“Don’t call them that. They are patriots. They do what is best for the common good with no thought of reward for themselves.”
Once again, Fargo had the feeling Layton was repeating someone else’s comments. “You think highly of them.”
“I think highly of the cause. I was born in these parts, but that doesn’t mean I can’t share their beliefs.”
The undergrowth grew thicker. Fargo had to thread the Ovaro through it like a giant black-and-white needle through a green tapestry. Locusts droned in the trees. A pair of young squirrels scampered about in the leafy boughs. A blue jay shrieked and took swift wing.
To Fargo, the sights and sounds of the wild were always a tonic. They filled him to overflowing with a sense of being alive. Some men were so soured on life they could not get the acid out of their system, but not Fargo. To him each day was a feast of new experiences waiting over the next horizon.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Layton broke a long silence.
“Depends on what it is,” Fargo said, suddenly wary. He must not do or say anything that would give away the fact that he suspected he was being used as a tool by the Secessionist League.
“Folks say you have killed more men than Samson. Is that true?”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” Fargo reined to the left to go around blackberry bushes, with their sharp thorns.
“I don’t mind that you’re a killer,” Layton said. “Hell, a lot of people have blood on their hands but keep it secret. I’ve killed once or twice myself.”
“And here we are, tracking another killer,” Fargo said.
“You can’t hardly compare him to us. He’s a butcher. He murders people for the fun of it. You and me, we only kill when we have to.”
For Fargo that was true. He was not so sure about Layton. “Killing is killing, some would say, and accuse us of being no better than the Monster.”
“Nonsense!” Layton spat. “Anyone too stupid to see the difference deserves to have their throat slit.”
Fargo could not help but grin.
“It depends on why people kill,” Layton went on. “Their motive, as the judge calls it. He says that some motives are higher than others, and the highest of all is to kill for an honorable cause.”
“Interesting notion,” Fargo said.
“The judge is a great man. He has a vision for the future. One day soon that vision will come true and this country will be a better place.”
“What kind of vision?”
Perhaps aware he had said too much, Layton hesitated, then answered, “You should ask him. He’s a better talker than me.”
“You admire him a lot, I gather?” Fargo trolled for information.
“I admire the cause,” Layton said, and quickly amended, “That is, I believe in bringing murderers to justice.”
Fargo thought of the Sweeney family, and the young girl crumpled in a corner of their cabin, her white dress stained scarlet from multiple stab wounds. “That makes two of us.”
14
The killer’s endurance was worthy of an Apache’s. Mile after mile through some of the heaviest vegetation Fargo had ever encountered, the man held to a remarkable pace. Many times Fargo had to dismount and lead the Ovaro by the reins. The press of growth demanded it.
Layton did not say much. He always hung back and let Fargo lead, which was to be expected. But Fargo did not like having the man behind him. Now and again the skin on his back itched, and he would tell himself that he was being silly. Layton wouldn’t shoot him or do whatever the judge and Draypool had ordered him to do until they caught up to the Sangamon River Monster.
Night found them no closer to their quarry. Fargo made camp in a small clearing. He kindled a fire and put coffee on to brew. Their meal consisted of pemmican on his part and jerky on Layton’s.
They were sipping their first steaming cup when Layton cleared his throat and asked, “What’s it like out there?”
Fargo knew what he meant but asked, “Out where?”
“Out west. We hear so many stories. Are the Indians as fierce and bloodthirsty as everyone says?”
“Some Indians,” Fargo said, “but no more so than some whites.”
“They say you’ve lived with Indians.”
“Who does?”
Layton shrugged. “Oh, people I’ve talked to in taverns and the like.”
“People talk too damn much.” Fargo was in an irritable mood. It rankled him, being used.
“Do they ever. But don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t hold it against you. I know another man who has lived with Indians. Some tribe down in Florida. He dresses like an Indian and acts half Indian all the time.”
“This man have a name?” Fargo asked without really caring.
“Hiram Trask. I doubt you have ever heard of him. He’s not anywhere near as famous as you are.”
Fargo’s gut tightened.
“One of the best,” Layton said. “Folks say he can track an ant across solid rock, but folks exaggerate.”
“That they do,” Fargo agreed amiably. Then, as casually as possible, he blew on the coffee and said, “I’ve heard Trask is partial to knee-high moccasins.”
Layton chuckled and said, “He wears the silly things all the time. Once in Georgia we went into a fancy restaurant with him wearing them and everyone stared—” Layton froze, his cup halfway to his mouth.
“So that was Hiram Trask,” Fargo said. “Strange he didn’t introduce himself. Or that Draypool or Harding didn’t mention him.”
“Hiram’s not much of a talker.” Layton tried to undo the damage. “And Mr. Draypool and the judge probably figured you wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand what?” Fargo shammed. “That two trackers working together are better than one? Trask should be with us.”
Beads of sweat had broken out on Layton’s brow. “Maybe the judge wants Hiram handy in case something happens to you.”
“That could be.” Fargo enjoyed making him squirm. “Or it could be Trask is part of the League, like you and Draypool and the judge.”
Layton paled and nearly dropped his tin cup. “The what?”
“The Secessionist League. Why you went to all the trouble to hire me when you have Trask puzzles me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” Fargo said. “Just like you don’t know that there is no Sangamon River Monster and never has been. Just like you don’t know that it was you and your friends who murdered the Sweeney family.”
Layton sat stock-still. “You’re ranting nonsense.”
“And you’re a terrible liar.” Fargo made a mental stab in the dark. “When are you supposed to kill me? Or is Draypool leaving that up to Hiram Trask?”
“You must be drunk.”
“Have you seen me take a drink all day?” Fargo countered, watching the backwoodsman’s hands.
“What in God’s name makes you think there’s no Sangamon River Monster?”
“I’ve talked to people who have never heard of him.”
“What’s so peculiar about that?” Layton asked.
“Draypool claimed the killings have been going on for ten years,” Fargo said. “Everyone in Illinois would know about them by now.”
“Not necessarily.” Layton pushed his raccoon hat back on his head. He seemed to be thinking furiously. His
