“You are punctual, as always,” Winifred chorused. “And even if you were not, we would gladly wait.”
Fargo sensed a strange sort of competition between them. He focused on the judge, absorbing details: piercing brown eyes, black hair going to gray, an aura of authority that Fargo normally saw in military officers.
“Nonsense, my dear,” Oliver Harding declared. “It would be a poor host indeed who kept his guests waiting.” He was looking at his niece as he spoke. “My dearest Darby. How wonderfully you grace our table. It is a shame you don’t visit us more often.”
Winifred Harding squirmed in her chair like a worm squirming on a hook. “Yes, we always look forward to having you, my dear.”
The judge swiveled. “Arthur! I trust there were no difficulties on your trip. You must tell me everything over brandies later.”
Fargo could not resist. “We ran into a pair of outlaws on our way here. Or highwaymen, as you would call them.”
Oliver Harding became a stone statue. Then he said, with no trace of emotion whatsoever, “On behalf of the state of Illinois, I apologize. We are not yet as civilized as our brethren to the east. We have not yet tamed the wilder element among us.” He smiled without warmth. “And you, I take it, are the famous Trailsman. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Winifred Harding said.
The judge clapped his hands, and at the signal, servants began filing in bearing food. Fargo filled his plate with venison, potatoes, green beans, and a thick slice of bread layered with butter. He did not have much of an appetite, but on the frontier he had learned to eat when he could because he never knew how long it would be between meals. Especially lavish meals like this one.
Judge Harding and Arthur Draypool did most of the talking, with the judge’s wife making occasional comments. Most of it was of no interest, having to do with recent cases the judge had presided over, their mutual friend Clyde Mayfair, and the general lawlessness.
Fargo suspected that last was for his benefit. He had seen no evidence of it on the way there. Everyone they met had been friendly and seemed law-abiding. But he kept his suspicions private. He would let them go on thinking they had pulled the wool over his eyes.
Midway through the meal a commotion arose in the hall, and presently Akuda ushered in a man who had the dust of many miles on his clothes and a quirt in his hand. The new arrival whispered in Judge Harding’s ear, and the judge excused himself, saying he must attend to personal business.
Fargo pretended not to notice the pointed glances Draypool and Garvey cast his way. He began to wash down his supper with a cup of piping-hot coffee, flavored with a pinch of sugar.
In due course the judge returned. His mood had completely changed. Where before he was reserved and cold, he came back in whistling merrily, a new spring in his step.
“Good news?” Fargo asked between sips.
“Yes, indeed,” Judge Harding replied. “A critical business arrangement has turned out better than we dared hope.” When he said “we,” he glanced out of the corner of an eye at Arthur Draypool. He did it so quickly, and so cleverly, that only someone whose vision had been honed to the razor sharpness of a hawk’s in order to survive in the peril-filled fastness of the mountains and the vast plains would catch it.
Darby was toying with her green beans. “So tell me, Mr. Fargo,” she ventured, “how do you rate your prospects of catching the killer?”
“I can track anything that lives,” Fargo said matter-of-factly.
“Then that terrible man is as good as caught!” Winifred Harding declared. “You will be doing the whole world a service by helping to eliminate him.”
“The whole world?” Fargo repeated.
Judge Harding waved a hand in his Winifred’s direction but did not look at her. “Forgive her. My wife has a flair for the dramatic. By the whole world she means Illinois, which is her whole world, in a sense.”
Fargo reminded himself that most judges were lawyers, and lawyers were masters of twisting phrases to suit them.
“Yes, that’s what I meant,” Winifred said, bobbing her double chins. “Please don’t read more into what I say than there is.”
Judge Harding made a tepee of his fingers. “I suggest it is time for the ladies to retire to the drawing room so the men can smoke their cigars.”
Winifred came out of her chair as if someone had poked her bottom with a pin. “Oh. Certainly. Whatever you want, dearest. Belda will bring us our desserts.”
The judge and Draypool slid cigars from inner pockets and proceeded to clip the ends and light them, an elaborate ritual that ended with both of them leaning back, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, and sighing contentedly.
“There is nothing quite like a good cigar after a hard day’s work,” Judge Harding observed. He offered one to Fargo, but Fargo declined. “You don’t smoke? Pity. You’re depriving yourself of one of life’s too few joys.”
“I don’t smoke, either,” Garvey said. The overseer had voiced only a few comments all evening.
“You should,” Arthur Draypool said. “Tobacco is God’s gift to humankind. Unlike alcohol, it doesn’t have any bad effects.”
“Unless you count accidentally setting your clothes on fire when you light up,” Judge Harding joked.
Fargo did not share in their chuckles. “Tell me more about the Monster,” he urged Harding. “Has anyone ever made a list of the names of all those he’s butchered?”
“I have the information right here.” Judge Harding tapped his temple. “His first victims were the Myrtle family, ten years ago next month. They were from Rhode Island. They came here to farm and were buried on their plot.”
“I remember them,” Arthur Draypool said. “In addition to the parents, there were two small girls and a small boy, correct?”
“That was the family, yes,” the judge said. “I presided at the burials. Little did we realize more atrocities would follow.”
Fargo had to hand it to them. They lied as slickly as patent medicine salesmen. “Who were some of the others?”
Judge Harding related the deaths of victim after victim, adding little touches about their appearance and what they supposedly did for a living to make it more believable. “As you can see,” he said, summing things up, “my wife was not all that remiss about how badly we need your help.”
It was well past nine when Harding and Draypool excused themselves and headed upstairs, the judge commenting, “It would be wise if you gentlemen did the same. Tomorrow may well be the day we receive news of the Monster’s whereabouts.”
Fargo left the dining room. The shadow that fell across him as he came to the upstairs landing was as big as the shadow of a redwood.
“I look forward to working with you,” Garvey said.
“I work alone.”
“Not against the Monster you don’t,” Garvey responded. “Mr. Harding and Mr. Draypool told me we are sticking with you.” He stopped at a room. “This is mine. See you in the morning.”
Fargo shook off a feeling of a net closing around him. His uneasiness resurfaced, and he latched his bedroom door. Sprawling out on his back, he was on the verge of dozing off when a light knock sounded. The clock on the wall said it was five minutes to eleven. Belda was early. He threw the latch and pulled the door wide, and could not hide his surprise.
“I thought you might like some company,” Darby Harding said.
12
A wariness came over Fargo. He was unsure why. Darby was not armed and posed no threat. Quite the opposite. She was dressed for bed, in a gown that clung to her as if it had been painted on, accenting her enticing charms.
