Backwoods Bloodbath

Fargo did not move closer. So long as the man lived, he was dangerous. “Who is the League after?”

Layton glared.

“His name,” Fargo persisted.

“Go to hell!” The words were spat out in a blubbery hiss matched by the hiss of scarlet.

“You first.”

Layton tottered, swore, and fell to his knees. Blood gushed over his lower lip in a thick red flow. He glanced wildly about, as if seeking the Remington, then raised his knife to the star-speckled heavens and tried to shout something, but all that came out of his mouth was more blood and inarticulate sounds. He looked at Fargo and weakly cocked his arm to throw his knife. Life fled, and with a final groan he toppled.

Fargo felt for a pulse to be sure. He searched Layton’s pockets and saddlebags in the hope of finding a clue to the League’s plot, but there was nothing. With a sigh of frustration, he faced to the southwest and then to the northeast. He had a decision to make. Should he go after Harding and Draypool and the rest? Or should he continue tracking and find out who they were after?

Which would it be?

15

Hour after hour the tracks led Fargo north by northeast. The morning passed and the sun was at its zenith when he came to a river. He heard it before he saw it, heard the unmistakable watery rustle, like a sheet sliding across a bed.

The tracks went right up to the river’s edge. There, the killer had sat in the dirt, the impression of his buttocks confirming his lean build. He had removed his shoes and socks. Fargo knew because the tracks to the water were those of bare feet.

The killer had waded right in.

Fargo gazed toward the opposite shore. If the killer could cross at that point, so could the Ovaro. There were no rapids to contend with and the water was not deep.

After so much time in the forest, venturing into the open grated on Fargo’s nerves. The whole way across, he scoured the other side for a possible ambush. It was an ideal spot. He had nowhere to take cover except in the water. One shot was all it would take to pick him off. But none shattered the muggy air, and presently the Ovaro stood on a flat stretch of shore and shook, spraying drops every which way.

The killer had sat to put on his shoes and socks, then jogged into the trees. Instead of traveling northward though, he bore east along the river, paralleling it.

Fargo sensed a purpose to the change of direction. Not quite half an hour later he came on a wide trail that saw frequent use. The trail started at the river and wound to the north. Dismounting, he walked to the Sangamon. The spot was a regularly used crossing. In the distance, to the south, was a small town.

Fargo scratched his chin in thought. Why had the killer crossed farther down rather than use the normal crossing? To avoid being seen? Then why come to the regular crossing at all? The answer lay at his feet: the jumble of tracks. The killer’s were now amid a maze of others. Anyone tracking him would find it that much harder.

Leading the Ovaro by the reins, Fargo walked the first half mile, to a fork where a small trail angled to the northeast. Fewer people used it, and there were fewer tracks. He had no difficulty distinguishing those he had been following from the rest. Smiling to himself, he climbed into the saddle.

Ten minutes later Fargo passed an isolated homestead. In a corral attached to the large cabin were two horses. Several small children stopped playing to stare. So did their father, who was curing a hide. A rifle was propped against a nearby stump. Fargo lifted a hand in greeting and the man did likewise.

Twenty minutes more, and another homestead. This one was smaller than the first, with no corral and no horses. No children, either, but a woman was hanging wash on a line, and on hearing the clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves, she called out, and a man emerged with a rifle in his hands. Again Fargo waved. Again the homesteader raised an arm in acknowledgment.

Cautious but friendly. Typical backwoodsmen.

Over an hour later Fargo came on the next homestead, the smallest yet. A dog tied to a stake barked in warning, and a young man and young woman came out, the woman cradling an infant to her bosom, the man with the inevitable rifle. They smiled, and the young man called out, “You’re welcome to light and set a spell if you want!”

Fargo reined across the clearing and stopped. “Mind if I ask you folks a question?” he asked politely.

“Is that all?” the man said. “We don’t get many visitors. How about a cup of coffee? My wife makes the best you’ll taste anywhere.”

The woman blushed and said, “Oh, pshaw.”

Fargo wouldn’t mind, but he had to push on. “Maybe on my way back. I’d like to know if you saw anyone else go by today?”

“Sure didn’t,” the young man responded. “But I’ve been inside mostly, making a cradle for the baby.”

“I did,” the woman said. “I saw him out the window. It wasn’t the usual one.”

“How’s that?” Fargo asked.

It was the husband who answered. “There’s a fella who has a cabin deeper in. We don’t often see him, maybe once every three or four months.” He looked at his wife. “But it wasn’t him?”

“No,” the woman confirmed. “About the same height and just as skinny, but this one didn’t have a beard and was carrying a rifle, not an ax.”

“An ax?” Fargo said.

The husband nodded. “The man who lives past us always has an ax with him. Never a gun, just the ax. Carries it like it’s part of him.”

Fargo touched his hat brim. “I’m obliged.” He reined around, then stopped to say over his shoulder,

“Keep your eyes peeled. More men might come by, late today or early tomorrow. Stay shy of them. They’re not to be trusted.”

“What’s it about?” the young man asked in sudden concern.

“I’m not sure,” Fargo said. “But I suspect they’ve already killed one family and wouldn’t hesitate to harm your wife and you.”

“You should go to the law.”

“Without proof there’s not much a lawman could do,” Fargo said, and gigged the stallion.

“Thanks for the warning, mister!”

Fargo had a lot to ponder. For starters, what was he to make of the fact that the man he was following looked a lot like another man who had a cabin farther in? Could it be the woman was mistaken? That the man she saw was the same man, only he had shaved his beard and traded his ax for a rifle? Or was the second man a friend of the first? Or was it something else entirely? Answers were elusive. He had too little information to go on.

The trail meandered interminably into the shadowed depths of the woodland. Birds were everywhere. Squirrels scampered in the upper terrace. Deer that had seldom set eyes on human beings stared without fear.

Once, Fargo spooked a young black bear that ran off grunting and huffing.

It was the ring of an ax that alerted Fargo he was close. Coming to a stop, he dismounted, drew his Colt, and led the Ovaro warily forward. The steady thunk-thunk-thunk of the ax grew louder.

The homestead was a work in progress. The cabin was the smallest yet. Many of the trees around it had yet to be cleared. A tall, lanky man with a broad chest was attending to that task, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms. Every stroke of his ax was powerful and precise. Another backwoodsman, if ever there was one.

The tracks Fargo had been following did not enter the clearing. They veered off the trail into the forest.

Squaring his shoulders, Fargo walked into the open. The man swinging the ax did not appear to notice him. Ten feet behind him, Fargo stopped.

Without stopping, the man asked, “Are you fixing to shoot me, citizen?”

“Put it down,” Fargo said.