straight hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes as dark as pitch.
Spaced well apart, they came to the edge of the road to await him. Neither had a firearm strapped around his waist, but that was deceiving. Barely noticeable bulges under their frock coats revealed where they carried their revolvers. The tall one said something over his shoulder, and Arthur Draypool hurried up to greet Fargo warmly. “Welcome! I was worried you wouldn’t find us!”
Fargo had not taken his eyes off the pair in black. His right hand on his Colt, he drew rein in the middle of the dusty road and remarked, “These are the associates you were telling me about?”
“What?” Draypool said, and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. You must mean the note I left for you. It was, perhaps, an unfortunate choice of words. The associates you are thinking of, the ones I told you about in the saloon, are men of power and prestige in Illinois. Businessmen and politicians who have decided enough lawlessness is enough and want to eliminate the criminals.” He gestured at the frock coats. “These two gentlemen work for me and only me. I retain them to safeguard my person from physical harm.”
“Do you, now?”
“Permit me to introduce Mr. Bryce Avril,” Draypool said, nodding at the tall man with the yellow curls, “and Mr. Vern Zeck.” The small man might as well have been carved from marble. “They never do anything separately. Where one goes, the other goes. What one does, the other does. They are reflections of each other, you might say.” Draypool grinned crookedly.
“You never mentioned them in Kansas City.”
“My apologies,” Draypool responded, “but how is that pertinent? They have no bearing on you or our agreement.”
Fargo still didn’t like it. The pair made his skin itch. The same itch he’d had last month when he spotted a Comanche war party down in Texas, or the month before that when he’d encountered a grizzly in the high country. They were hired killers. Nothing more, nothing less.
Arthur Draypool wasn’t a complete fool. “I can send them on ahead if they bother you,” he offered.
Avril and Zeck exchanged glances, and the taller man said, “We advise against that, sir. Outlaws infest these Missouri hills. It’s not safe.”
“Mr. Fargo will protect me,” Draypool said. “Both of you are aware of his reputation. I would be in good hands.”
“But not our hands,” Zeck said. “Begging your pardon, sir, but he isn’t on your payroll. He doesn’t give a damn if you live or die.”
“And you do?” Fargo broke in.
Avril and Zeck nodded in unison, and the former replied, “We like working for Mr. Draypool. He pays well for our services.”
“Extremely well,” Zeck amended.
“And we would not take it kindly if anything were to happen to him,” Avril warned.
Zeck nodded. “We would not take it well at all.”
To Draypool, Avril said, “We will go if you insist, sir, but we will not go far. We will not let you out of our sight.”
Vern Zeck nodded. “We will watch over you whether you want us to or not.”
“It’s up to Mr. Fargo,” Draypool said. “I will abide by his decision, whatever it might be.”
Fargo had not changed his opinion of the pair. If anything, he distrusted them even more. But it occurred to him that it was better to keep them close so he could keep an eye on them. “They can tag along.”
Draypool’s relief was transparent. “I thank you, most sincerely. The truth is, I couldn’t get by without them. They have been my right and left hands for several years. I rely on them for much more than you can imagine.”
“If you say so.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro. “Let’s head out. It’s a long ride to Springfield and I don’t aim to be at this all year.” He had gone only a hundred yards when hooves clattered and Arthur Draypool brought his mount alongside the pinto and paced it.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be?” Fargo evaded the question.
“I don’t know. But I have the distinct feeling you are.” Draypool waited, and when the seconds stretched on in silence, he coughed and said, “Perhaps we should talk this out. As you noted, we have a long journey ahead, and it won’t do to spend it upset. Surely that is reasonable?”
“All I care about is the ten thousand.”
“As well you should,” Draypool said. “But there is a lot at stake, and it would help matters if we can get along.”
“Maybe I’m the wrong man for the job,” Fargo said.
“No!” Draypool practically came out of the saddle. “Trust me. No one is more suited. You are just the person we need. A lot of careful planning has gone into this operation.”
Fargo could think of half a dozen scouts able to track the Sangamon River Monster, and said so.
“Undoubtedly they could,” Draypool said. “But you are the one we want. No one else will suffice.”
“Why not?” In Fargo’s estimation they were making more of him than he deserved. “Frontiersmen are as common as grass west of the Mississippi.”
“But not ones with your talents,” Draypool said.
“Not ones who have your experience. Not ones whose tracking skills rival an Apache’s.” He grinned like the proverbial cat that ate the proverbial canary. “You see, I have studied up on you. I have read every newspaper article, every lurid periodical. I know where you were born. I know that if you were in the habit of carving notches on your revolver, you would need a revolver as big as the moon.”
“You have me all figured out,” Fargo dryly commented.
Draypool giggled. “I flatter myself that I do, yes. When engaging in an enterprise of this nature, it is wise to learn all one can.”
“What makes this different from any other manhunt?” Fargo asked.
“The nature of the quarry. You would not hire a ten-year-old to hunt a bear, would you? By the same token, I would not hire just any simpleton off the street to hunt the Sangamon River Monster.” Draypool paused. “Taking him alive will not be easy. I hope you will reconsider your decision not to shoot him on sight.”
“I’m not a hired killer.” Fargo thought he had made that plain.
“Then you put yourself at a disadvantage, because I can assure you that he will have no compunction about killing you.”
“I brought a Mimbres chief in alive once. I can do the same with your renegade,” Fargo predicted.
Arthur Draypool frowned and fidgeted. “I appreciate your confidence. I truly do. What will it take to convince you it is misguided?”
“That’s a polite way of calling me an idiot,” Fargo observed.
“Not at all. I merely don’t care to be responsible for your death. It would weigh heavily on my conscience.”
Fargo had seen enough buffalo droppings to know when he was hip-deep in the stuff. “We should play poker sometime.”
Draypool could not hide his confusion. “I’m sorry. What does that have to do with anything?”
Before Fargo could respond, Bryce Avril trotted up beside them. He was leading their packhorse. There was no sign of Vern Zeck. “We are being followed, sir,” he announced.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.” Avril twisted and pointed.
At the last bend they had passed, well back from the road and screened by trees so no one coming up the road could see him, sat Zeck astride a bay. Raising an arm, he held up two fingers.
“Perhaps they are innocent travelers,” Draypool said.
“Can we afford to take the chance, sir?”
Fargo remembered the man who had followed Draypool the night before, but he did not share the information.
“What would you recommend, Mr. Avril?”
“Fargo and you ride on, sir. Vern and I will catch up after we deal with the two trailing us.”
