trail, partly obscured by undergrowth that took him all the way to the last of the oaks that formed the natural screen and wall along the shoreline.

He had to be as quiet as possible. Burgade might have a broken bone or two but all his other faculties could still be running. He might have even heard him already, but there was no time to worry about the danger ahead. Fargo wanted a weapon and Fargo wanted off the island.

He stumbled only once, on a tree root he couldn’t see, pitching head first into a small patch of bramble that put several good scratches on his arm. A moment of sheer frustration—all these traps he had to overcome before he set this island to rights. Sometimes even the Trailsman got discouraged.

But then he found an opening to go through—one that held nothing more problematic than a few long ferns that wanted to cool and soothe and heal his body. At least, that was what it felt like after all the bramble.

Burgade wasn’t waiting for him. Burgade lay flat on his face. His rifle was four feet from his hand where, apparently, it had fallen. No sign of movement from Noah, either. His Spencer wasn’t close at hand, but scattered in pieces several feet away.

Either one of them could wake up and turn on him.

He crept up to Burgade, his eyes scanning up and down the body, looking for any sign of life. Sometime between the time Burgade had raised his arm to see if it was broken and now, he’d fallen down the long, dark well into unconsciousness.

Fargo felt a moment of pure, unreasoning, unadulterated joy. This was easy. He’d just walk over and pick up Burgade’s gun. If the dogs did show up—exactly where the hell were they anyway—he’d be prepared.

He did love dogs. But he’d have no trouble killing these two. Burgade had trained all the canine virtues and beauty out of them. Now they were nothing more than enemies.

He started walking toward the rifle. And then he heard the growl. He scanned the shore and then the edge of the timber. Where were they? Nearby, from the sound of their low, trembling growls. And another question. Why weren’t they attacking?

He reached instinctively for his Colt but it wasn’t there. He felt as if his hand had been amputated, he was so used to his Colt riding on his hip, ready at all times when needed. He moved even faster now. He was just picking up Burgade’s rifle, just thinking that everything was in hand again, when he heard a voice that sounded as if it was coming from the realm of death.

In his rush to get Burgade’s rifle, Fargo had forgotten all about Noah. While Fargo sensed that Burgade had passed on, Noah had rallied enough to dig his pistol from its holster while sitting up on one elbow. Awkward as his position was, he could shoot just fine. “You just stay there with your hands in the air, Fargo. What the hell did you do with my dogs is what I want to know?!”

“I was wondering about them myself.” He couldn’t help himself; he just kept staring at Burgade’s rifle. His mind, as well as his eyes, was fixed on it.

Fargo took a slow step forward.

“One more and you’re dead,” Noah grunted.

“It’s all over for you, Noah.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But you try for that rifle and I’ll be glad to take you with me, Fargo.”

“Burgade may still be alive. You want me to check his pulse?”

“I want him dead. Now you just stand there and watch.”

It was something to see. For all the pain he must have been in after his fall, for all his age, for all his general infirmities, Noah found the same strength now that he’d found when he was recreating this section of country in his own image. There were only a few men like him on the entire planet. Some of them used their vision and intelligence and savvy for good and created new medicines and new laws and new businesses. And some used their gifts for bad. Like old Noah here.

He kept his gun on Fargo all the time he was getting to his feet. Twice he looked as if he would fall over. His gun hand was shaky. He winced in pain. His knees trembled. But somehow he managed to stand strong and purposeful.

“I’m getting on the boat there and you’re going to push me out in the water.”

“That’s a good-sized boat.”

“I could still do it myself if I had to. You’re a tough man, Fargo. It won’t be easy but I know you’ve got it in you. And anyway, you won’t have much choice. If you don’t do it, I’ll kill you on the spot. Sound reasonable?”

Fargo chose silence once again.

“You go ahead of me down to the dock, Fargo.”

Fargo shrugged. There had to be a way of escape now. Maybe the water. Yes, the water. Dive deep and long. Swim wide. Come up on another part of the island and get the girls down from the tree. Then make a final run on Noah.

Noah was a mind reader. “The water’ll tempt you. But you won’t make it, Fargo. Now you get down there to that boat.”

He took two steps and heard it then. Heard it again. The low rumble. The dogs.

This time, he knew exactly where it came from. The cabin of the boat. The dogs were in there. Hard to know why they’d elected to hide in there. Maybe it was as simple as getting away from the gunfire that had felled the other two. That explained why they hadn’t attacked him or Burgade or Noah.

