Ninety-seven pounds of pure hellishness when she wants to be.” He said this with obvious affection.
“You didn’t answer my question. Is anybody around here revolting against Noah Tillman?”
“Well, in quiet ways. Rumors, really. That’s about all. That’s their weapon of choice. They wouldn’t dare go up against him directly. So they gossip. And gossip eventually takes its toll in small ways.”
“So there’s nothing going on at Skeleton Key?”
“You want an honest answer?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
For the first time, Larson’s face showed both strain and weariness. “I’ve got a very sick daughter, Mr. Fargo. A bad heart. I’m always taking her to Little Rock to see doctors. And I’m not rich. When Noah came to me and said that I was to report back to him on anything ‘interesting’ that went on in the sheriff’s office, I said no. I said I like Tom too much. Tom’s the best sheriff this town’s ever had.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“Then Noah offered me money. I always thought I was an honest man. I took the money. Because of my daughter. Every penny goes to her. You can believe that or not but it’s the truth.”
Fargo surprised himself. He believed Larson.
“I did one more thing, too.”
“What’s that?”
“I told Tom what was going on. I told him that if there was anything he didn’t want his old man to find out, not to tell me. I didn’t want to cheat either of my bosses. I tell Noah everything I hear. But I don’t hear much because I warned Tom ahead of time. He plays everything close to the vest. That leaves only one other person who could be supplying Noah with the information I don’t have, Queeg.”
“Queeg’s a spy for Noah?”
He laughed and not without a certain respect. “That’s Noah. He knew how much I liked Tom and he knew I’d tell him some things but not everything. So he put Queeg on the payroll, too. Queeg needs money like everybody else.”
“Why doesn’t he fire you?”
“Because anybody who worked for him, Noah would get to one way or the other. Tom’d end up firing everybody who ever pinned on a badge. If it’s something real secret, Tom keeps it strictly to himself. Queeg learns some things I don’t and vice versa. But there are things that only Tom knows about, too.” This time his smile was tainted with embarrassment. “I guess I’m not the honest fella I always thought I was.”
This was all supposed to work out so simple, Karl Ekert thought, as he looked down at the grave site that had briefly held Daisy’s body.
Me and the Mex go into town, find the girl, take her, bring her back.
Easy as pie.
Except they hadn’t counted on finding her in the room of some gunny called the Trailsman. And they sure hadn’t thought the girl, after being knocked out with the drug splashed on the handkerchief, would suddenly wake up, jump down from the Mex’s horse, and start running.
The Mex had caught her, wrestled with her and then, with rage, shot her in the forehead.
Somebody had returned the favor, Ekert thought as he looked down at the Mex.
Ekert looked at the ruins of their plan. The grave they’d dug had been dug up again, small piles of red clay everywhere. Plus the muddied shovel. And the body of Lopez itself.
The last time Ekert had seen Lopez alive was after they’d dug the grave. Ekert wanted to get back to the ranch so he told Lopez to finish up and then head back.
Then something happened. But what? How had anybody figured out that Lopez was here? Maybe Lopez, a man with a treacherous temper, had opened fire on somebody and started the whole thing that way? But who would unearth the girl and then steal her corpse? Whatever was going on here was very confusing.
He’d throw Lopez over his own horse and take him back and talk to the boss. Maybe the boss could help clear up the mystery.
Stupid damned Mex, he thought as he went over and dug his hands beneath the corpse. The flies were already feasting on the dead and bloody flesh.
He was beginning to think that maybe that damned gunny the girl had been with—he had something to do with this. Taking the corpse. Shooting the Mex.
Ekert frowned to himself. This was all supposed to work out so simple.
Fargo was on his way to the newspaper office when he saw a crippled man approach him. The man wore town clothes, a boiled white shirt, and trousers held up by suspenders. He wore a rakish hat at an angle. His gray mustache matched the gray hair beneath the hat.
“I’m Jefferson Tolan,” the man said with a heavy drawl. “I’m the teacher at the school up the road.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Tolan. But I’m in a hurry, I’m afraid.”
Tolan surprised him by producing money. A lot of it. Green money. Laid in the palm of his hand. “This is for you.”
“Well, that’s very nice. But I didn’t do anything to earn it.”
“That’s the thing. I’m hoping you’ll take the money now and then go about earning it later.”
Fargo sighed. He wanted to get on and see the newspaper woman.
“I have a room right there in the hotel, Mr. Fargo. I want to show you some photographs of my little girls and see if you can help find them for me.”
Fargo figured that it would take longer to talk his way out of this than to just go up, see the photographs of the little girls, and then say, no, he was sorry, he didn’t have time for the job. Whatever it might be.
“All right, Mr. Tolan. But I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“I appreciate this.” He started to walk toward the hotel and then stopped. “Oh, I wasn’t always gimped up like this, Mr. Fargo. I went looking for my little girls last year. One of the places I wanted to check out was Skeleton Key. But it seems Mr. Burgade had other ideas. Old Noah’s had some pretty low characters working for him over the years, but they don’t come any lower than Burgade. Anyway, I tried three or four times. The last time, Burgade put a bullet in my knee.”
“You try and charge him with anything?”
“Wouldn’t have done any good, Mr. Fargo. There’re NO TRESPASSING signs posted all over. I was in violation of the law. He had every right to shoot me. I suppose he could’ve killed me and gotten away with it.”
The hotel wasn’t as well-appointed as the one Fargo was staying in, but the interior was constructed of good mahogany and the dining room they passed was scented with the aroma of good food well prepared.
Tolan had a room on the ground floor near the back. There was a monkish quality to it. The furnishings were dark wood, severe. Every wall had a bookcase. And no dime novels were to be found. Fargo wasn’t sure who either Aristophanes or Cicero were but they both had leather-bound volumes on one of Tolan’s shelves. All the other authors looked to be just as imposing. A globe sat on an end table while two walls were covered with historical time-lines for America and Europe. A cut-glass decanter held some fair to middling grape wine that Tolan eagerly shared with Fargo.
Tolan went to a small rolltop desk and took two photographs from it. He walked over to Fargo and showed him the first one.
“They look like twins, those two girls in the pictures.”
“That’s what most people think. But they’re not. Nancy’s the eldest. This one. The other is Stephanie.”
The “little” girls appeared to be in their midteens and gave every evidence of not having been “little” for several years. They were lovely but healthy girls with sunshine in their eyes and mischief on their smiling mouths.
“And here’s what they looked like a year-and-a-half ago when they disappeared.”
Fargo broke into a boyish grin as his eyes scanned the second photograph. “They sure aren’t little any more.”
“They turned out to be just as beautiful as their mother. She died when Nancy was seven. Cholera. I raised the girls myself. I damned near had to hire an army to keep the boys away.”
They wore summer dresses that couldn’t hide their strong, exhilarating bodies.
