Backwoods Bloodbath

3

Ten thousand dollars. Fargo could not get the amount out of his head. It was more than he had ever had at any one time in his life. The smart thing to do would be to squirrel most of it away for his waning years. That made the most sense. But knowing him, he would do what he always did with a windfall: he would spend it on the three things he liked most in life and have none left by the time he was done indulging. Besides, there was a certain high-stakes poker game in Denver in a couple of months. Ten grand to sit in, and the winner always walked away with upwards of half a million.

“Do we have an accord, then?” Arthur Draypool asked.

They were outside the Hitch Rail. A few yards away was a genuine hitch rail, lined with horses. The street was uncommonly busy for that time of night. It was past eleven P.M., yet pedestrians and riders went briskly about their nocturnal business.

“We have a deal,” Fargo confirmed, and held out his hand.

“You can’t possibly imagine how grateful we are.” Draypool’s shake was weak, his palm wet with sweat even though the temperature had dropped to below seventy degrees.

Fargo watched the Illinoisan walk off. They had agreed to meet the next morning at seven at Draypool’s hotel. By eight they would be on their way east.

About to go back inside, Fargo paused. The street was not well lit, but there was enough light spilling from windows that he clearly saw a man emerge from the recessed doorway of a butcher shop and follow in Draypool’s steps. It seemed innocent enough, and Fargo would not have thought anything of it except that the butcher shop was closed, its doorway in shadow. The man who stepped out of it, therefore, had been concealed there, waiting for just that moment.

Kansas City, like most cities and towns along the mighty Mississippi River, crawled with what newspaper editors liked to refer to as “the criminal element.” Pickpockets were a plague. Robberies were so common they rarely merited mention. Only more serious crimes, like murder, were splashed over the front pages.

Yet another reason for Fargo, upon seeing the man in the dark suit follow Draypool, to leap to the commonsense conclusion that the man intended to separate Draypool from his money, or do him harm, or both.

Fargo frowned. Saucy McBride was waiting inside to attend to unfinished business, but he could not very well ignore the threat to Draypool. Hoping Saucy would understand if he kept her waiting, Fargo shadowed the shadower. It was not hard to do in the crowded street.

Fargo thought, with some annoyance, that Draypool had brought this on himself. The man’s expensive clothes and hat, the gold watch, the costly shoes, practically screamed that Draypool had money, a lot of money, and that he was likely to carry a wad of bills well worth stealing.

It was four blocks to the Sunflower, a new hotel that catered to those with Draypool’s refined tastes. Fargo had never been inside, but he had been told that the lobby boasted a crystal chandelier, plush carpet, a mahogany front desk, and brass fixtures. The rooms cost more than those at any other hotel—rooms so luxurious that each had a sterling silver chamber pot.

Arthur Draypool was strolling along without a care in the world. Now and then he slowed to gaze in store windows or gaze at the stars or gaze at people passing by, but not once did he think to gaze behind him, which was typical for an Easterner. They always assumed places like Kansas City were the same as cities in more civilized parts of the country, relatively safe.

To be fair, even Eastern cities had their share of two-legged wolves, but the farther west one went, the more violent the wolves were prone to be. As Draypool would, no doubt, soon find out.

Fargo quickened his pace. The man in the dark suit was matching Draypool stride for stride, and as yet not ready to close in. Fargo figured the man would wait until they came to a section of street where there were fewer lights.

Draypool passed a dance hall. Every window blazed, and tinny music blared to the heavens. A constant flow of men and women entering or leaving forced Draypool to slow yet again and thread through them.

The man in the dark suit had to do the same. As he passed under the large lamps on either side of the entrance, Fargo got his first clear glimpse of his quarry, and he was surprised by what he saw.

The would-be robber did not have the seedy, predatory air of most of his kind. In fact, he looked perfectly respectable. His suit was clean and pressed, and while not immaculately tailored like Draypool’s, it was a cut above what most other men were wearing. To Fargo it indicated the man was good at his illegal trade. Fargo did not see evidence of a weapon, but the robber was bound to be a walking armory.

