Backwoods Bloodbath

2

Skye Fargo did not hire out his gun to kill. He was a tracker, a scout, a frontiersman. He was fond of cards, whiskey, and women, although not necessarily in that order. He was prone to wander, spurred by an unquenchable yearning to see what lay over the next horizon. He had killed before, many times, but always when it had to be done, when his life or the lives of others hung in the balance, when it was survive or die.

“I’m not a hired assassin,” he said curtly.

“Did I give the impression I thought you were?” the man rejoined. “If so, I apologize. Perhaps I phrased my praise in the wrong vein. It need not be you who does the killing.” He paused. “We are interested in you primarily for your tracking ability, which we hear is outstanding.”

Fargo studied the man anew; his clothes were nicely tailored, a gold watch chain hung from a fine vest, his polished shoes shone. This man was not the sort who usually frequented watering holes like the Hitch Rail.

“Mind if I buy you a drink and you and I discuss our proposal?”

Hale Tilton had been listening. “Go ahead if you want,” he said to Fargo. “I’ll explain things to the marshal when he shows up.”

“If he needs me I’ll be over there.” Fargo pointed at an empty corner table. “After you,” he said to the dandy with the gold watch. “I’ll join you in a minute.” He scooped up his winnings.

A crowd was gathering. Word had spread, and people were drifting in from the street to see the bodies. Someone began bellowing about fetching a sawbones to tend the man with the broken shoulder.

“My name is Draypool, by the way,” the dandy said, offering his hand as Fargo came over. “Arthur Draypool. I hail from Illinois.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“And have been for the past several weeks, searching for you,” Draypool revealed. “You were hard to find. You never stayed in one place long enough for me to catch up to you, until now.”

Fargo tried to motion to the bartender for a bottle, but the barkeep had joined those around the dead and wounded.

“Have a seat,” Draypool said, indicating a chair next to his.

Instead, Fargo sat in a different chair, with his back to the entrance.

“What’s wrong with this one?” Draypool asked.

“I’ve made a few enemies,” Fargo said.

“My word! Are you saying that someone might walk up to you and shoot you in the back without any warning? I can’t imagine what that must be like. It would wear me down, always having to look over my shoulder.”

“You get used to it,” Fargo said, which was not entirely true. “Enough about me. Why are you here?”

“Where to begin?” Arthur Draypool mused aloud. “Perhaps by asking whether you have ever been to the glorious state of Illinois?”

“What’s so glorious about it?”

“Obviously you have never been there. I wasn’t born in Illinois, but I’m proud to be an Illinoisan. Proud to be a citizen of the United States. Proud to be an American.”

Fargo leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. Draypool reminded him of certain politicians he had met.

“Illinois has been a state for only about forty years, but I predict great things for her in the decades to come.”

“Her?” Fargo said.

“It is quite common to use the female gender when referring to things like boats, guns, and states. Davy Crockett, if you’ll recall, referred to his rifle as Old Betsy. What do you call yours?”

“A Henry.”

“But that’s the name of the manufacturer. Haven’t you ever referred to, say, a steamboat or a canoe as ‘she’ or ‘her’?”

“Only if I was really drunk,” Fargo said, “and if I did, I was so drunk I don’t remember.”

“We’re straying from the point,” Draypool said in mild exasperation. “Namely, that Illinois is a fine state, with great prospects. Especially in the political realm. Surely even you have heard about the famous debates between Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas?”

Fargo did not miss the “even you.” Evidently Draypool viewed him as a buckskin-clad bumpkin. “There was a debate?” he asked in sham ignorance.

“My word, man! Don’t you ever read a newspaper?” The Illinoisan clucked like an irritated hen. “Surely you at least know that Abraham Lincoln is running for president this year?”

“He is?” Fargo was thankful for his years of experience at poker. Otherwise he would have given himself away.

Draypool’s mouth fell open. Then his brow knit and a quizzical expression came over him. “Wait. You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

“Why would I do that?”

For all of fifteen seconds Arthur Draypool sat in thoughtful silence. Then he said, “Fair enough. I suppose I deserved to be put in my place. It was not polite of me to treat you as I did. Please accept my sincere apologies.”

“When will you get to that point you mentioned?” Fargo noticed a commotion over at the batwings, and in hurried the town marshal with a deputy in tow.

“Are all plainsmen so straightforward?” Draypool asked, but he did not wait for a reply. “Very well. As I have mentioned, Illinois has great things in store. She grows by leaps every year as more and more people flock to her from back east. Ten years from now she will be one of the leading states in the areas of commerce and culture.”

“Your point,” Fargo reiterated when Draypool took a breath.

“Please be patient. You see, right now much of Illinois is wilderness. We still have our share of Indian troubles, even though we defeated the Fox and Sauk tribes in the Black Hawk War. We also have our share of white troublemakers, riffraff who live by the gun and the knife. Outlaws and cutthroats who think God granted them the right to rob and kill as they see fit.”

“It’s the same most everywhere along the frontier,” Fargo said, “and worse west of the Mississippi River.”

“True,” Draypool conceded. “And it is up to decent, law-abiding people everywhere to put an end to the depredations. Whether white or red, those who steal and plunder must be put to the noose or spend the rest of their natural lives behind bars.”

“You should run for governor,” Fargo said. He meant it as a jest, but Draypool beamed and puffed out his chest.

“Why, thank you. I just might one day. For the moment I am content to do what I can to rid Illinois of her unsavory elements.” He paused. “One of the worst is known as the Sangamon River Monster.”

“Is it a ferocious frog? Or a bass that has taken to climbing out of the river and swallowing people as they stroll by?”

Arthur Draypool blinked, then uttered a brittle little laugh. “That’s quite the sense of humor you have. But no, the Sangamon River Monster is neither frog nor fish. It is a man. The most vile human being to walk the face of the earth.”

