For an instant there was recognition in his eyes, but the man said, “Hard to say. Could be a lot of folks. So many here for the celebration tomorrow, I mean.”
“You sure about that?”
After setting the feed bag on a hook and leading the stallion out of the stall, the livery man said, “There’re three colored folks they let live right here in town, mister. The rest live up around the river bend. I’m one of the three they let have a nice little house right on the edge of town. They do right by me and my whole family. And I appreciate that.”
Fargo heard what was being said. “Appreciate it enough to stay out of trouble is what you’re saying.”
“That’s right, mister. And trouble means never getting involved with anybody who’s got it in for old Noah.”
“This involve Noah, does it?”
“I didn’t say that, mister.”
“All right, you didn’t say it.”
“What I did say is that you owe me for another day and night if you’re comin’ back here.”
Fargo paid him.
As he was saddling his horse, Fargo heard several light steps behind him. The liveryman. “For the most part, this is a nice town. They say down South the colored aren’t treated so well. But I went up North for a couple of weeks to visit my cousin and I’ll tell you somethin’. I’m treated a lot better down here than he is up there. And that’s the truth.”
Fargo sensed that the man had something more to say but he stopped speaking and turned and walked away. “I wish you luck, mister.”
“Thanks.”
The liveryman grinned. “You understand why I can’t tell you that I saw a wagon like the one you described headed north out of town?”
Fargo grinned back. “Yeah, I understand.”
5
Having served as a scout for the U.S. Cavalry from time to time, Fargo could read trail with the best of them. In this case, he was following buckboard wheels, which was less difficult. Every wheel had a peculiarity to it. Some sort of mark that made it distinctive.
The alley behind a hotel is generally a busy place. There were a number of wagon wheel markings to read. Fargo took the one that had left the clearest impression and started following it. He tracked it out of the alley and into the street, where it remained the clearest impression. Meaning that this was the wagon that had been parked most recently behind the hotel most likely belonging to the kidnappers.
The wheel mark was easy enough to see among the others. It had picked up a small nail somewhere along the way, the weight of the wagon sufficient to embed the nail into the wooden wheel.
When he got to the dusty, baking street, Fargo found that the tracks led north, just as the liveryman had said.
Getting out of town wasn’t easy. The main street was packed with people loading displays on flatbed wagons for the parade. The Tillman name was on virtually every one of them.
People were standing on some of the wagons. They were practicing for the parade tomorrow and were in costume. Their attire told the story of the great Tillman family, which Fargo found about as fascinating as watching ants scurry down a sidewalk for a couple of hours.
The pageant used six wagons for the entire boring story to be told. How the Tillmans—a fat man gussied up in fake mountain clothing—had first pioneered this land. How the Tillmans—a skinny man sporting a peace officer’s badge the size of a baseball mitt—had brought law and order to this place that had once been a roost for robbers. How the Tillmans—a pregnant woman surrounded by four screaming three-year-olds—had brought civilization to the local Indians, as depicted by a white man with a walleye and some kind of red goop on his face. He wore a headband and a single feather. And three other equally spellbinding floats. Maybe the locals would find this sort of event fun. Fargo would prefer a lady, a bottle, and a nice firm bed.
Liz Turner wiped a sleeve across her classically beautiful face and fed more sheets into her Washington Hand Press, the same printing machine that she and her late husband had lugged across three states and two territories while looking for the right place to settle.
Tillman, Arkansas wasn’t her ideal settling place but for the moment she didn’t have any choice. One wintry morning two years ago, her husband, Richard, had been shot in the back while coming to work. He had been working on a story about the place Noah Tillman owned—and would let nobody but a few of his gunnys on to— Skeleton Key. Not even Sheriff Tom Tillman had been on Skeleton Key. Liz was more than a little prejudiced where Tom was concerned. She’d been carrying on a very secret affair with him for more than eight months.
She wanted to find her husband’s killer, but for now, the day she needed to get the weekly
She inhaled deeply of the scent of printer’s ink. To her the odor was more satisfying than the sweetest perfume. She loved the newspaper business. She’d grown up an orphan on the streets of Baltimore, nothing more than an urchin. So many young ones like that died of disease or hunger or at the hands of perverts. Somehow, she had triumphed. Somehow.
She glanced at Henry. His finger was up his nose. He extricated it quickly and then wiped said finger on his corduroys.
“Henry,” she said, “I’m just afraid you’re going to get that finger permanently stuck up there someday.”
Henry grinned. “My whole family picks like I do.”
“Never invite me to one of your family reunions, Henry.”
They were both laughing about that one when the front door opened and Mike “Red” Grogan came to the long front desk where they took orders for printing (printing jobs earned them a lot more than the newspaper) and advertisements. Red was a spoiled rich kid but unlike most of the spoiled rich kids around here, he wasn’t a snob and he wasn’t mean. He used any excuse to come in here and see Liz. Lord, he had this terrible crush on her. She knew that she was still attractive at age thirty-two. She had that pretty face and a shape that had held its shapeliness and she laughed in such a soft, gentle way that she could charm a drunken grizzly bear.
She just wished Mike was about fifteen years older. For her sake and his.
“Hi,” he said, immediately blushing.
He almost never had a good excuse to visit the newspaper office. In fact, most of his excuses were embarrassingly bad, usually revolving around how we wanted to learn the newspaper business and be a journalist someday. Right. His father would send him east to school—his father had graduated from Dartmouth and never let you forget it—and then, like his old man, Mike would go into banking. The family owned fourteen banks in the state. By the time Mike took the reins, that number would probably be in the vicinity of twenty. Nobody sane would turn down a job like that to work and starve at a newspaper.
“I might have a story for you.”
She had to admit, this surprised her. This was the first time he’d ever offered her a story lead. But before she got too excited, she had to remember that this was a kid who practically swooned every time he saw her on the street. And who would say anything to justify stopping by the newspaper office.
“A story?”
He leaned forward to stage whisper his response. “Fella named Fargo over at the Royalton Hotel told me that