A woman came out of the dance hall. She was looking down and did not notice the man in the dark suit until she nearly collided with him. Startled, she drew up short, and the man doffed his hat and said something that brought a smile. He let her go on past before resuming his stalk of Draypool.

Now Fargo had seen everything. A gentleman footpad. And why not? he asked himself. He knew men who would knife or shoot others at the slightest provocation, but who were as polite as polite could be the rest of the time.

Fargo reached the dance hall. The music was so loud it nearly drowned out the babble of voices. He tucked his chin to his chest so if the man in the dark suit happened to look back, it would give the impression that Fargo had no interest in him.

Just then, out spilled a rowdy crowd of ten to fifteen people. Joking and laughing and having a grand time, they enveloped Fargo like a human cloud, and before he knew it, he was surrounded and hemmed in. He tried to press through them, but a brunette in an invitingly tight dress and a floral hat hooked her arm through his and held on.

“Whoa there, handsome! What’s your hurry?”

Fargo smiled and tried to pry her arm loose. “I have something to do.” But she would not let go.

“It can wait. My name is Nanette. What would yours be?”

“I don’t have time for this.” Fargo glimpsed the man in the dark suit, the gap between them widening with every second of delay.

“Oh, posh.” Nanette squeezed tighter and brazenly pecked him on the cheek. “I’ve taken a shine to you. What do you say to the two of us going off to have a few drinks together?”

In Fargo’s estimation she had already had enough. The whiskey on her breath was enough to gag a mule. “I really must be on my way,” he insisted.

“What’s the matter? Aren’t I pretty enough for you? I’ll have you know men pay me compliments all the time.”

Fargo didn’t doubt it. She had nice eyes and a lovely mouth and a body most men would drool over, but once again he gently tried to pry her hand off. She dug her fingers into his sleeve, and he applied more force, none too gently twisting her wrist until she had no choice but to release him.

“Owww!” Nanette squealed, and flushed with anger. “What’s the big idea? A girl tries to be friendly and you break her arm off!”

To explain would be pointless. Fargo started to go around her when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he was spun halfway around.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? That was no way to treat a lady. Apologize or else.”

Confronting Fargo were two men in their early twenties. Like Nanette, they had been drinking heavily and were at that stage where belligerence replaced reason. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mister,” the shorter of the pair declared. He was built like a block of wood, with shoulders a bull would envy. “Nan is our friend, and we don’t take kindly to her being mistreated.”

The rest of their party had stopped and were awaiting developments. If Fargo wasn’t careful, he would have a fight on his hands. Not that he minded a good, healthy brawl, but he had Draypool to think of. Touching a hand to his hat brim, he said to Nanette, “I hope I didn’t hurt you.” He turned to go, only to have the same heavy hand clamp on his arm.

“That’s not good enough,” the bull-shouldered youth said. “Not by a long shot.” He slurred a few of his words. “Say you are sorry and mean it.”

“You tell him, Phil!” Nanette cried.

Fargo glared. There was only so much abuse he would take. “Don’t lay a hand on me again.”

“Or what?” Phil mockingly demanded.

“Or this.” Fargo hit him. He swept his right fist up from below his waist and planted it solidly on the cocky idiot’s jaw.

The blow jolted Phil onto his heels. He staggered and fell to one knee. His companion sprang to help and paid for his eagerness with a punch to the gut that doubled him over.

Thinking that was enough, Fargo swiveled to run after Draypool and the man in the dark suit, but he had taken only two steps when iron fingers locked onto his wrist and he was spun around a second time.

“I will bust you, mister!” Phil raged. Blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth, and bloodlust was in his eyes. He drew back his other hand, his fist balled. “Bust you good!”

The Colt was in Fargo’s hand before any of them could blink. “Bust this,” he said, and slammed the barrel against Phil’s temple. Phil collapsed in an unconscious pile. The rest turned to ice. “Anyone else?”

