Hannibal Rising tt-340 Read online

  “I know better.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. If I have refused myself male companionship all these years, why would I possibly indulge in a dalliance with you, of all people?”

  “Because there are no strings attached,” Fargo answered truthfully. “We do it and that’s it. You’ll never see me again after this weekend is over and I’ll never tell a soul you indulged.”

  “That’s hardly sufficient cause. Can’t you think of anything better?” she mockingly asked.

  “I can think of one thing.”

  “What would that be?”

  “The feeling you get when you gush.”

  Samantha jerked her head back as if he had slapped her. “I daresay you are the most brazen man I’ve ever met. You have no respect for a lady.”

  “I have plenty of respect,” Fargo disagreed. “I also know something about ladies that most men don’t.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “A lady will part her legs just like any other woman if she is interested enough.”

  “I should slap you.”

  “I’d slap you back.”

  Samantha’s eyes blazed with anger. “You’re the most aggravating man I’ve ever met and that includes my father.” Reining sharply around, she jabbed her heels.

  Fargo chuckled. He had planted the seed. Now all he could do was wait and see if it took root. On a whim he jabbed his own heels and rode to the head of the line. “Mind some company?”

  Roland was in the lead. He wore the same tweed hunting garb as the day before, and in addition to the stag-hilted hunting knife he had a Smith and Wesson revolver on his other hip. “Not at all. Out of all of them, you’re the only one I have anything in common with.”

  “I wanted to ask. Why didn’t you pick a partner like the rest?”

  “No need,” Roland said. “I’ve hunted every square foot of this forest. An exaggeration, perhaps, but not by much. Whatever we’re to hunt down, I’m confident I’ll win the inheritance.”

  “No one knows what it is?”

  Roland shook his head. “It’s a condition of the will. Pickleman is to read the clause that explains everything this evening after supper. All we know is that my father called it a hunt.”

  Fargo was surprised by what he said next.

  “I’d never admit this to my brothers or sisters, but the reason I’ve spent so much time in the woods was to get away from my father and to get away from them. Father, with his carping and his insults. My siblings, with their never-ending bickering. It got so, I spent more of my time at the hunting lodge than I did at the mansion.”

  “You like killing game?” Fargo had met some who lived for the thrill of the chase and the blood of the shot.

  “I don’t kill just to kill, if that’s what you’re getting at. I hunt for food. That might sound silly given how well-off we are but I’d rather eat venison than beef any day, and the butcher doesn’t carry bear meat.”

  “What will you do if you end up with all your father’s money?”

  “Give shares to my brothers and sisters. It’s only right, the hell we’ve endured. The rest I’ll sock away in a bank and live pretty much as I have been all these years. I don’t care about controlling everyone, like Sam does. Or only wearing the best clothes and being a member of the most expensive men’s club in Hannibal, as Charles does. To me the forest has always been enough.”

  Fargo decided he liked this man. “I hope you win.”

  Roland shifted and gazed down the line. “Don’t let Sam hear you say that or she’s liable to take her riding crop to your head.” He grinned as he said it but he was serious.

  “Everyone keeps saying how mean she is but I’ve yet to see it,” Fargo mentioned.

  “It’s not that she’s mean so much as she is controlling. She loves being in charge, and woe to anyone who bucks her.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “No doubt you can in the mountains and on the prairie. But this is Missouri, and Sam is a power to be reckoned with. If she wanted, she could have you arrested and the key thrown away.”

  “On what charge?” Fargo skeptically asked.

  “Take your pick. Right now you’re in her good graces but whatever you do don’t cross her.”

  On that dire note Fargo fell back in line. He kept to himself for the next couple of hours. The humidity got to him but for the most part he enjoyed the Missouri woods as much as he would any other.

