The collie stayed with him. During his search, he took several opportunities to pet her. She was a good companion. Beautiful face and such clean gold and white fur.
The first half hour turned up nothing more interesting than a few stacks of yellowed magazines, a small box of toys that had probably been George’s, a few old saddles. The only interesting items were in a box—equipment for gold mining, a sluice box, pans, a pair of pickaxes. Fargo wondered if Ned had gotten caught up in the gold rush and then the silver rush that had brought so many people to the Territory. Everybody who could wield a shovel had gone crazy for sudden riches—and were still doing so. But Lenihan struck Fargo as sensible. He might have spent a few foolish weeks or months in the mountains but he couldn’t see Lenihan spending any more time than that.
Then he noticed that the box with mining equipment in it wobbled slightly. It was sitting on something that made it tilt. He lifted it up and saw that there was fresh earth underneath it. Somebody had dug a hole and buried something in it.
Fargo got down on his haunches. The collie was right next to him. He could smell her hot breath. She was as interested in the loose earth as he was. He started digging with his hands. His first surprise was how shallow the hole was. His second surprise was what it contained.
He got to his feet again. The thing in his hand dripped fresh dirt. He hadn’t bothered to brush it off. He walked out of the barn and into the mountain sunlight. He wasn’t sure what to think. If a man was in a hurry he wouldn’t have had time to bury it deep. But why on his own property would he be in a hurry? On the other hand, being that it
Then there was another question. Why would a man keep this at all? What good would it do him?
He didn’t like any of this. Maybe he was somehow sorry for Ned Lenihan and coming up with all these questions just to exonerate him. Maybe it was just as simple as it looked. He’d lifted up the box and found the fresh earth and dug it up and found the thing. The thing that would lead any reasonable detective, Pinkerton or not, to conclude that Ned Lenihan had been involved in the robbery for sure and very possibly in the murders.
He walked over to the fence. The collie trotted alongside him. He cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled for George Lenihan. Lenihan stopped his haying, planted his pitchfork in the earth and came over.
Long before he reached the fence, Lenihan saw what Fargo was holding. When he reached the Trailsman, he said, “What’s that?”
But he knew what it was. And he knew what it meant, too.
Fargo held it up. “It’s got the name of the bank stenciled right on it.” The bag was the size of a regular satchel. It had a lock attached to a leather section at the top. The lock had been shot off.
“Where’d you find it?”
“You know what it is and you know where I found it.”
“My pa didn’t put that there.”
“Somebody did.”
George Lenihan’s arms came across the fence and tried to grab Fargo’s throat. “You sonofabitch! You brought that with you and then claimed to have found it in the barn!”
Fargo might have felt sorry for him if the man’s hands weren’t struggling to strangle him. Fargo hit him hard with the heavy bag, knocking him off-balance, sending him stumbling backward and finally falling to the ground on his ass.
“He didn’t do it! My pa didn’t do it!”
The beautiful collie started barking sharply, as if in sympathy.
Fargo dropped the bag and went over and offered George Lenihan his hand. Lenihan slapped it away. “You put it there. You had it on your horse when you came in. You put it there when I was out haying.”
“You know better than that.”
“Do I? This whole town has turned against him.” He put a palm flat against the grassy soil and started the process of pushing himself to his feet. “Cain sent you here to do this. And now you’ll take my pa in, won’t you?”
“I won’t have any choice. I found this in his barn.”
Lenihan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Don’t you see what’s going on here, Fargo? All right, say you didn’t do it. But don’t you see that somebody else planted it? Somebody who wants to ruin my pa.”
“Who would that be?”
“Who do you think? Who’s been chasing after Amy all these years?”
“Cain says he’s given up on her.”
“Cain says, Cain says. Cain says a lot of things and half of them are damned lies. Think about it. He sets up the robbery, he gets all the money after he kills the three boys and now he gets to destroy my father. Maybe he can’t have Amy but he can get the satisfaction of seeing my father hang.”
“Look,” Fargo said. “I’ll check out everything you say. Everything. I promise. And if I think this has been planted here that’s what I’ll tell Cain. And if I think it’s been planted and I suspect it’s Cain, I’ll go after him.”
“What can you do up against Cain? He runs this town.”
“But he doesn’t run me.”
Lenihan choked back a sob. “You don’t know my pa. He’s the kindest man I’ve ever known. And the people in town know that too. But they’ve let all this gossip make them crazy. They’re just layin’ for him. And it scares me.” He paused, stared at the bank bag. “Is there any way—”
“You know I can’t do that. I have to take this in and talk to your father. And most likely take him to jail.”
“He needs to be safe, Fargo. You’ve got to promise me that. That he’ll be safe.”
“I’ll make sure of that.”
The collie responded to Lenihan’s sadness by rubbing against his leg and making a sort of whimpering sound. She was a good dog in all respects.
“I need to get back now.”
The conversation finished, Fargo turned and cut through a small collection of chickens.
He’d gone only a few steps when Lenihan called, “Stop right there, Fargo. I’ve got a gun on you. I want you to drop that bag and then get on your horse and ride out.”
“You going to shoot me?”
“If I have to.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to.”
“I’m not fooling.”
“Neither am I.”
Fargo began slowly moving to his big Ovaro.
“Fargo. Stop.”
But Fargo kept moving. By now he was sure the kid wouldn’t shoot. He turned when he reached the stallion. Lenihan looked pathetic. He had a useless gun in his hand and what appeared to be tears in his eyes.
Lenihan didn’t say anything and neither did Fargo. There was nothing to say.
11
The bank bag, still showing traces of the dirt in which it had been buried, lay on the desk of Sheriff Tom Cain. He raised his pleased gaze to meet Fargo’s eyes.
“In Lenihan’s barn, you say?” Cain said.
“You heard me. No need to gloat.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“It strikes me as strange that he’d bury it in such an obvious way,” Fargo said.
Standing next to him, Pete Rule said, “I agree. Ned’s a smart man.”
“He’s also a good friend of yours, Pete. You and Fargo here just don’t want to admit he’s guilty.”
Cain had been enjoying one of his smelliest cigars. Late afternoon sunlight was turned blue by the smoke. There was also the faint aroma of whiskey on the air. Cain had been known to take a drink during duty hours.
Cain took his feet down from his desk finally and sat up straight. “Since I make the decisions in this town— I’m the duly appointed law here as some people seem to be forgetting these days—I’m going to go arrest him
