“He is one of the worst of the bunch, a weasel of a back-shooter who only picks on those weaker than him. The other one you met, Kutler, is what you might call Durn’s second-in-command.”
“And Grunge?” Fargo asked.
“A freak of nature, is what he is. Grunge is not much bigger than you but he has hands the size of hams. He can break a door with one punch, or cave in a man’s face.”
Fargo was mentally filing the information. He had learned a lot but there was a lot more yet to uncover. “Old-timer, mind if I ask you a question?”
“I thought that was what you have been doing.”
“It is about your wife and brother—”
“About how they died?” Thaddeus broke in. “I would rather not talk about it. But this once I will make an exception.” He drew a deep breath. “Durn dropped a tree on them.”
“What?”
“Are you hard of hearing? A week after Martha gave Durn a piece of her mind, I went off to hunt. Simon was chopping a tree for firewood. He waved as I rode off. That was the last I saw him or my Martha alive.”
“But what makes you think Durn was involved?”
“Let me finish. I got back about sundown and found both of them lying under the tree Simon had been chopping. They were crushed to bits.”
“The tree might have fallen on them.” Fargo had heard of similar mishaps in his travels.
“That is what Durn wants everyone to believe. But I know better. I found a bump on the back of Martha’s head.”
Fargo shifted in the saddle, and forgot to hold his breath. “You just said a tree fell on her. There were bound to be bumps.”
“The tree didn’t fall on her
“Did your brother have a bump on his head?”
Thaddeus took exception. “Are you trying to rile me? No, he did not, but I am willing to bet my bottom dollar he was stabbed.”
“You saw a knife wound?”
“I think there was one,” Thaddeus said uncertainly. “It was hard to tell. The tree made a mess of him.”
Fargo was skeptical. It seemed to him that the old man was blaming Durn for what might have been a simple accident. He made a remark to that effect.
“That is how Durn does it. He kills quietly, and smartly, so he isn’t ever blamed.”
“I don’t know,” Fargo said. In his capacity as an investigator for the army, it was important he stick to the facts and not make the mistake of believing others without proof.
“So much for us being friends,” Thaddeus grumbled. “Mike Durn has you hoodwinked, and you haven’t even met him yet.”
“I will soon enough.”
Thaddeus fell silent, leaving Fargo to his thoughts. Although he did not mind helping the army out, it was not his usual line of work. But Colonel Travis was a friend, and he would do what he could.
The situation was compounded by the fact that Polson was so far removed from civilization. Normally, the town marshal or county sheriff would handle things, but Polson did not have a marshal and was not in an established county. For that matter, Polson was not part of a state, either. It was in Nebraska Territory, which stretched from the Canadian border to the north clear down to Kansas Territory in the south.
Not that the legal niceties mattered all that much. Since the federal government was trying to set up an Indian reservation, and rumors had filtered back of an organized effort to prevent it by driving the Indians out, the problem was clearly under federal jurisdiction.
So Colonel Travis decided to send in a special investigator.
Enter Fargo.
The sun relinquished its reign to the gathering twilight.
As Fargo had reckoned, by then he was within sight of Polson and the south shore of Flathead Lake.
“I hate coming here,” Thaddeus Thompson remarked. “It makes me think of Martha, and how she met her end.”
“Did anyone take a look at the bodies besides you?” Fargo asked.
“I never thought to ask. I dug the remains out from under the tree and buried them. Then I came here and accused Mike Durn to his face.”
“What did he do?”
“He called me a loon, and most folks believed him.”
“Most?”
“A few still have their backbones. Sally Brook took my side but she is only one gal and there is not much she can do.”
“How would I go about finding her?”
“Sally runs a shop for ladies. She sells dresses and hats and such. You can find her there most any hour of the day.”
As they neared the lights of Polson, Fargo recollected more of the local geography. The settlement had been built in a sort of natural amphitheater at the south end of the lake, which fed into the nearby Flathead River. To the west towered the Mission Mountains.
The last time Fargo was here, the nights were quiet and peaceful, the few residents, homebodies who turned in early so they could be up at the crack of dawn. Those days, and nights, were gone.
Now, Polson had the trappings of a boomtown. Nearly every building was ablaze with light. Piano music wafted on the breeze, punctuated by loud voices and laughter. Every hitch rail was filled. Coarse men in dirty clothes prowled the street, admiring women in tight dresses who sashayed about advertising their wares.
“I’ll be damned,” Fargo said.
“Not what you expected, huh?” Thaddeus said glumly. “Every cutthroat and no-account in the territory has heard Polson is a haven for their kind. This is only the beginning.”
Fargo was going to ask what he meant but just then a drunk came stumbling out of the shadows and nearly collided with the Ovaro.
“I know him!” Thaddeus declared, and awkwardly slid off, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Fred! It’s me!”
“Thaddeus?”
“What do you say to sharing that bottle?”
Fred beamed and clapped Thaddeus on the back, and the pair melted into the shadows.
Fargo rode on down the street. The most noise came from the largest and newest building. A sign out front proclaimed that he had found the Whiskey Mill. Since there was no room at the hitch rail, he drew up at a corner of the overhang and tied the reins to the post.
Sliding the Henry from the scabbard, Fargo stepped to the batwings. A blast of sound and odors hit him: curses, squeals, mirth, the tinkle of poker chips, the rattle of a roulette wheel, the smell of beer and whiskey mixed with cigar smoke and perfume.
Fargo breathed deep, and pushed on in. The saloon was bursting at the seams. Every table was filled. The bar was lined from end to end. Women flitted about, being as friendly as they could be.
With a start, Fargo realized that few of the females were white. Most were Flatheads, but a few were from other tribes. He went to skirt a table when suddenly a man in a chair pushed back and stepped directly into his path. They bumped shoulders, hard.
“Watch where you are going, damn you,” the man complained.
Fargo went on by, saying, “You walked into me, lunkhead.” He was brought up short by a hand on his arm.
“What did you just call me?” The man was compact and muscular and had the shoulders of a bull.
“Want me to spell it?” Fargo tore loose and took another step, only to have his arm grabbed a second time. He turned, just as a fist arced at his face.
