high cheekbones and alluring dark eyes. “Well, now,” Fargo said. “Do you have a name or should I just call you Miss Beautiful?”
The maid grinned. “I am called Belda, sir. I will keep your room clean during your stay and make your bed in the morning.” She placed the towel next to the basin and made to leave.
“I’ll make my own,” Fargo said, blocking her way. She stopped and looked up at him in frank appraisal.
“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
“Stop calling me that,” Fargo replied. “I’m not like the rest of the men here.”
“If you say so, sir,” Belda said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have other work to attend to.” She moved to go around him.
“Wait,” Fargo requested, taking hold of her arm. “I’d like to get together later, the two of us, somewhere private.”
“I am not that kind of woman, sir,” Belda said severely, prying his fingers off. “Please excuse me.”
Fargo slid in front of her again. “It’s not what you think. I need someone who can keep their ears open for me.”
“I don’t see what use I can be.”
“Please,” Fargo said, clasping her hand in appeal. “Where and when can I meet you?”
Half a minute went by. Then Belda said quietly, “They will punish me if I am caught, but I will meet you here at eleven tonight. Leave the door open slightly so I can slip inside.”
“Thank you,” Fargo said as she hustled to the hall. He smiled and walked to the washbasin. The Secessionist League had a lot to answer for and he was just the gent to see that it did.
11
The dining room was as luxurious as the rest of the house. A long table able to seat two dozen guests filled the center. Globe lamps at regular intervals provided brilliant illumination. The night was warm, and several windows were open to admit air.
The butler came for Fargo at seven fifteen. Fargo had availed himself of the washbasin, rummaged in his saddlebags for a clean bandanna, and wiped the dust from his boots. He wore his gun belt.
Akuda arched an eyebrow as Fargo stepped from the room, and said respectfully, “If you will forgive my presumption, sir, you will not require your firearm at the dinner table.”
Fargo patted his holster. “I never go anywhere without it.”
“The judge might take offense,” Akuda said.
“You must have me confused with someone who gives a damn.” Fargo smiled to lessen the sting.
“The judge likes to have his way,” Akuda warned. “Trust me when I say he makes for a powerful enemy.”
“I bet a lot of his enemies are against slavery.” Fargo fished for information.
The butler broke stride, but only slightly. “The judge and his friends are very set in their beliefs.”
“A Yankee hater, is he?”
Akuda glanced the length of the hall, then said softly, “I should not discuss this with you, sir. The judge would be mad.”
“What is the worst he can do to you?” Fargo asked half jokingly. He figured it would be a harsh lecture and extra work.
“He can have me whipped, sir,” Akuda said, “and I would rather not go through that again, if you don’t mind. I still have the scars from the other times.”
Fargo envisioned the butler stripped to the waist, a whip biting into the flesh of his back. “Did the judge whip you himself?”
“Oh, no, sir, he would never sully his hands with someone else’s blood. Mr. Garvey, the overseer from the judge’s plantation, does the punishing.” Akuda’s frame seemed to tremble slightly. “You will meet him tonight.”
“The overseer is here?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Garvey comes up from Alabama every two or three months, sir, to consult with the judge. Sometimes he brings new staff for the house.”
“New slaves, you mean,” Fargo said.
Akuda nodded. “Or he takes those who have not been doing their jobs well enough to suit the judge back to Alabama to work in the fields.”
“He’s not the forgiving type, is he?”
Akuda uttered a laugh that was more like a bark. “Not at all, sir. The judge has a saying he is fond of.” He paused. “Spare the rod, spoil the black.”
Fargo tried to imagine what it must be like for the slaves, living in a constant state of fear, terrified to make a single mistake. “It’s not right,” he remarked, more to himself than the butler.
“There are a lot of things in this world that aren’t right, sir,” Akuda responded. “Things people shouldn’t do to one another but do.” They came to the stairs and he started down. “It makes me mad to this day that an accident of birth has made me what I am.”
“That’s natural.”
Akuda went on talking without seeming to hear. “You have no idea what blacks have to put up with. Whites look down their noses at us because of the color of our skin. They treat us like we are not human, as if we are animals to be herded together and worked as they please.”
“Not all whites think that way,” Fargo said.
“Enough do,” Akuda said. “Enough to make our lives miserable. Enough that many of my kind would rather they had never been born.” They were almost to the bottom, and he leaned toward Fargo and pleaded, “Please, sir, not a word about our talk to anyone.”
“Don’t worry.” Fargo clapped him on the back. “They couldn’t pry it out of me with burning coals.”
Arthur Draypool was already at the table. So were three others. One was a human mountain dressed in an ill-fitting suit. Close to seven feet tall, he had short blond hair, a clipped yellow beard, and obsidian eyes that fixed on Fargo with baleful intensity. That would be Garvey, Fargo guessed.
Across from the overseer sat a plump woman in her middle years, her dress much too tight for her bulk, her bosom threatening to burst the fabric if she exhaled too strongly. She had a pumpkin head and tiny seed eyes. “Mr. Fargo,” she said, offering her pudgy hand. “I am Winifred Harding, the judge’s wife. I am sorry I was not here to greet you when you arrived, but I was in Springfield most of the day.”
Her skin was dry and smelled of powder. Fargo stepped past her to an empty chair. Across from him was the other new face, a woman only half as old as Winifred and not half as heavy, but otherwise the family resemblance was plain. “You must be the judge’s daughter.”
“Not quite. I am his niece,” she said in a sultry tone. “Darby Harding,” she introduced herself. “My father is the judge’s younger brother. I came up from the South with Mr. Garvey to pay my uncle a visit.”
Garvey grunted. “Heard a lot about you, mister.” He held out a hand the size of a bear paw. “Hope you turn out to be everything the judge and his friends expect.”
“The Sangamon River Monster is as good as caught,” Fargo said to gauge how they reacted. He received smiles and the sort of expressions professional gamblers wore when they were fleecing the gullible.
“I love a man with confidence,” Winifred Harding declared in a much friendlier tone than was warranted.
Fargo was more interested in the niece, who met his frank stare with one of her own. “How long are you staying?”
“For as long as my uncle needs me,” Darby said. “Uncle Oliver and I have always been close. I would do anything for him.”
At that juncture, into the dining room marched their host. Harding was as plump as his wife except for his face, which had the hard, angular lines of a blacksmith’s anvil. He came around the table without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to anyone, including his wife. Akuda held out a chair for him and he sat in it as if sitting on a throne. “I trust I haven’t kept all of you waiting too long.”
“Not at all, Uncle,” Darby said.
