that he was completely clad in buckskins and wore a beaded buckskin bag slanted across his chest. The man had lived with Indians at one time, Fargo guessed, and had taken up some Indian ways.
They bristled with weapons: rifles, pistols, knives, tomahawks. Haughty in manner, they met his scrutiny with arrogant stares. Hard men who had lived hard lives and bowed to no one. That they had been waiting outside the judge’s house with Layton hinted to Fargo that they had arrived with him. He had assumed they were acquaintances of the slain family, but now he suspected otherwise. Backwoodsmen were a tough breed, but they were generally friendly. There was nothing friendly about these four.
“Whenever you are ready to begin tracking,” Judge Harding urged, “by all means, get to it.”
The clearing had been trampled. Someone—a lot of someones—had left a jumble of footprints, making it impossible to distinguish those of the Sangamon River Monster from the rest. Fargo mentioned as much to the judge and Draypool.
“Blame neighbors and friends and the curious from the hamlet of Carne, about four miles east of here,” Harding said. “They were unaware I wanted the scene preserved. But don’t despair. Layton tells me he has found the Monster’s trail.” The judge crooked a finger and Layton came at a run. “Show him,” Harding commanded.
The killer had headed northeast through the forest. His tracks were as plain as tracks could be, especially since he had made no effort to conceal them. That struck Fargo as peculiar. He knelt to examine a set in a patch of bare earth, reading them as other people read the print in books.
The killer had big feet. He wore shoes, not boots or moccasins, which Fargo also found peculiar. According to Draypool and Harding, the Monster lived off in the deep woods somewhere, and men who did that invariably chose moccasins or boots over common shoes. The edges of the heels and sole were clearly defined, another peculiarity. It meant the shoes were fairly new, for the heels and soles had not worn down from prolonged use.
Going by the depth of the prints, Fargo figured the killer weighed about the same as he did. The length of the killer’s stride was longer, though, which told Fargo the man had longer legs, which suggested the killer was taller than Fargo, and consequently slighter of build. Lean and lanky was how Fargo would describe him.
“Well?” Arthur prompted.
Fargo rose. Draypool and the judge and the others had come over and were waiting expectantly. “Well, what?”
“Why are you dawdling? We hired you to track him, remember? Be on your way. Precious daylight is being squandered.”
Turning toward the Ovaro, Fargo said, “When I find him I’ll take him alive. What you do after that is up to you.”
“Hold on,” the judge said. “We want someone to go with you.”
“No,” Fargo said.
“Be reasonable.” From Draypool.
“I work alone. I told you that.” Fargo rarely made exceptions. He took a step, but Arthur snagged his arm.
“Hear us out. Is that too much to ask for ten thousand dollars?”
“You’re squandering precious daylight,” Fargo reminded him.
Judge Harding clenched his fists. “Be that as it may, as your employers we have a stake in the outcome, and the right to speak our minds.” He waved a fist in the direction of the log cabin. “As God is my witness, those will be the Monster’s last victims.”
“We can’t leave anything to chance,” Draypool said. “What if something were to happen to you?” Fargo went to respond, and Draypool held up a hand. “I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. No one questions your ability. But accidents occur. Things don’t always go as we want them to go. If anything happened to you, how would we know? You might track the Monster to his lair and be unable to get word to us. Then all this will have been for naught.”
Reluctantly, Fargo had to admit he had a point.
“What we propose is this: Take one man with you. Just one.” Draypool pointed at Bill Layton. “He is to do whatever you ask of him at all times. When you find where the killer is holed up, Layton will keep watch while you hurry and fetch us.” He smiled hopefully. “Isn’t that reasonable?”
“I suppose,” Fargo said.
That was when the man wearing the knee-high moccasins declared in a distinct Southern drawl, “It shouldn’t be Layton. It should be me.”
“We want Layton,” Draypool said.
“I’m better,” the man said. “Faster, stronger, the best damn shot you have. It’s a mistake to use him.”
“We have been all through this,” Judge Harding interjected. “We need you with us. Bill is perfectly capable of doing what we require. He knows our wishes.”
Layton nodded.
“Suit yourselves,” the man in the knee-high moccasins said. “But don’t blame me if it doesn’t go as you hope.”
Fargo noticed that Draypool was intimidated by the man, perhaps even a little afraid, and that Judge Harding, who kowtowed to no one, treated him with a degree of deference. There was more to this one than was apparent.
“Layton it is, then,” Draypool said. Then, to Fargo, “Is there anything you require before you head out? Food? Ammo? Anything at all?”
“I’m all set.” Fargo always lived off the land when he was on the go. His needs were few.
“And you?” Draypool said to Layton.
“I bought supplies just last week. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Excellent. Then off the two of you go. Remember, we want to catch the Monster before he strikes again. But you must not be so hasty that you lose him. There might not be another opportunity like this for many months.”
“I won’t lose him,” Fargo vowed. Once he was on a manhunt, he never let up. The only time two-legged quarry had ever eluded him had been in New Mexico, and the quarry had been a Mimbres Apache. In Fargo’s opinion, Apaches were the best trackers anywhere, and were equally adept at shaking whoever attempted to track them.
“We are counting on you,” Judge Harding said. “More than you can ever know.” In a rare display of emotion, he put a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “A lot is riding on you, but I am confident you won’t disappoint us.”
Fargo was glad to get out of there. He held the Ovaro to a walk in order to read the sign. He assumed the killer had a mount hidden in the woods, but after half a mile he came to the conclusion the man had been afoot. Exactly what Arthur Draypool had said the Monster would do.
Except for slight deviations to avoid obstacles like logs and boulders, the killer’s course was a beeline toward some unknown destination. And from his stride, the Monster was in a hurry to get there, moving at a steady, tireless jog.
Layton hung back, presumably in the belief that Fargo wanted nothing to do with him. But Fargo could talk and track at the same time, and there were questions that begged answers. “How long have you worked for Harding?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Seven years this—”
Layton stopped, and Fargo could guess why. They wanted him to think Layton had just happened upon the massacre and rushed to inform the judge.
“Did you ask how long have I known him?”
“Worked for,” Fargo said.
“Oh. I didn’t quite hear you. I’m not in the judge’s employ. I have a homestead near Carne, with a wife and five kids.”
If Layton was married, Fargo was the queen of England. “Doesn’t it worry you, them alone with the killer on the loose?”
“My wife has a good head on her shoulders, and can shoot the bull’s-eye out of a target at a hundred paces.”
“You must want the killer caught as much as the judge and the rest of his vigilantes do,” Fargo remarked.