  In addition to bear and deer, Missouri was home to elk and—or so he had heard—a few moose. The streams and rivers were favorite haunts of beaver and muskrat while wood-chucks were the bane of many a farmer. Smaller game like rabbits, foxes, and raccoons were everywhere. The day sky was ruled by eagles and hawks, the night sky by owls and bats. Catfish and carp were fished out of deep pools while bass thrived in the ponds and lakes and trout ran the swifter waterways.

  Fargo could see why Roland liked it here so much. There was plenty of animal sign for those who knew how to read it.

  Their little caravan stopped about midmorning to rest the horses. Roland called a halt in a clearing and Fargo dismounted to stretch his legs. He had taken only a few steps when a petite bundle of winsome legs and young innocence imitated his shadow.

  “Can we talk, Mr. Fargo?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m right popular today.”

  “It’s about my sister.”

  “What about her?” Fargo figured either Samantha had told her of his remarks about ladies spreading their legs or Samantha was having second thoughts about hiring him.

  “What have you done to her?”

  “Not a damn thing. Why? What did she say?”

  “She confided in me that she thinks you are just about the most interesting man she ever met.”

  “Are you sure she was talking about me?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Charlotte bobbed her chin and her lustrous hair bobbed with it. She put her hands on her slim waist and squared her shoulders, which had the effect of thrusting her bosom against her dress. “I’ve never heard her say the flattering things about any man that she does about you.”

  “You must have heard wrong.”

  “No, I did not. It only came up because I happened to mention I think you are uncommonly handsome and she—”

  “You do?” Fargo interrupted, and smiled. “I happen to think that you’re uncommonly handsome, too.”

  “Honestly, Mr. Fargo,” Charlotte said in mild exasperation. “Women aren’t handsome. They’re beautiful or lovely or pretty.”

  “You’re all of that, too.” Fargo bent close to her ear. “You remind me of a ripe cherry in a cherry tree.”

  “I do?”

  “I want to pluck you and eat you.”

  Charlotte gasped and put a hand to her throat. “Mr. Fargo! The things that come out of your mouth.”

  Fargo stared at her bosom. “It’s the things that go into my mouth that I’m fond of.”

  “Surely you can’t mean—” Charlotte stopped and flushed a vivid scarlet. “You are scandalous, sir. How can you talk about me this way when I’ve just told you that my sister thinks so highly of you?”

  “I like greener pastures as much as the next hombre.”

  Charlotte’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite frankly, I don’t think I want to.” She peered at his face as if trying to see through him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you are undressing me with your eyes.”

  “I am,” Fargo said with a grin, “and I like what I see.”

  “Well, I never.” Charlotte turned and said over her shoulder. “I will keep this between us to spare Sam. But if you ever talk to me like this again, I’ll slap your face.”

  “That’s fine by me.”

  “It is?”

  “I like it rough.” Fargo smothered a laugh at her shock and hasty departure.

  Two seeds planted, he thought to himself. He gazed at the ring of trees and noticed the glin
t of the sun off of metal a score of yards into the undergrowth. One of their servants, he reckoned. But glancing about, he realized that everyone was accounted for.

  The next instant a shot blasted.

  7

  After the two attempts on his life Fargo took it for granted this was the third. As the shot shattered the muggy Missouri air, he dived flat. He didn’t feel the searing pain of lead ripping through him and thought the shooter had missed. Then he glanced up.

  Emmett Clyborn had a hole in the center of his forehead and an even bigger hole on the back of his head where the slug had burst out. He was swaying, his eyes wide with shock. Many of the others were gaping at him in stunned disbelief.

  “Get down!” Fargo bellowed.

  A second shot cracked.

  Charles Clyborn had started to duck and his hat went flying. He dropped flat just as a third shot rang out but the third one didn’t come from the woods; Roland Clyborn was shooting back.

  Fargo whipped out his Colt and added to the hail. He fired at where he had seen the gleam of metal, two swift shots, and then he was up and running toward the woods, zigzagging to make it harder for the shooter to hit him. Roland ran with him and together they charged toward where tendrils of gun smoke hung in the air.