“I can think of a few others who can lay claim to the honor.”

“Do they raid isolated farms and put them to the torch? Do they torture and mutilate entire families? Men, women, and children? I doubt there is anyone, anywhere, half as vicious as the Sangamon River Monster.”

“Ever hear of the Apaches?”

“Of course. But you expect it of them. There exists a natural animosity between the white man and the red man. They are primitive savages who live in squalid dwellings made of animal hides, whereas the white man embodies the highest sense of refinement and civilization.”

Fargo considered slugging him. “Have I mentioned that I’ve lived with a few of those primitive savages?”

“You don’t say?” Draypool realized he had made a mistake and tried to make amends. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. I am not one of those who looks down his nose at everyone and everything red. One of my best friends when I was growing up was an Indian boy. Be that as it may—”

“What was his name?” Fargo interrupted.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What was the name of your friend?”

Draypool coughed and took an interest in the arrival of the doctor. Finally he said, “I can’t recall the Indian boy’s name at the moment. You must understand, it has been quite a while since I saw him last.”

“I savvy perfectly,” Fargo assured him.

“None of this is relevant anyway. The Sangamon River Monster is white. For ten years he has terrorized central Illinois. It’s time we put a stop to it. That is where you come in.”

Fargo dearly needed a drink, but the bartender was still over by the bodies. “What’s so special about me? Don’t you have trackers in Illinois? Or bloodhounds?”

“Permit me to place things in their proper perspective.” Draypool rested both elbows on the table. “As I have mentioned, Illinois is largely backwoods country. Forests as they were ages before the first white man set foot on this continent. Woodland so thick, many travel by foot instead of on horseback.”

“Mountain men aren’t the only ones who like to tell tall tales,” Fargo said.

“You think I exaggerate?” Draypool shook his head. “You will see for yourself when you come to Illinois.”

“Hold that notion.” Fargo stood and went to the bar. Most everyone else was over listening to the tin star question the gambler. The few still at the counter paid him no mind as he swung up and over and dropped lightly to the other side. He selected a bottle of Monongahela from a row of bottles of all shapes and sizes. Placing it on the bar, he was about to vault back over when the twin muzzles of a shotgun blossomed in front of his face.

“I trust you were fixing to pay for that.”

Fargo glared at the bartender. “Harve, have you ever known me not to make good?”

“I wish all my customers were as dependable as you,” Harve Bennet answered, and laughed. “Admit it. I about made you wet yourself.”

“Wishful thinking. I saw you in the mirror.” Fargo had done no such thing, but he would not give Harve the satisfaction.

“Dang. You’re like a damned hawk. You never miss a cussed thing. What would I have to do to be more like you?”

“Spend ten years roaming the prairie and the mountains,” Fargo said, hefting the whiskey bottle, “and lose fifty pounds.”

Harve placed a beefy hand on his bulging middle. “That was uncalled for. I can’t help it if pouring drinks doesn’t give a man much muscle.”

Fargo dug in a pocket and slapped down the coins needed to pay for the rotgut. “Here. Treat yourself to a cow.” He smirked all the way to the table.

“As I was saying,” Arthur Draypool said the moment Fargo sat down, “the Sangamon River Monster’s reign of terror must end. Which is why my associates and I are willing to pay a substantial sum for your services.”

A long swig of whiskey did wonders for Fargo’s disposition. Smacking his lips, he said, “Trackers and bloodhounds, remember?”

“Of course we have them. Backwoodsmen are as common as fleas, and bragging about their hounds is their favorite pastime. Time and again trackers and dogs have gone out after the Monster, and time and again they have not returned, or returned without finding him.”

“Why haven’t I ever heard of him?” Fargo rarely read newspapers, but he did keep up with saloon gossip, and most everything worthwhile found mention eventually. It was how he had heard about the Lincoln-Douglas debates, and that Abraham Lincoln was the Republican candidate for president. Politics never interested him, but the next election promised to be a corker. It was dividing the country into proslavery and antislavery camps, with each camp throwing insults and threats at the other. If things kept on as they were, bloodshed was bound to result.

Draypool was talking. “Why should you have heard of him? The Sangamon River Monster is not well known outside of Illinois’s borders. Probably because he’s white. If he were an Indian, newspapers all over the country would carry accounts of his atrocities.”

The man had a point there, Fargo admitted. Newspapers reveled in reports of massacres and outrages committed by the red race, usually to illustrate why it was the white man’s duty to place all of them on white-run reservations where they could learn white ways and live like whites forever after.

“Give the Monster a few more years,” Draypool said, “and I warrant he will garner a lot more attention. But we don’t want that. Illinois does not need the adverse publicity. It will deter people from moving there.” He uttered a deep sigh. “The group I represent is dedicated to Illinois’s betterment. The Monster is a detriment we can do without.”

Fargo treated himself to another swig of whiskey. The man sure was fond of big words, but there was no denying he cared about Illinois and the folks in it. “When was the last time anyone tried to track this Monster of yours?”

“Two and a half months ago. He wiped out a family of five near Decatur. Three of the best trackers in the state went after him and never came back.”

“What’s his name?” Fargo did not recall it being mentioned.

“No one knows. Neither his name, nor where he is from, nor why he does what he does.” Draypool clasped his hands in eager appeal. “What do you say? Will you accept our proposal and end his killing spree?”

Fargo hesitated. Illinois was a long way from his usual haunts, and eastern forests were nothing like western forests.

Arthur Draypool played his trump card. “As an added inducement, I am authorized to pay you a handsome sum. Half now, and half when the Monster has been brought to bay.”

“How handsome a sum?” Fargo began to chug more whiskey, and nearly choked on the reply.

“How does ten thousand dollars sound?”