with the gold watch. “I’ll join you in a minute.” He scooped up his winnings.
A crowd was gathering. Word had spread, and people were drifting in from the street to see the bodies. Someone began bellowing about fetching a sawbones to tend the man with the broken shoulder.
“My name is Draypool, by the way,” the dandy said, offering his hand as Fargo came over. “Arthur Draypool. I hail from Illinois.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“And have been for the past several weeks, searching for you,” Draypool revealed. “You were hard to find. You never stayed in one place long enough for me to catch up to you, until now.”
Fargo tried to motion to the bartender for a bottle, but the barkeep had joined those around the dead and wounded.
“Have a seat,” Draypool said, indicating a chair next to his.
Instead, Fargo sat in a different chair, with his back to the entrance.
“What’s wrong with this one?” Draypool asked.
“I’ve made a few enemies,” Fargo said.
“My word! Are you saying that someone might walk up to you and shoot you in the back without any warning? I can’t imagine what that must be like. It would wear me down, always having to look over my shoulder.”
“You get used to it,” Fargo said, which was not entirely true. “Enough about me. Why are you here?”
“Where to begin?” Arthur Draypool mused aloud. “Perhaps by asking whether you have ever been to the glorious state of Illinois?”
“What’s so glorious about it?”
“Obviously you have never been there. I wasn’t born in Illinois, but I’m proud to be an Illinoisan. Proud to be a citizen of the United States. Proud to be an American.”
Fargo leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. Draypool reminded him of certain politicians he had met.
“Illinois has been a state for only about forty years, but I predict great things for her in the decades to come.”
“Her?” Fargo said.
“It is quite common to use the female gender when referring to things like boats, guns, and states. Davy Crockett, if you’ll recall, referred to his rifle as Old Betsy. What do you call yours?”
“A Henry.”
“But that’s the name of the manufacturer. Haven’t you ever referred to, say, a steamboat or a canoe as ‘she’ or ‘her’?”
“Only if I was really drunk,” Fargo said, “and if I did, I was so drunk I don’t remember.”
“We’re straying from the point,” Draypool said in mild exasperation. “Namely, that Illinois is a fine state, with great prospects. Especially in the political realm. Surely even you have heard about the famous debates between Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas?”
Fargo did not miss the “even you.” Evidently Draypool viewed him as a buckskin-clad bumpkin. “There was a debate?” he asked in sham ignorance.
“My word, man! Don’t you ever read a newspaper?” The Illinoisan clucked like an irritated hen. “Surely you at least know that Abraham Lincoln is running for president this year?”
“He is?” Fargo was thankful for his years of experience at poker. Otherwise he would have given himself away.
Draypool’s mouth fell open. Then his brow knit and a quizzical expression came over him. “Wait. You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
“Why would I do that?”
For all of fifteen seconds Arthur Draypool sat in thoughtful silence. Then he said, “Fair enough. I suppose I deserved to be put in my place. It was not polite of me to treat you as I did. Please accept my sincere apologies.”
“When will you get to that point you mentioned?” Fargo noticed a commotion over at the batwings, and in hurried the town marshal with a deputy in tow.
“Are all plainsmen so straightforward?” Draypool asked, but he did not wait for a reply. “Very well. As I have mentioned, Illinois has great things in store. She grows by leaps every year as more and more people flock to her from back east. Ten years from now she will be one of the leading states in the areas of commerce and culture.”
“Your point,” Fargo reiterated when Draypool took a breath.
“Please be patient. You see, right now much of Illinois is wilderness. We still have our share of Indian troubles, even though we defeated the Fox and Sauk tribes in the Black Hawk War. We also have our share of white troublemakers, riffraff who live by the gun and the knife. Outlaws and cutthroats who think God granted them the right to rob and kill as they see fit.”
“It’s the same most everywhere along the frontier,” Fargo said, “and worse west of the Mississippi River.”
“True,” Draypool conceded. “And it is up to decent, law-abiding people everywhere to put an end to the depredations. Whether white or red, those who steal and plunder must be put to the noose or spend the rest of their natural lives behind bars.”
“You should run for governor,” Fargo said. He meant it as a jest, but Draypool beamed and puffed out his chest.
“Why, thank you. I just might one day. For the moment I am content to do what I can to rid Illinois of her unsavory elements.” He paused. “One of the worst is known as the Sangamon River Monster.”
“Is it a ferocious frog? Or a bass that has taken to climbing out of the river and swallowing people as they stroll by?”
Arthur Draypool blinked, then uttered a brittle little laugh. “That’s quite the sense of humor you have. But no, the Sangamon River Monster is neither frog nor fish. It is a man. The most vile human being to walk the face of the earth.”
“I can think of a few others who can lay claim to the honor.”
“Do they raid isolated farms and put them to the torch? Do they torture and mutilate entire families? Men, women, and children? I doubt there is anyone, anywhere, half as vicious as the Sangamon River Monster.”
“Ever hear of the Apaches?”
“Of course. But you expect it of them. There exists a natural animosity between the white man and the red man. They are primitive savages who live in squalid dwellings made of animal hides, whereas the white man embodies the highest sense of refinement and civilization.”
Fargo considered slugging him. “Have I mentioned that I’ve lived with a few of those primitive savages?”
“You don’t say?” Draypool realized he had made a mistake and tried to make amends. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. I am not one of those who looks down his nose at everyone and everything red. One of my best friends when I was growing up was an Indian boy. Be that as it may—”
“What was his name?” Fargo interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What was the name of your friend?”
Draypool coughed and took an interest in the arrival of the doctor. Finally he said, “I can’t recall the Indian boy’s name at the moment. You must understand, it has been quite a while since I saw him last.”
“I savvy perfectly,” Fargo assured him.
“None of this is relevant anyway. The Sangamon River Monster is white. For ten years he has terrorized central Illinois. It’s time we put a stop to it. That is where you come in.”
Fargo dearly needed a drink, but the bartender was still over by the bodies. “What’s so special about me? Don’t you have trackers in Illinois? Or bloodhounds?”
“Permit me to place things in their proper perspective.” Draypool rested both elbows on the table. “As I have mentioned, Illinois is largely backwoods country. Forests as they were ages before the first white man set foot on this continent. Woodland so thick, many travel by foot instead of on horseback.”
