Colorado Clash

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 need 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 mind.”

“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.”

The wood-framed house was pretty orderly considering there was no woman living in it. The furniture was old, most likely bought by Lenihan’s wife, running to flowered curtains, doily-covered furniture and numerous framed religious paintings on the wall. The place hadn’t been dusted in a long time and the air was sour with cooking smells. Fargo spent most of his time going through the rolltop desk and six wooden boxes that were stuffed with everything from pans that had been burned through to old clothes that could no longer be patched up. He found nothing.

The collie was waiting for him at the back door. She was a handsome golden girl. Fargo had no doubt that she could rip open a human body anytime she chose to but he enjoyed the fact that when he bent down she let him pet her. She had restored his faith in the canine world.

George Lenihan had gone back to his haying near the fence running in back of the barn. From what Fargo could see, the crops were typical for this part of Colorado—onions, sugar beets, vegetables.

He headed downslope to the barn, the affable collie following him. The haymow door was open, allowing light into the shadowy interior. Smells of hay, horse manure, damp earth greeted him. A buggy stood to one side of the barn while farming tools lined the opposite wall. There were four stalls for horses and a makeshift bench for carpentry. Saws, hammers, a keg of nails surrounded butt ends of lumber that had been sawn.

As with the house, he had no idea what he was looking for, just some vague notion that he needed to find something physical to connect Ned Lenihan with the robbery.

The collie stayed with him. During his search, he took several opportunities to pet her. She was a good companion. Beautiful face and such clean gold and white fur.

The first half hour turned up nothing more interesting than a few stacks of yellowed magazines, a small box of toys that had probably been George’s, a few old saddles. The only interesting items were in a box—equipment for gold mining, a sluice box, pans, a pair of pickaxes. Fargo wondered if Ned had gotten caught up in the gold rush and then the silver rush that had brought so many people to the Territory. Everybody who could wield a shovel had gone crazy for sudden riches—and were still doing so. But Lenihan struck Fargo as sensible. He might have spent a few foolish weeks or months in the mountains but he couldn’t see Lenihan spending any more time than that.

Then he noticed that the box with mining equipment in it wobbled slightly. It was sitting on something that made it tilt. He lifted it up and saw that there was fresh earth underneath it. Somebody had dug a hole and buried something in it.

Fargo got down on his haunches. The collie was right next to him. He could smell her hot breath. She was as interested in the loose earth as he was. He started digging with his hands. His first surprise was how shallow the hole was. His second surprise was what it contained.

He got to his feet again. The thing in his hand dripped fresh dirt. He hadn’t bothered to brush it off. He walked out of the barn and into the mountain sunlight. He wasn’t sure what to think. If a man was in a hurry he wouldn’t have had time to bury it deep. But why on his own property would he be in a hurry? On the other hand, being that it was his own property, he probably wouldn’t have to care about it being buried deep. Especially since it was in the barn. Especially since it was covered up by a box.

Then there was another question. Why would a man keep this at all? What good would it do him?

He didn’t like any of this. Maybe he was somehow sorry for Ned Lenihan and coming up with all these questions just to exonerate him. Maybe it was just as simple as it looked. He’d lifted up the box and found the fresh earth and dug it up and found the thing. The thing that would lead any reasonable detective, Pinkerton or not, to conclude that Ned Lenihan had been involved in the robbery for sure and very possibly in the murders.

He walked over to the fence. The collie trotted alongside him. He cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled for George Lenihan. Lenihan stopped his haying, planted his pitchfork in the earth and came over.

Long before he reached the fence, Lenihan saw what Fargo was holding. When he reached the Trailsman, he said, “What’s that?”

But he knew what it was. And he knew what it meant, too.

Fargo held it up. “It’s got the name of the bank stenciled right on it.” The bag was the size of a regular satchel. It had a lock attached to a leather section at the top. The lock had been shot off.

“Where’d you find it?”

“You know what it is and you know where I found it.”

“My pa didn’t put that there.”

“Somebody did.”

George Lenihan’s arms came across the fence and tried to grab Fargo’s throat. “You sonofabitch! You brought that with you and then claimed to have found it in the barn!”

Fargo might have felt sorry for him if the man’s hands weren’t struggling to strangle him. Fargo hit him hard with the heavy bag, knocking him off-balance, sending him stumbling backward and finally falling to the ground on his ass.

“He didn’t do it! My pa didn’t do it!”

The beautiful collie started barking sharply, as if in sympathy.

Fargo dropped the bag and went over and offered George Lenihan his hand. Lenihan slapped it away. “You put it there. You had it on your horse when you came in. You put it there when I was out haying.”

“You know better than that.”

“Do I? This whole town has turned against him.” He put a palm flat against the grassy soil and started the process of pushing himself to his feet. “Cain sent you here to do this. And now you’ll take my pa in, won’t you?”

“I won’t have any choice. I found this in his barn.”

Lenihan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Don’t you see what’s going on here, Fargo? All right, say you didn’t do it. But don’t you see that somebody else planted it? Somebody who wants to ruin my pa.”

“Who would that be?”

“Who do you think? Who’s been chasing after Amy all these years?”

“Cain says he’s given up on her.”

“Cain says, Cain says. Cain says a lot of things and half of them are damned lies. Think about it. He sets up the robbery, he gets all the money after he kills the three boys and now he gets to destroy my father. Maybe he can’t have Amy but he can get the satisfaction of seeing my father hang.”

“Look,” Fargo said. “I’ll check out everything you say. Everything. I promise. And if I think this has been planted here that’s what I’ll tell Cain. And if I think it’s been planted and I suspect it’s Cain, I’ll go after him.”

“What can you do up against Cain? He runs this town.”

“But he doesn’t run me.”

Lenihan choked back a sob. “You don’t know my pa. He’s the kindest man I’ve ever known. And the people in town know that too. But they’ve let all this gossip make them crazy. They’re just layin’ for him. And it scares me.” He paused, stared at the bank bag. “Is there any way—”

“You know I can’t do that. I have to take this in and talk to your father. And most likely take him to jail.”

“He needs to be safe, Fargo. You’ve got to promise me that. That he’ll be safe.”

“I’ll make sure of that.”

The collie responded to Lenihan’s sadness by rubbing against his leg and making a sort of whimpering sound. She was a good dog in all respects.

“I need to get back now.”

The conversation finished, Fargo turned and cut through a small collection of chickens.

He’d gone only a few steps when Lenihan called, “Stop right there, Fargo. I’ve got a gun on you. I want you to drop that bag and then get on your horse and ride out.”

“You going to shoot me?”

“If I have to.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to.”

“I’m not fooling.”

“Neither am I.”

Fargo began slowly moving to his big Ovaro.

“Fargo. Stop.”

But Fargo kept moving. By now he was sure the kid wouldn’t shoot. He turned when he reached the stallion. Lenihan looked pathetic. He had a useless gun in his hand and what appeared to be tears in his eyes.

Lenihan didn’t say anything and neither did Fargo. There was nothing to say.