Backwoods Bloodbath tt-300 Read online

  The fourth player was cut from a whole different cloth. Hale Tilton was a gambler by profession. He favored a black jacket and pants, with a frilled white shirt. A wide-brimmed black hat was tillted low over his eyes so no one could read his expression. He, too, was unpredictable, although slightly less so in that he did not bluff as often as the teller. When he did, it was because he sensed weakness in the others’ hands.

  The teller was about to bet. He took his cigar from his mouth, tapped it on the ashtray, and pushed in fifty dollars.

  “Interesting,” Hale Tilton said, and added fifty of his own.

  It was Fargo’s turn. He had two queens, a king, an eight, and a three. Only a queen and the three were the same suit. It was not a great hand, but it had potential. He debated discarding the king, eight, and three and asking for two cards, then decided to discard only the eight and the three. But first he had to bet.

  Fargo was fairly certain the teller was bluffing. The store clerk had at least a pair of jacks or he would not have opened. Hale Tilton might have a good hand or he might be counting on the draw. Either and all ways, Fargo was not about to bow out with a pair of queens. He added fifty dollars and asked for two cards.

  The player who had folded was dealing. Another townsman, he wore a brown jacket and a bowler, and he could never seem to sit still. He was forever fidgeting. Fargo took it to be because the man had a nervous temperament, but now, as the man flicked cards to the store clerk, Fargo saw something that set his blood to boiling. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was a cheat.

  Hale Tilton, in the act of stacking his chips, froze for an instant with his fingers poised over the table. Then slowly, almost sadly, he lowered his hand and said softly, “Well, well, well.”

  “What’s the matter, Tilton?” the dealer asked with a smirk. “Not getting the cards you need?”

  “Oh, I have no complaints,” the gambler responded. “Not about the cards, anyway. It’s simpletons who get my dander up. They mistakenly think I’m as simple-minded as they are.”

  “Surely you’re not referring to any of us?” the teller demanded, his cigar clenched in a corner of his mouth.

  “Not you, no,” Hale Tilton said. He focused on Fargo. “Do you want to do this or would you rather I did the honors?”

  Fargo had played the gambler a few times before. He did not know Tilton well, but as rumor had it, he was fairly honest, for a cardsharp, and had a reputation as a gent who should not be crossed. “Be my guest,” Fargo said, and leaned back.

  Hale Tilton glanced from the dealer to the store clerk and back again. “It always amazes me when peckerwoods try.”

  “Try what?” the clerk nervously asked.

  “In case you have forgotten, I gamble for a living. From Mississippi riverboats to prairie hovels to log saloons along the Columbia River, I have seen it all, done it all, where cards are involved.”

  The dealer snickered. “Are you bragging or complaining?”

  “I am making a point, Niles,” Hale Tilton said. He pushed his chair back and placed his forearms on the table, and if anyone besides Fargo noticed the slight metallic scrape Tilton’s right wrist made, they did not show it. “I’ve seen trimmed cards, cards with sliced corners, cards with bumps. I’ve seen holdouts of all kinds. Up the sleeve, in vest pockets, in belts. I’ve seen card cheats use special spectacles to read phosphorescent ink on the backs of cards. I’ve seen men use bugs.”

  Fargo had been in a saloon in Kansas when a man was caught using a bug. Made of steel and shaped like a money clip with two sharp ends, the bug was jammed under a table and held cards the bug’s owner palmed until they were needed. The man in Kansas had been fortunate. Instead of stretching his neck, as was customary, the other players tarred and feathered him.

  Niles glowered at the gambler. “There are a thousand and one ways to cheat, Tilton. What of it?”

  “Usually only professionals mark cards and use holdouts,” Hale Tilton remarked. “Amateurs deal from the bottom of the deck or play with a friend and set up secret signals, or both.” The gambler stared squarely at Niles. “How you two expected to get away with it is beyond me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Niles huffed. He slid his right hand close to the edge of the table, and to his open brown jacket.

  Tilton switched his hard stare to the store clerk. “And you, Weaver. Why would you try it? Don’t I always play fair with you boys when I visit Kansas City?”

  Weaver paled and looked at Niles, who angrily demanded, “Are you accusing the two of us of cheating? Of working together to fleece a few hands?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I am saying,” Hale Tilton said. “But you are free to prove me wrong. Turn over your cards, Mr. Weaver, and show us what Mr. Niles has dealt you.”

  Fargo patted Saucy on the fanny and bobbed his chin. A veteran of her trade, she understood immediately; she rose and moved well away from the table. Fargo lowered his right hand and hooked his thumb in his belt next to his Colt.

  Weaver was not especially brave, but he knew his poker. “I am not required to show my hand until the betting is done. That’s the rule.”

  “No one else is going to bet,” the gambler said quietly.

  “Even so,” Weaver said, his voice rising, “I’m not turning my cards over, and that’s final.”

  “You are turning them over,” Hale Tilton insisted, “or this will be your final day on earth.”

  Nearby players and patrons had overheard. A current of hushed voices rippled through the room. All eyes turned to their table. The more prudent sidled elsewhere to avoid taking a stray slug.

  Fargo happened to notice one man who did not. Another townsman, he sported bushy sideburns and, like Niles, wore a bowler. The man had been idly watching their game. Fargo had not thought anything of it until now. He realized that the man was standing behind Hale Tilton, but to one side, where Tilton was less apt to notice.

