Backwoods Bloodbath

“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