“You don’t say.” Fargo wondered if Harding had a daughter. “He wouldn’t happen to be another vigilante, would he?”
“Must you use that term? I find it most vulgar.” Draypool sniffed. “But, yes, he is a member of our secret group. He also contributed a large amount to your fee.”
“A judge who breaks the law when it suits him,” Fargo commented. “What would folks say?”
Draypool frowned. “He does it for the common good, to save innocent lives.”
“That’s as good an excuse as any.” Fargo was not sure why he was baiting Draypool. Maybe he was sick and tired of the whole secrecy business. Maybe it was resentment at how they were treating him. Or maybe it was both.
A wide gate barred entrance to the judge’s estate. Stone columns supported the gate, and from behind the column on the left stepped a hawk-faced man holding a rifle. “That’s far enough,” he said. He was staring at Fargo, suspicion imprinted on his features. Then the guard noticed Draypool, and immediately his attitude changed. “Mr. Draypool! I didn’t realize it was you, sir.”
“A pleasure to see you again, Gerald.”
Gerald gestured, and from behind the other stone column hastened another man to help him swing the heavy gate open.
Fargo let Draypool go ahead of him. Other guards were posted about the grounds, four that Fargo counted, with more probably out of sight. He wondered why the judge had a private little army.
Servants hurried out of the house to take the reins of their mounts and escort them indoors. All four wore brown uniforms with silver buttons. All four were black.
“And how are you, Akuda?” Draypool asked a fifth manservant, who waited by the front door.
“I am fine, sir. The judge has been expecting you, and your usual room is ready, as are rooms for these other gentlemen.”
“You are an excellent butler, Akuda.” Draypool smiled. “Someday I might take you away from Oliver.”
“The judge would not permit that, sir. As he likes to say, we are his property now and forever.”
Fargo had yet to meet Oliver Harding and already he did not think much of the man.
Draypool broke stride, and his face hardened in anger, but it was fleeting. He noticed Fargo watching him, and smiled at the butler. “Judge Harding has a marvelous sense of humor, does he not?”
“Certainly, sir,” Akuda said politely.
The interior radiated wealth. The judge had a taste for luxury and bought only the best money could buy. Thick carpet cushioned Fargo’s boots. He passed a marvelous painting of a waterfall and said, “Judges in Illinois must make more money than judges elsewhere.”
Draypool did not take offense. “Oliver comes from a very old, very respected, and very rich family. I have known him for many years, and he is as fine a human being as you will ever meet.”
“A good question,” Draypool said. “What say you, Akuda?”
“The judge will be home by seven, sir,” the butler answered. “Supper will be served promptly at seven thirty. If you require anything in the meantime, you have only to let me know.”
They came to stairs and climbed. The banister was mahogany, the steps polished to a sheen.
Draypool was admitted to the first bedroom they came to. Avril and Zeck had to share the next. That left the bedroom at the end of the hall for Fargo. It was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the house. He dropped his saddlebags and the Henry onto the four-poster bed as Akuda went to the window and opened the curtains.
“If there is anything you need, sir, anything at all, I am at your service.” He started for the doorway.
“I’d like to know a few things,” Fargo said.
Akuda stopped. “What would they be, sir?”
“How long have you been a slave?”
The butler blinked. “All my life, sir, as was my father before me. Why do you ask?”
“The other servants—are they slaves as well?”
“Of course, sir,” Akuda said in a tone that suggested it should be obvious. “The judge has many more at the family plantation in Alabama. He only moved here about five years ago.”
“Do you know a man named Mayfair? Clyde Mayfair?”
“Yes, sir. He has stayed in this very house many times. He is a close friend of the judge’s and Mr. Draypool’s.”
“The blacks who work in Mayfair’s fields,” Fargo said. “Are they slaves, too?”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you ask strange questions,” Akuda responded. “What else would they be? A lot of whites in Illinois own slaves, as do a lot of whites everywhere.”
“Don’t you want to be free?” Fargo asked. “To be your own man, and do as you please?”
Akuda let out a sigh. “Who would not? But I have learned not to yearn for that which we can never have. My dreams died when I was young.”
“What can you tell me about the vigilantes?”
“The what, sir? I am not sure I understand.”
“The group Draypool and the judge belong to,” Fargo said. “The people who have hired me.”
“The Secessionist League, sir? I know of no other group Judge Harding belongs to unless you count the club in Spring—” Akuda stopped. “Is something wrong, sir?”
The revelation had been like a slap to the face, causing Fargo to take an inadvertent step back. He remembered the so-called highwaymen, Frank Colter and Jim Sloane, and some of Sloane’s last words:
“Sir?” Akuda said.
An awful feeling came over Fargo, a feeling that he had been played for a fool and had
“The what, sir?”
“The killer who has been raiding homesteads for the past ten years. You must have heard of him.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I know of no such person. Springfield is a peaceful place. There has not been a killing in years.”
Fargo sat on the end of the bed and tucked his chin to his chest. He wished a tree were handy so he could beat his head against it.
“Is there anything else, sir?” Akuda inquired.
“No,” Fargo said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“I don’t rightly see how,” the butler said, and bowed as he backed out the door. He closed it after him.
Fargo’s mind was in a whirl. He had heard of the Secessionist League but did not know a lot about it. Still, he could guess at its purpose. A lot of Southern states were unhappy with the federal government and there was talk on everyone’s lips about the Southern states breaking away from the Union to form their own government. But what did the League want with him? Why had it gone to so much trouble to lure him to Illinois?
The longer Fargo pondered, the madder he became. He had been used, manipulated, led around like a bull with a ring in its nose. Fed lies and more lies. And all the while Arthur Draypool must have been chuckling as how easy he had been to dupe.
“The bastards,” Fargo said aloud. He thought again of Colter and Sloane and came to the conclusion that they must have been government men assigned to keep an eye on the League. He hoped Colter had gotten away.
Fargo leaned back. A grim smile touched his lips. He would play along and see what happened. It was the only way to learn what the League was up to. Whatever it was, they would soon discover that baiting a wolf was dangerous.
A knock sounded. Standing, Fargo said gruffly, “Come in.” He was expecting Draypool, but it was a petite young woman in a maid’s outfit, a towel over her left arm.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Akuda says you need one of these.” She moved toward a washbasin on a stand in the corner.
Fargo’s interest perked. Her uniform hid a shapely body, evinced by the swell of her bosom and the sway of her hips. Her skin was a light coppery hue, her hair a velveteen black. Full lips in a perpetual pout complemented
