Backwoods Bloodbath Page 3

  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?”

  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 hu
man 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.”