  A conviction came over Fargo that there was more to Niles’s and Weaver’s shenanigans. On a hunch, he casually shifted in his chair, and sure enough, another townsman was behind him. It set him to wondering why they had let him win so much. Maybe he was imagining things. But then, it was his habit to keep his cards flat on the table and slide them close to the edge before taking a quick peek. The man behind him had not been able to see his cards.

  The bank teller removed his cigar and jabbed the lit end at Niles. “Is what he says true? Have you and Weaver been cheating us?”

  “Of course not, Sam,” Niles said unconvincingly.

  “Because if you have,” the teller went on, “it stands to reason this isn’t the first time.”

  Niles colored the same shade as a beet and snapped, “I tell you it’s not true! Why in hell don’t you believe me?”

  Sam jabbed the air with his cigar again. “Because it explains how you manage to win so often on days that me and some of the other boys get paid. Or didn’t you think any of us would notice?”

  “I don’t have to sit here and take this!” Niles declared, and started to rise. He stopped when Hale Tilton’s right arm rose and extended in his direction, Tilton’s fingers bent slightly back.

  “You are not going anywhere until your friend turns over the cards you dealt him,” the gambler said in a low tone pregnant with menace.

  Weaver was squirming in his chair like a chipmunk on a hot rock. “Niles? What do I do?”

  “You don’t turn over the cards and you keep your damn mouth shut.” Niles gazed expectantly around the room, but if he was hoping for support from any of the onlookers, he was disappointed. No one was willing to intervene. Cheating at cards, like stealing a horse, was a serious offense.

  “The cards, Mr. Weaver,” Hale Tilton said quietly.

  Trembling like an aspen leaf in a brisk breeze, Weaver reached for his cards but stopped at a sharp cry from Niles.

  “Don’t you touch them, damn you! He has no right to make you! We will forget about this hand. Everyone c
an take their money from the pot, and that will be that.”

  “No, it will not.” The gambler slowly rose. “My patience has a limit, gentlemen. I strongly suggest you do as I have asked.”

  Without being obvious, Fargo was keeping an eye on the townsman behind Tilton and the townsman behind him. The gambler, preoccupied with Niles and Weaver, had not noticed them.

  “You can go to hell!” Niles blustered.

  “After you,” Hale Tilton said.

  “Someone send for the marshal!” Niles was clutching at a legal straw. “He’ll put a stop to this nonsense.”

  No one moved, nor offered to go. The bartender brought his hands up from under the bar. He was holding a shotgun, but he did not point it at their table. He was content to let the confrontation play itself out without interfering unless he absolutely had to.

  Fargo edged his right hand closer to his Colt. Experience had taught him that when the explosion came, it would be swift and brutal.

  Hale Tilton leaned across the table. With his left hand he turned over the cards in question. “Just as I thought.”

  Four aces and a king lay there for all to see. Too late, Weaver snatched them and clutched them to his chest. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said.

  “Hush, damn you!” Niles fumed. “He can’t prove anything if you keep your fool mouth shut!”

  “Who needs to?” the gambler asked. “What will it be? Parade you down the street tied to a rail?”

  “I would like to see someone try,” Niles snarled, and made as if to leave. As he turned, his hand darted under his jacket.

  A flick of Hale Tilton’s wrist, and just like that a nickel-plated derringer gleamed in the lamplight. The click of the hammer was loud enough for Fargo and those at the table to hear. But that did not deter Niles. His arm came out from under his jacket, and so did a Remington.

  “Kill the son of a bitch, boys!” Niles cried.

  Hale Tilton shot him.

  The townsman behind Tilton and the townsman behind Fargo clawed at concealed revolvers. In a heartbeat Fargo was out of his chair with his Colt level. He sent a slug into the man behind the gambler, whirled, and banged off a second shot, all so fast that to the onlookers the two shots sounded as one.

  The townsman behind Fargo did not go down. He staggered against the wall, regained his balance, and brought up a Smith and Wesson.

  Fargo never did like backshooters. He shot the man in the chest, not once but twice, and at each cracking retort, holes appeared in the townsman’s store-bought shirt. The man was dead before his face smacked the floorboards.

  Gun smoke hung in the air. Niles was sprawled on his back with a new hole between his eyes. The townsman behind Tilton was on his side, groaning and mewing about his shoulder being broken.

  “I’m obliged for the help,” the gambler said.

  Fargo scanned the onlookers. None were disposed to avenge the fallen. He started to reload, saying, “There is no shortage of jackasses in this world.”

  Nodding, Hale Tilton grinned. “If a man can’t cheat worth a damn, he should take up knitting.”

  Now it was Fargo who grinned, but the grin evaporated when what he took to be another townsman came striding purposefully toward them. Quickly, Fargo replaced the last spent cartridge and twirled the Colt so the muzzle pointed at the newcomer. “That’s far enough, mister. I have plenty of peas left.”

  The man stopped. Smiling suavely, he doffed a derby and said with a slight twang, “I assure you, sir, I mean you no harm. Quite the contrary. Your marvelous display has confirmed the reports we have received about you.”

  “What the hell are you jabbering about?”

  “It’s quite simple, really.” The man’s smile widened. “My associates and I would like to hire you to kill someone.”

  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 w
ord, 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.