Hannibal Rising

14

The Missouri woods were thick and lush, the dense tangle of undergrowth nearly always in shadow. Fargo glided through it as silently as an Apache. He couldn’t say the same about Samantha Clyborn.

Sam had bolted for the woods the instant the pistol went off. Charlotte had done the same, in a different direction, Amanda at her heels. Tom hurried into the trees to the north, urging Cletus Brun to go faster. Charles jogged to the south. Only Roland walked.

Fargo called out to Samantha to wait for him but she didn’t listen. He ran to catch up and did so only after she stopped to get her bearings. “You’re fast on your feet,” he complimented her.

“I was a bit of a tomboy when I was little.” Sam cast about, her face twisted in puzzlement. “Which way, do you think?”

Fargo shrugged. “One is as good as another.”

“You’re a big help.” Samantha walked in a small circle, scratching her head. “There’s so much ground to cover, I don’t know where to begin.”

“I didn’t know your father. You did. Try to think like him,” Fargo suggested. “Where would you bury the chest if you had done it?”

“Impossible to say,” Samantha said. “No one thought like he did. That’s why I sent for you. You’re supposed to be the great frontiersman. How would you go about finding something if this were the mountains or the prairie?”

Fargo pondered. To the east the ground was mostly flat woodland. To the north and west were hills. To the south a creek ran close to the hunting lodge. Landmarks were few. The terrain was essentially the same—forest and more forest.

Sam impatiently tapped her foot. “I’m waiting for an idea.”

“I don’t have one.”

Shaking her head in annoyance, Sam said, “I repeat. You’re a big help. There must be something we can look for.”

“A mound of dirt where your father buried it,” was the only thing Fargo could come up with at the moment.

“All the chest contains is a page from the will so it need not be that big. Still, a pile of dirt should stand out.”

“Unless it’s under a bush.”

They began the search in earnest. Samantha suggested they separate to cover more ground and Fargo reminded her of the assassins.

“Damn them to hell, anyway. Whoever hired them should be hung.”

Fargo put his hand on his hip where his Colt would ordinarily be, and frowned. He didn’t like not having a gun. He didn’t like it at all. He was about to bend and draw the toothpick from the ankle sheath and slide it under his belt when the undergrowth behind them crackled. He whirled just as the last person he expected stepped toward them.

“Theodore!” Sam exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

The attorney had a canteen slung over his arm and was carrying a valise.

“Didn’t I mention I am the official judge? I must make sure everyone abides by the rules. I’ll be roving about constantly the entire twenty-four hours.”

“You’ll be as worn out as the rest of us by the time this is done.”

Pickleman set down the valise. “Not that I want to, mind you. It’s yet another of your father’s stipulations.” He mopped his brow. “I suspect it’s your father’s way of needling me. He knew I am not much for physical exercise.”

“It sounds like something Father would do, yes,” Sam agreed.

“How big is the chest?” Fargo asked.

“I couldn’t say,” the attorney said. “I never saw it. He buried it before he came to me about revising the will.”

“I wish he provided clues,” Sam said wistfully.

“I would imagine,” the lawyer said. “I tried to get more information out of him but all he did was smile and make that silly remark about whoever found it not having cause to weep.”

“An understatement,” Sam said.

“Yes, well.” Pickleman picked up the valise. “I’m sorry but I must keep on the move. Good luck to you, Samantha. I have always liked you and I know you will treat your brothers and your sister more fairly than some of them would treat you.”

“Thank you, Theodore.”

Pickleman smiled and nodded and the vegetation swallowed him.

“A dedicated little man,” Sam said. “He takes his responsibilities seriously and always performs them to the best of his ability.”

Father was thinking about the chest. “Did your father get out in these woods much?”

“Hardly ever. He was too busy conducting business day in and day out. He brought a few clients out to the lodge from time to time and once and once only he went hunting with Roland, but that was about the extent of it.” Sam paused. “Why did you ask?”

“If he didn’t know these woods well,” Fargo mused, “then odds are he didn’t have a spot picked out ahead of time.”

“So?”

“So he probably buried the chest at the first likely spot he came to.”

“Likely how? Clear? Soft? Easy to remember?” Sam shook her head. “That’s not much help.”

Fargo was tired of being criticized. He felt he was onto something but exactly how it could help them eluded him. “Let’s keep looking.”

“Didn’t I hear that you guide wagon trains from time to time? They must be in awe of your wood lore.”

“Keep it up.”

“I’m counting on you,” Sam said with passion. “More than you can ever possibly realize.”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

“Do better.”

They resumed the hunt, Sam quiet and tense. As the minutes crawled into an hour and the hour into an hour and a half it became obvious, as Sam put it, that, “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“We have twenty-four hours.”

“For once my father was being generous. Or was he? He would like for us to experience twenty-four hours of sheer torture.”

“Nice gent, your pa.”

“No,” Sam said sadly. “He was mean and cruel. To us, at any rate. I never did understand how he could blame us for Mother’s death. It was an act of God.”

“God does that a lot,” Fargo said.

“Does what?”

“Kills people.”

Sam chuckled. “What a strange thing to say. I doubt Father even believed. Mother died in a lot of pain, and I remember Father saying that any God who would let her suffer was either a lunatic or make-believe.”

