Fargo worked his way to the haberdashery whose roof was being used. It wasn’t easy going in the packed walls of humanity lining boardwalk and street alike. A dozen different perfumes and a dozen different tobaccos tinted the air with their scents.
Purty, purty clothes for purty, purty men, Fargo thought as he moved between the aisles of shirts, cravats, hats, and suits. Not his type of attire at all.
He was looking for the owner or a clerk to show him the door to the stairs. Even with all the noise outside, the store was unnaturally quiet.
He soon found the reason why.
A man in a very expensive shirt, cravat, and trousers lay face down near a door in the back room. Fargo’s first impression was that the man was dead.
Fargo dropped to a knee, felt the man’s throat and wrist for a pulse. A strong one. Then he saw the bloody gash in the back of the man’s head where the shooter must have hit him. No wonder the man was still unconscious. He probably would be for some time.
Fargo nearly ripped the door at the top of the steps leading to the roof off its hinges. He was greeted by three quick shots.
Once again, Fargo had to dive for the ground—in this case, one hell of a hot roof—and roll away from the bullets. The roof was being repaired so there were stacks of construction materials here and there for both men to hide behind. The shooter was hidden behind a stack of two-by-fours very near the far edge of the roof.
Fargo chose a huge wooden barrel for shelter. He needed a moment to let his breath work its frantic way back to normal. He was breathing in gasps. That had been one hell of a run, from alley to roof.
He also took the time to peek around the barrel at exactly the same time the shooter was doing the same thing.
Fargo caught enough of a glimpse to know that his adversary was of Latin descent, either from Spain or South America. Not a Mexican. Fargo wasn’t sure why this was his impression but it was. Even from this distance, Fargo could see that the man was middle-aged, handsome, and arrogant.
The man squeezed off two more quick shots.
As Fargo reloaded his Colt, he heard the shooter make his escape. He had jumped from this roof to a lower one next door.
Fargo, still cramming bullets into his gun, jerked up and ran across the boiling rooftop, knowing already that he was too late. The shooter had had the advantage of the rifle. He’d also had the advantage of knowing the town and its best escape routes.
Fargo peered over the edge of the roof.
He didn’t see the shooter anywhere.
“Would you be Liz Turner?” Fargo asked.
“Why, yes,” she said from behind the counter of her newspaper office. “How may I help you?”
Liz Turner turned out to be a fetching woman who had not quite reached her middle age. She was lovely of face, sumptuous of body, and blessed with the grace and poise of the true lady. True ladies didn’t need money, expensive clothes, or a fancy family to possess all these gifts. Poise and grace were innate gifts and a simple woman could possess them just as readily as a princess. Liz Turner possessed them in ample measure.
“My name’s Fargo, ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fargo.”
“I wondered if I could ask you a few questions. If that would be possible.”
Her smile was radiant. “Why, it certainly would be possible.”
“What I’m looking for is some background on this sheriff of yours.”
“Tom?” The way she blushed when she said his name surprised the Trailsman. He wondered instantly what her relationship with Tom Tillman was. “He’s a good man. Decent. And very hardworking.”
“Then he’s nothing like his father?”
“Stepfather, you mean. And no, he’s not. In fact—” She hesitated. “In fact, he and his father don’t get along very well. His father got Tom the sheriff’s job and expected him to do whatever Noah wanted him to. But Tom’s too honest. He did what was right, instead.”
“So Tom Tillman wouldn’t cover up a murder?”
“He certainly wouldn’t.”
“Your husband was murdered, ma’am. And I’m sorry about that. Has Tom Tillman been trying to find the killer?”
She leaned her elbows on the counter—a striking, sensual woman—and said, “You know a lot about me all of a sudden. Now I want to know a lot about you. Who you are and why all this interests you so much.”
“I guess that sounds fair,” the Trailsman said, and began to bring her up-to-date on some of his personal background. And on what had happened to Daisy and her brother.
8
The Tillman ranch was one of the places important Easterners always visited when they were in this area of the West. Noah Tillman—the man who’d created the ranch and so many different business holdings even he wasn’t sure exactly what he owned—was one of those big, powerful, quiet men who almost always avoided confrontation. He had plenty of enemies who felt that he’d somehow cheated them, mistreated them, bullied or bullshitted them.
He’d let you argue with him, pick a fight with him, even curse him in front of his minions. Of course, if you actually struck him, he’d likely lay you out. He’d been a bare-knuckle boxer for a brief period in his youth. He still had quick and deadly hands. But generally, he’d take any amount of verbal guff you cared to give him and say nothing. Just walk away.
A week, a month, maybe even a year later, Noah Tillman would express his displeasure. Not personally; not so you could even prove he was involved. But there would come a day when—after it was made sure that your family was not inside—your nice new house was burned down. Or you found your desperately needed line of credit at the bank had suddenly vanished. Or you found one of your regular visits to the local whorehouse resulting in a judge using you as an example of the kind of hypocritical church-going family man who was actually a whoremonger—and you would be forced to move and start all over again, shamed and scapegoated by your community.
That was how Noah Tillman got you. And he reveled in it. He knew you knew who was behind your sudden and disastrous misfortune, and he was damned joyous that you knew.
The Tillman ranch had more acres, more good grass, more water, more beeves, more cowhands, and more house than any place outside the gaudiest mansions of Texas.
Noah Tillman sat in his study. There was a touch of the extravagant about the huge room—mullioned windows, parquet floor, chairs and couches of Spanish leather, rugs from Persia and China, floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases, Noah being a well-read man—and a silence rarely broken. Noah never gave you much of his time, not even if you were an important personage. He found most conversations tedious and unrewarding. He spent most of his time reading books on the line of Caesars who both perpetuated and then ultimately destroyed Rome. He was especially interested in the games of the Colosseum, specifically the ones the Caesars created to honor themselves. He had accrued everything in his life. Now it was time to entertain himself in lavish and unique ways.
At the moment, he was not as impatient as usual. He had a real interest in what Ekert was telling him. He wasn’t happy with Ekert—he was rarely happy with anybody—but he was disturbed by what he was hearing and so he listened carefully.
“But at least we’ve got the third one now,” Ekert said. He was self-conscious sitting in such a fine leather chair. Sitting in front of a dangerous and completely incomprehensible white-haired gentleman with cruel, eagle-like features and dark eyes that seemed inhuman.
Tillman was always impeccably attired. Expensive, handmade suits ordered half a dozen at a time from
