on her a while back. It got embarrassing for everybody. He really tried everything he could to win her over and a lot of people hated him for it. Ned Lenihan doesn’t compare to a big good-looking man like Cain. And Ned’s a local man, so naturally most of the people took his part. And I think the sheriff took about all the humiliation he could. She made it real plain that she was in love with Ned and standing by him and that Cain didn’t have a chance. So he gave up.”
“So Lenihan’s wrong?”
“About Cain still chasing after Amy, yes. But Ned has financial troubles with his farm. That means he needs money. He doesn’t want to talk about that. That’s why Cain thinks he might have arranged the robbery with those three boys. He needs the money. But he can’t fool people into believing that Cain is just after him because of Amy.”
“What’s your opinion?”
Rule’s leathery face wrinkled into a frown. “That’s the thing. I like Ned. He’s a hard worker and a decent man. But the trouble is he loves that little farm of his almost as much as he loves Amy. So if it came down to setting up a robbery to save it”—he sighed—“well, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Thanks, Pete. I’m glad we got to have this talk.”
“Yeah,” Rule said. And damned if he didn’t smile again. That was two in the space of a few minutes. Maybe he wasn’t just a sour cuss after all. “Now I don’t have to go around sulking all day.”
A large red barn stood next to a rope corral where six horses stood while a Cheyenne man examined them. Inside the barn came the sounds of stagecoaches being repaired and made ready for the torture of traveling over roads that could seriously damage or even destroy any stagecoach ever made. Fargo had swung back here after talking to Rule. He’d talked to Lenihan. He decided it was time to talk to Kenny Raines and his brother Sam. As employees of the stage line, they’d known about the money in the strongbox, too.
He stood at the edge of the barn and peered into the cool shadows inside. A stout bald man with a red beard shaped like a dagger stepped away from a wheel he was inspecting, wiped his hands on a leather apron and said, “Help you?”
“Looking for the Raines brothers.”
The man came out into the sunlight. “Say, aren’t you that Fargo?”
“Yep.”
“You shot up Kenny’s hand last night.”
“Didn’t have much choice.”
“That’s what gunnies always say.”
“Didn’t know I was a gunny.”
“That’s what they always say, too. Those boys are friends of mine. Sam stood up for my boy at his Confirmation last year.”
“Are they here?”
“Hell, no, they’re not here. Kenny’s hand is all wrapped up. He was at the doc’s for three or four hours last night thanks to you.”
“Where can I find them?”
“You gonna shoot him again?”
“Thought I’d use a bow and arrow this time.”
“I don’t think you’re so funny.”
Fargo remembered something one of the Pinkertons had told him. About half the people you spoke to trying to get to the truth would dislike you. A few might hate you. Fargo had just met somebody in the latter category.
“Where can I find them? I won’t ask again.”
“You gonna shoot me, too?”
“Won’t need to. I can handle you with my fists.”
For a man who appeared slow and sluggish, he sprang at Fargo with speed and accuracy. He rammed into the Trailsman, big hands going for Fargo’s throat. A bad mistake. Just as the man’s fingers were about to close on Fargo’s throat, the Trailsman brought a fist up from his waist and slammed it under the man’s chin. For a few seconds the man continued to reach for Fargo but then without any warning his eyes rolled back into his head and he staggered backward. Fargo went after him, a crashing right hand to the man’s left cheek, a left to the man’s ribs.
By now a half-dozen workmen stood at the barn door watching as Fargo reached down and hauled the man to his feet. The workmen didn’t want any part of it. The man’s face was bruised. His lips were covered with blood. His eyes flicked about, trying to focus.
“Now I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them. You hear me?”
The man sobbed a few words but didn’t answer.
Fargo shook him. “You hear me?”
“You better answer, Red. He’s gonna kick your ass if you don’t.” This came from one of the workmen.
Another workman laughed. “Looks to me like he already got his ass kicked.”
“Now he knows what it feels like,” a third man said. “Maybe he’ll stop pickin’ on us now.”
Fargo said, “Where can I find them?”
Red glared at him. He was apparently a bully. He’d been humiliated in front of the men he’d bullied. “Probably the Gold Mine.”
“You think they had anything to do with that robbery?”
Red had gathered himself enough to sneer. “Hell, no, they didn’t, Fargo. Everybody knows who set that up and who’s been killing those boys.”
“Who would that be?”
“Right up there in the front office.” He nodded. “Ned Lenihan. He thinks because he puts on a good face for everybody and because he’s got that widow woman he can get away with anything. But he’s wrong. Somebody’s gonna prove he did it and then there’ll be hell to pay.”
“That’s right, mister,” one of the workmen called. “We figure it had to be Ned. He’s smart and he’d know how to set it up. Way we figure it, it couldn’t have been anybody else.”
Ned Lenihan. Fargo had learned one thing anyway. A good share of the folks around here figured Lenihan was behind it all. But that was another thing the Pinkertons had taught him. The obvious suspect wasn’t always the guilty party. Sometimes the obvious one was actually a distraction. You could spend all your time and energy trying to prove he was the culprit while the real culprit got away.
“Next time somebody asks you a question, Red, you better decide if you want to answer it or get your ass whipped.” Fargo shoved him away so hard that Red fell on his backside. Then Fargo walked away.
8
O’Malley had learned how to pick door locks back in Chicago. A colored man who’d given him information on another story had idly boasted that he could open any door lock presented him in under sixty seconds. O’Malley had been amused by the bragging and offered the man money if he could open four doors of O’Malley’s choosing. And damned if the man hadn’t been able to do it. One thing that O’Malley had noticed was how the thief always kept his back to O’Malley so the reporter couldn’t see what he was doing exactly. Later, when they were drinking beer in a colored bar, the man had laid out several small picks on the table. A few of them looked like things a dentist would use. These, the man explained, were burglary tools. He also explained that for the right price he’d sell these same tools to O’Malley. The reporter didn’t need to be convinced. He emptied his pockets and took them home. The business of reporting was a competitive one. To get a better story than another reporter you needed all the help you could get. And what if you had the power to get into any house, any flat, any business office? What kind of reporter would that make you?
Unfortunately, O’Malley’s skills with burglary tools conflicted with his skills as a drinker. In both Chicago and St. Lou he’d managed to get into many a home and many a business office. One of the problems he had was that he got so drunk after looking around that he lost his notebook or forgot what he’d learned. And in both cities the