  “Where?” Roland roared, turning right and left.

  Fargo spied movement off through the trees. “There!” He pointed and weaved among the boles on the fly. All he wanted was one clear shot. Just one. The crash of the undergrowth and the hammer of hooves told him he wasn’t going to get it. In anger he snapped off a shot in the direction of the sounds and came to a stop. The hoofbeats rapidly faded.

  “We should go after him!” Roland fumed.

  “And leave the others?” Fargo shook his head. Especially since in both previous tries on his life there had been two would-be assassins, not one. Which begged the question: Where was the other one?

  Roland jerked his Spencer rifle to his shoulder but he didn’t fire. With an oath he jerked it down again, then said in horror, “Emmett!” Wheeling, he raced for the clearing.

  Fargo followed, watching both their backs.

  Everyone was gathered around the body. Charlotte was on her knees, clutching Emmett’s limp hand and bawling hysterically. Samantha was seeking to comfort her. Charles and Tom appeared to be in shock. Pickleman was as pale as a bed-sheet. The servants were staying respectfully back and whispering among themselves.

  Out of all of them only one person didn’t appear the least bit upset—the backwoodsman Tom had picked as his partner. The man was picking at his teeth with a fingernail.

  “Who would do this?” Charles said, aghast. “Why kill poor Emmett?”

  Fargo was scanning the woods. That the second assassin hadn’t opened up on them didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. Or did it? A disturbing thought struck him, a thought he kept to himself. He did say, “We can’t stand around in the open like this. We’re sitting ducks.”

  Some of the others gave him angry looks.

  “He’s right,” Roland said. “We should make haste to the lodge. We don’t know but whoever did this might come back.”

  Samantha had an arm around Charlotte and was saying, “There, there. You need to calm down. You need to control yourself.”

  The younger woman’s face contorted in disbelief. “Calm? How can any of us be calm at a time like this? Emmett is dead.”

  “I know that, dear,” Samantha responded, “and I don’t want any of the rest of us to share his fate. Please. We must collect our wits and get out of here.”

  It was done quickly. Servants were directed to wrap Emmett in a blanket and drape him over his horse. Fargo was going to take hold of the reins but Tom snatched them before anyone else could.

  They pushed hard. Every moment was an eternity of suspense. They never knew but when another shot might thunder and another of them might wind up wrapped in a blanket.

  Fargo had time to think and came to several conclusions. Again, he kept them to himself. They had gone about a mile when he slowed and let some of the others pass him so he could rein alongside Tom. On the other side of him was the hulking backwoodsman. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  Tom glanced at the horse he was leading, and the body. “Whoever killed him will pay. Mark my words.”

  “Any idea who it could be?”

  “How would I know?” Tom snapped. “It’s not as if we haven’t made enemies. When you’re rich and powerful you can’t help stepping on toes.”

  “So you think it’s someone with a grudge against your family?”

  “What else?”

  Fargo didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Your friend, there, didn’t seem bothered.”

  The backwoodsman had been gazing into the forest but now he turned his craggy face and gave Fargo a withering look. “You talkin’ about me, mister? ’Cause if you are, I ain’t Mr. Tom’s friend. I hardly know him. I hardly know any of them.” He motioned at the family members up ahead. “So no, it doesn’t bother me a lick that one of them was shot.”

  “Must you be so cold about it?” Tom demanded. To Fargo he said, “This is Cletus Brun. He’s about the best hunter in Hannibal, next to Roland. I’m paying him for his services this weekend just as my sister is paying you.”

  Brun snorted. “Shucks. Your brother ain’t all that great. I beat him once out to the fair in the turkey shoot.”

  “Don’t underestimate him,” Tom warned.

  “Don’t you underestimate me,” Brun said.

  “Whoever shot Emmett and almost shot Charles is bound to try again,” Fargo mentioned.

  “Have you ever been to our lodge?” Tom asked, and answered his own question. “No, of course you haven’t. It’s a fortress. We’ll be safe there.”