They poked into thickets. They checked behind boulders and around logs. They searched every shadowed nook. All with the same result.

They came to a rise and Samantha plopped down, her chin sinking to her chest. “I’m tired already. How about you?”

Fargo could go all day if he had to but he sat beside her and said, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“So much is at stake.” Sam plucked at the grass. “I’ll never forgive Father for this. He couldn’t divide up the inheritance and leave it at that. He had to turn it into a circus.”

“Enough about the bastard.”

Sam stopped plucking and leaned back. “I guess I do tend to go on about him. But you can’t blame me under the circumstances.”

Fargo scanned the forest: a mix of maple, oak and hickory. He was about to suggest they push on when he heard a faint cry to the south.

“Did you hear that?”

Nodding, Fargo stood. He listened but the seconds crawled by and the cry wasn’t repeated.

“Did it sound like a call for help?”

Fargo couldn’t say. It might have been. It might not. “Who else uses these woods besides your family?”

“Hardly a soul. Most people know this is private property.” Sam moved to the end of the rise. “We should go have a look.”

Fargo led. In over a hundred yards came out of the vegetation on the grassy bank of the creek. Here and there cottonwoods sprinkled the waterway, along with a few willows. “This have a name?”

“Clyborn Creek. My father named it after our family. It’s a tributary of Bear Creek.”

Fargo followed the bank west. The going was easier and they covered a lot of distance without seeing or hearing anyone.

“That water sure looks inviting.”

Fargo agreed. He stepped to the edge of a knee-deep pool, cupped his hand, and dipped it in.

“I used to play in this creek when I was a girl.” Samantha knelt beside him. “At least we don’t have to worry about going thirsty.”

Fargo sipped. Now all they had to do was find something so they wouldn’t go hungry. He went to dip his hand in again when from out of the undergrowth came a low moan.

“Someone is hurt,” Sam whispered.

Reaching up under his pant leg, Fargo palmed the Arkansas toothpick. On cat’s feet he crept toward a patch of briars.

Samantha stayed at his side.

Fargo hoped the moan would be repeated but all he heard was the breeze rustling the trees. He circled along the thorns and went only a few steps when he saw part of a leg and a man’s shoe poking out. From the way the grass was flattened and the briars broken and bent, it appeared the man had been heaved into them.

“Who is it?” Sam whispered, aghast.

Careful of the thorns, Fargo parted the branches. When he saw who it was, he quickly slid the toothpick under his belt, gripped the man’s ankles, and pulled him out.

“Oh God!” Sam exclaimed, her hand flying to her throat. “Charles!”

Someone had got at her brother with a knife. His face had been slashed, his throat sliced, his sleeves cut to ribbons where he had used his arms to try to ward off the weapon. He had also been stabbed in the chest and the belly.

“Charles! Charles!” Sam threw herself down beside him. She touched his face and his chest and stared in horror at the blood on her hands. “Who would do such a thing?”

Fargo had a good idea. He felt for a pulse. There was one but it was weak and erratic. It didn’t take a sawbones to know that Charles Clyborn wasn’t long for this world.

“We must do something,” Sam urged. “Run to the lodge and have them send for Dr. Williams in Hannibal. Hurry before it’s too late.”

“It already is.”

“What? No, no, you’re mistaken.” Tears welled in Sam’s eyes. She bent and gently touched his cheek. “Charles? Charles? Can you hear me? It’s Samantha.”

To Fargo’s surprise, Charles’s eyelids fluttered and opened. “Sam?” he croaked.

“Yes, Charles, yes.” Sam hugged him and kissed his chin.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll have you carried to the lodge and we’ll get Dr. Williams.”

Charles tried to speak, couldn’t, and tried again. “No,” he rasped hoarsely. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Sam clasped his hand in hers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It already has.” Charles coughed and a drop of blood trickled from a corner of his mouth. “Listen. I don’t have much time.”

“Oh, Charles,” Sam said, and sobbed.

“A woman did this to me. I never saw her before. She came out of the trees and I said hello and she drew a knife and attacked me. I tried to defend myself but”—Charles stopped and coughed more violently. His gaze rose to Fargo—“I think she was the one you told us about. The woman who attacked you in Sam’s bedroom.”

“I figured it had to be her or her brother.” Fargo scoured the surrounding greenery. “Where did she get to?”

“She tossed me into the pickers and walked off,” Charles related. “The strangest thing is, she never said a word the whole time.”

Fargo realized the female assassin could be watching them at that very moment. He kept his hand on the toothpick.

“I’ll see that she pays,” Sam said, tears trickling down her face. “I’ll see that she’s arrested and hung, so help me God.”

Charles hadn’t taken his eyes off Fargo. “Don’t let them get Sam. Please. They’ll do the same to her as they’ve done to me.”

“Not if I can help it,” Fargo vowed.

Charles smiled. “Thank you.” He tried to raised his hand to Sam but was too weak. “One last thing.”

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

“It’s important.” Charles took a long breath. “I found it.”

In her sorrow and confusion, Sam said, “Found what?”

“Where Father buried the chest.”

Sam gripped his shirt. “Did you dig it up? Did the woman who cut you take it with her?”

“No,” Charles said. “I was on my way—” He stopped and his eyes widened and he said, “I’ll be damned.”

And he was gone.