Biting into a rabbit leg, Fargo chewed the juicy meat with relish.
“Did you hear me?”
“I’m sitting three feet from you,” Fargo said with his mouth full.
“Secrecy is of the utmost importance. We don’t want word to get back to the devil we are after.”
“Who in their right mind would warn him?” Fargo asked. “After all he’s done?”
“You know how gossip and rumors spread,” Draypool said. “And remember, we have no idea who the Sangamon River Monster is. It could be anyone.”
“Which reminds me,” Fargo said. “How am I to track him? Do we wait around for him to strike and I pick up his trail?”
“That is one option, yes. But the group I work with has been quietly trying to learn his identity. We have a network of informers at our disposal. And we have a description to go by. The Monster is a man in his forties, maybe early fifties. He is tall, over six feet, and rather thin. He has a beard but no mustache.”
“That could fit hundreds of men,” Fargo noted.
“True. But we also know he has black hair, a big nose, and big ears. That narrows it down some.”
Still, it was like looking for a needle in a giant haystack, and Fargo said so.
“Does that mean we give up before we begin?” Draypool responded. “I should say not! Think of all those this man has killed. Think of those he will slay in the future if he is not stopped.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”
“We are counting on you,” Draypool said. “More than you can imagine. The success or failure of our enterprise rests entirely on your shoulders. Are you up to the challenge? Have I made a mistake?”
“I’ll do what I can.” Fargo would not make promises he could not keep.
Draypool gave him a searching scrutiny and sighed. “We can only hope for the best. We will help you every step of the way as best we are able.”
Later, Fargo lay on his back under his blanket, his arm pillowing his head, and gazed absently up at the sparkling myriad of stars. He felt uneasy, and he could not say why, which added to his unease. It wasn’t the risk he was taking in going after a butcher like the Monster. He had tangled with the likes of the Apaches and the Comanches, and certain white outlaws and badmen who were every bit as formidable. No, it was something else. But what? He racked his brain for over an hour. He reviewed all that had happened since he met Draypool. And when he was done, the unease still gnawed at him, and he still could not say why. Then sleep claimed him.
The next day was a repeat of the previous one. Zeck stuck to the less-used roads. Whenever they came upon other travelers, Draypool visibly tensed and came up close to Fargo. Yet another puzzlement.
At midday they stopped at the side of the road. The packs on one of the packhorses were loose, and Draypool instructed Avril and Zeck to tighten them. Dismounting, Draypool sat in the shade of a maple and dabbed at his perspiring brow with a handkerchief.
“I have never gotten used to this damnable humidity.”
“I need to stretch my legs.” Fargo pushed his hat back on his head and strolled into the woods.
“Don’t be gone long,” Draypool called after him. “We have many miles to travel yet today.”
A gray squirrel chattered at Fargo from high in a tree. Sparrows chirped and frolicked. Crows were active to the west, their
Fargo breathed deeply of the dank forest scent and was at peace. He hiked another ten yards and unexpectedly emerged from the dense growth onto a clearly defined path that paralleled the road. Even more unexpected was the old woman walking down the path toward him. A faded homespun dress clung to her spindly frame, and she walked with the aid of a bent cane. She slowed in surprise, but only for a second.
“How do you do, young man? You startled me, coming out of nowhere like that.”
Fargo smiled and said, “I’m not the Sangamon River Monster, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Her gray eyebrows puckered. “The what?”
“The Sangamon River Monster,” Fargo said. “The man who has been killing people in these parts for the past ten years.”
The old woman tilted her head and regarded him as if he might be addlepated. “Sonny, as the Lord is my witness, I never heard of the fella.”
10
Arthur Draypool had an explanation. “I don’t know who the old woman was, but the elderly tend to be feebleminded.”
“Her mind was as sharp as yours or mine.” Fargo had questioned the woman closely, and although she had lived in Illinois all her life, she could not recall so much as a single mention of the Sangamon River Monster.
“Maybe so,” Draypool said. “But there’s also the fact we’re still well south of the Monster’s usual haunts. Besides”—he paused and gestured at the thick greenery on both sides of the road—“it’s not as if there are daily or weekly newspapers out here. Most news is spread by word of mouth.” He paused again. “And didn’t you say she lives all alone off in a cabin somewhere? If she doesn’t have much contact with the outside world, how can you expect her to know about the Monster?”
Fargo supposed it was possible. The woman
“What exactly are you implying, anyhow?” Draypool demanded. “That there is no killer? That I went to considerable effort to find you, that I’m paying you a small fortune when you complete your task, as a lark?”
Fargo had to admit the notion was preposterous.
“Make no mistake,” Draypool said earnestly. “I have never been more serious about anything in my life. I have pledged my heart, body, and soul to bringing the man we are after to bay. Whether you help us or not, I won’t rest until I have accomplished what I have set out to do.”
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. They passed several cabins, and Fargo resisted an impulse to ask the occupants if they had ever heard of the killer. Draypool would not take it kindly.
Another night under the stars.
Fargo grew inwardly restive to find the Monster and get it over with. He reminded himself that for ten thousand dollars he could afford to be patient.
The next couple of days were spent wending to the northeast through a backwoodsman’s paradise. A sign appeared, letting them know Springfield was ten miles ahead. Fargo was looking forward to a bath, a whiskey, and a woman, not necessarily in that order, and he was not happy when Arthur Draypool announced, “We will take the north fork when we come to it and go around Springfield, if you please, Mr. Zeck.”
Fargo gigged the Ovaro up next to Draypool’s animal. “Give me one good reason why we’re not stopping.”
“The fewer people who see us, the less likely that word will reach our quarry.”
“No one knows who we are or what we are up to,” Fargo said, more harshly than he intended. Being cautious was one thing. Draypool was taking it to an extreme.
“And I want to keep it that way. We are now in the heart of the killer’s territory. We must not leave anything to chance.”
Fargo had seen few men in buckskins since crossing into Illinois. His attire was bound to draw notice in Springfield, and while he did not see where it would do them any harm, he decided he would go along with what Draypool wanted.
This close to Springfield, homesteads were everywhere. Fargo lost count of the number of cabins and small houses they passed.
Then they topped a rise, and below stood a dwelling worthy of a king. Three stories high, it covered half an acre. The ground floor was composed of stone and mortar, the upper stories of hewn logs. A carriage shed and various other outbuildings were scattered about neatly maintained grounds, which were surrounded by a wrought- iron fence.
“Whoever lives there must have a lot of money,” Fargo remarked.
“That he does.” Arthur Draypool grinned. “Judge Oliver Harding is the gentleman’s name, and he is doing us the singular honor of allowing us to stay at his home for the night.”