  “For how long?”

  Tom didn’t hide his annoyance. “Why are you bringing this up? To upset me? Isn’t it bad enough I’ve lost one of my brothers? Must you rub my nose in the fact I might lose more of my family?”

  “So you really care about them?”

  “Go away,” Tom said. “I didn’t like you when we first met and I like you less now. So what if I haven’t gotten along with them in the past? They’re still my brothers and sisters.”

  Cletus Brun said, “You heard Mr. Tom. Go pester someone else, little man, and leave us be.”

  Fargo couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him “little.” But the woodsman was a lot wider across the chest and shoulders and must outweigh him by sixty to seventy pounds. “Suit yourselves.” He tapped his spurs and rode to the head of the line.

  Roland was a study in glum. “I just don’t get it,” he said as Fargo came up. “I just don’t get it at all.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why the killer chose Emmett. He could have shot any of us. Why Emmett? Emmett was just a kid.”

  “He also shot at Charles.”

  Roland gave a start. “The next oldest. It’s almost as if the killer started with the youngest and was working his way up.”

  Fargo hadn’t thought of that. “How long until we reach the hunting lodge?”

  “Another hour and a half yet, maybe more. Why?”

  They were about to go around a bend in the trail.

  “Keep going,” Fargo said. “I’ll catch up.” He rode past the bend and promptly reined into the woods. A dozen yards in he drew rein. No one else had seen him break away. He sat and watched them file by, one by one until the last of the pack animals went past.

  Fargo was alone. Silence fell but it didn’t last long. A jay shrieked and a robin broke into song and presently a doe and a fawn emerged from the greenery and crossed the trail farther down.

  Fargo was acting on another hunch. Odds were, whoever shot Emmett wanted to add to the tally, in which case the killer might be stalking them. He stayed where he was as the minutes crawled on turtle’s feet. He was about convinced he had been wrong and was raising the reins when the Ovaro pricked its ears and turned its head toward the tr
ail.

  Around the bend came a rider. A middle-aged man of middling height who looked as if he never bathed and wore clothes that looked as if they had never been washed. He was chewing lustily and his cheek bulged, and a moment later he spat tobacco juice. He held a rifle by the barrel, the stock propped on his thigh.

  This, then, was the killer. Fargo let him go by. He mentally counted to thirty, reined to the trail, and shadowed the shadower.

  Fargo could have shot him. He could ambush him as the killer had ambushed them but he needed answers and the only way to get them was to take him alive.

  Spitting tobacco every now and again, the man rode along as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Fargo stayed well back. At each turn he slowed and checked before riding on. A quarter of an hour went by. Half an hour. More. By Fargo’s reckoning they were near the hunting lodge. At the next bend he slowed again and warily risked a peek.

  The man had stopped. Thirty yards away he sat his horse in the middle of the trail. For a few moments Fargo thought the man had heard him. Then it hit him—the killer was waiting for someone.

  Reaching down, Fargo shucked the Henry. He quietly ratcheted a round into the chamber and swung down. Holding on to the reins, he led the Ovaro in among some oaks and tied the reins to a limb. Then, paralleling the trail, he crept forward. The killer had his back to him. It would be so easy to fix a bead between his shoulder blades and bring him crashing down.

  The man’s sorrel stamped and the man twisted in the saddle.

  Fargo froze. He was in a crouch in high weeds and hoped he blended in.

  The man was staring back down the trail and had his head cocked to one side.

  A second later Fargo heard the thud of hooves.

  Around the bend came two more on horseback, a man and a woman. Both were young, no older than twenty-five, and wore matching riding outfits and polished boots. Both had brown hair and brown eyes. Both had oval faces, thin eyebrows and thin lips. Judging by how much alike they looked, Fargo took them for brother and sister. Neither wore a revolver that he could see, but from the saddle scabbard on each horse jutted the hardwood stock of a rifle.