Nanette put her hands on her hips and stepped up to him, eliciting gasps from a few of her friends. “You had no call to do that! Pulling a gun on someone who is unarmed! I have half a mind to fetch the marshal.”

Fargo had half a mind to throw her over his knee and spank her, but he settled for twirling the Colt into his holster with a flourish to impress her friends and convince them they were better off dropping the matter. “Yes, you do,” he said, and headed up the street before she figured out what he meant.

Arthur Draypool and the man in the dark suit were nowhere to be seen.

Cursing under his breath, Fargo broke into a jog. The slap of his boots and the jangle of his spurs forewarned most of those in front of him, and they took one glance and got out of his way. He covered two blocks with fewer lights and ripe opportunity before he spied the skulker in the dark suit. Fargo immediately slowed to a walk.

Fargo wondered if maybe he was wrong. The man was the same distance between Draypool as before, and showed no inclination to get closer. Then Draypool stopped to admire a new carriage passing by, and the man in the dark suit stopped and pretended to be interested in the window of a general store he was passing. When Draypool went on, so did his shadow.

Up ahead the Sunflower appeared. It was set back from the street, along a tree-lined pathway. The moment Arthur Draypool turned up the path, the man in the dark suit halted and slid a hand under his jacket.

Instantly, Fargo’s hand was on his Colt. But the man did not pull a gun. He produced what appeared to be a pencil and a small notebook and scribbled in it after consulting his watch.

“What in hell is going on?” Fargo wondered aloud. The man’s behavior was a complete mystery.

A doorman admitted Draypool. As soon as the door closed behind him, the man in the dark suit replaced the pencil and notebook in an inside pocket and resumed walking in a leisurely fashion past the hotel.

Curiosity compelled Fargo to follow. He had to find out what the man was up to. At the next corner they turned right. At the corner after that, left. Another hotel, the Imperial, was the man’s destination. It catered to those who liked a decent room for a decent price. Fargo had stayed there a couple of times himself. The rooms were plain, the furnishings simple, but a man could enjoy a good night’s sleep free of lice and mice and rats of the human variety.

Fargo waited a while to give the man time to get to his room, then shoved his hands in his pockets, plastered a smile on his face, and ambled inside.

The desk clerk was getting on in years. He had a neatly trimmed speckled beard and speckled hair cut off above the ears, and apparently he was hard of hearing in one ear, because as Fargo approached he tilted his head so his right ear was toward Fargo and loudly declared, “How do you do, friend? If you’re after a room, you’re in luck. It’s late, but we happen to have one handy at the back.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need one.” Fargo was staying in the loft at the stable. He’d had little money on him when he arrived, not dreaming what good fortune awaited him at the poker table.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I was up a street a ways and thought I saw someone I know come in here,” Fargo fibbed. “A drummer I met once. His handle is Smith. Jed Smith.”

“Do you mean the fella who just came in about a minute or so ago? A tough customer in a dark suit?”

“That would be him, yes.”

“Then he’s not your drummer. I have no idea what he does for a living, but his name isn’t Smith. It’s—” The clerk opened the register and ran a bony finger down the right-hand page. “Ah. Here it is. That was Mr. Colter. Frank Colter. Says here he is out of Washington, D.C.”

“How long has he been staying with you?”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “Since he’s not your friend, I don’t see where that is any of your concern.”

“I’m obliged,” Fargo said, and got out of there. The last thing he wanted was for the desk clerk to become suspicious and mention his visit to Colter.

Stymied, Fargo retraced his steps. By now it was close to midnight, but the saloon was packed. Smoke hung thick above the tables. The loud voices, the gruff mirth, the tinkle of chips were as much Fargo’s natural element as the wilds. He was halfway to the bar when perfume wreathed him.

“I was beginning to think you had abandoned me,” Saucy McBride said in mock sadness.

“Not likely,” Fargo said, grinning and wrapping an arm around her slender waist. “What did you have in mind?”

“Why don’t I take you to my room and show you?”