Noah was still several feet behind him. Apparently he hadn’t heard the dogs. Noah’s hearing wasn’t good enough to pick up their rumble.

When Noah reached the boat, Fargo stood aside so that Noah could walk up the plank stretching from the dock to the deck.

Noah said, “You know what you need to do.”

Fargo nodded. All he could hope was that the dogs would remain quiet enough to fool Noah.

Noah got on the plank and said, “For right now, you stand about halfway to Burgade then you come back down here when I tell you to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t move as fast as you do and you’ll try to jump me when I’m on the plank. Now get up there. I’ll pull up the plank and you push me out away from the dock.”

He didn’t have any choice, anyway, so he agreed.

As he walked toward the dead body of Burgade, he realized that here was a chance to get a weapon. If he could act fast enough. If things played his way. Noah still didn’t seem to know that the dogs were hiding in the boat’s cabin.

“That’s far enough,” Noah shouted.

The plank was wide enough that he had room to turn around on it if he needed to. He could easily look back at Fargo if he needed to. And kill him if he needed to.

And then it happened.

Happened with such speed and fury that Fargo could only sort it all out later.

When Noah reached the boat itself, he shouted for Fargo to walk up to the shoreline and give the craft the push it needed to get into the water. With the strong wind, Noah would have no trouble getting away.

Fargo looked longingly over his shoulder at Burgade’s rifle. The temptation was strong to lurch to the side and dive for it. But Noah’s marksmanship was pretty damned good. Plans always looked so easy in the abstract. He’d just fade back and grab Burgade’s rifle and. . . .

He had no choice but to oblige Noah.

He started across the narrow band of sand separating him from the boat and that was when the world ended for old Noah.

While he was holding his pistol on Fargo, he reached around and opened the cabin door and finally figured out—far too late—where the dogs had been hiding all along.

A lot of it happened in shadow and a lot of it happened below the top edge of the boat’s sheer, making it impossible for Fargo to see anything.

But he heard plenty.

Noah shrieking, Noah sobbing, Noah crying out for help to the vast indifferent universe, and finally Noah screaming as the dogs dined and supped on his flesh and blood, rending and gnawing him down, as they did to the others.

He heard all this on the run, as he rushed back to Burgade’s rifle. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before the dogs came for him. They’d hidden after the deaths of their fellows but now that they’d toppled and consumed Noah, they were eager for more human food.

He killed the first one when it came lurching over the top of the boat’s sheer. It took two bullets to its chest in midflight. It seemed to hang there for a moment so long it was as if the very earth itself had stopped moving. And then it collapsed, dead, to the ground.

The next dog came right behind it but this one hit the ground and moved so fast that Fargo had some difficulty finding it in the shadows. It was just about to leap at him—it probably couldn’t have covered the eight or nine feet that separated them but it was sure willing to give it a try—when Fargo found a true shot and blasted the animal, exploding the top of its head into several flying pieces.

There was a certain melancholy for Fargo in killing these animals. By nature they would have been good and loyal companions. But Burgade had perverted their nature. It was almost too bad that they hadn’t been able to have the pleasure of ripping him apart, too.

Fargo and the women watched the sunrise from the bow of the boat. It was a lavish spectacle, streaks of red and aqua lending rare colors to the dawn. A faint fog on the water gave the limestone cliffs on either shore a feel of long-ago times before even the Indians were here. Fargo felt a reverence for untrammeled land such as this. It was in the wilds that he felt the greatest peace.

“I hope I get to spend a little time with you before you go,” Nancy said, sliding her hand through Fargo’s as he watched the far dock begin to sketch itself into reality behind the fog.

“Don’t forget about me,” Stephanie said.

Difficult to do, Fargo smiled, as she pressed her bountiful breasts against his arm. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“In fact,” Nancy said, “we were talking about maybe getting a room next to yours in a hotel, you know, while everything gets sorted out.”

“Yeah, Skye, what do you think of that?”

“Well, there sure will be a lot to sort out.” And there would be. With Noah, Tom, and Aaron dead, somebody would have to take over not only the estate, but the town—introduce it to real democracy and say goodbye to what had been virtual one-man rule.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stephanie said. “What about the idea of staying in adjoining hotel rooms, Skye?”

He laughed and drew them both to him. The sun wasn’t the only thing rising at this moment. “I’ve sure heard a lot worse ideas in my day,” Skye Fargo said. “I sure enough have.”