know?”
“That’s more like it.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I’m told your name is Skye Fargo.”
“That’s correct.”
“That would make you the Trailsman.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“That’s pretty big news for a town like Cawthorne. The Trailsman stopping by.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about me bringing in Clete Byrnes.”
“Just so. But you’ll be a big part of the story. Almost as big as the body itself.”
Referring to Byrnes as “the body” would have offended Fargo if he hadn’t been used to the objective—some would say callous—way reporters went about their jobs. The story was all-important. The people involved were just stage props.
Fargo said, “You ready? Here’s what happened. Then I want you to get the hell away from me.”
“Fair enough. Give me the story.”
Fargo rolled himself a smoke as he laid out the circumstances in which he’d found Clete Byrnes. He even took the silver button from his shirt pocket and showed it to O’Mal ley. The journalist held it between thumb and forefinger and rolled it around and held it up to the light. “Don’t think Helen’d have anything as fancy as this.”
“Who’s Helen?”
“Crotchety old widow who lives on the land where you found Byrnes.” O’Malley shrugged. “Last year somebody broke into a local woman’s house and stole some things. But I don’t know that that’d have anything to do with this. It’s sure Byrnes didn’t have it on him. So what I want to know now is what the Trailsman plans to do next?”
“The name’s Fargo.”
“The Trailsman’s a lot more dramatic.”
Fargo laughed. “I can see why they’d get rid of you even if you didn’t have a problem with the bottle.”
“They ‘got rid of me’ as you say because they didn’t like me showing them up for the amateurs they were.” The derby on his head once more, he leaned a few inches closer and said, “Just as I’m doing here in Cawthorne. The owner here is a man named Amos Parrish. He’s never worked on a large newspaper in his life. But he’s under the mistaken impression that he’s doing me some kind of favor by paying me slave wages for work he could never do himself. He’s even taken to putting both our names on the pieces I write, claiming that people will believe it more readily if we’ve both signed it. He’s jealous, of course. And he’ll be even more jealous when I crack this case.”
“The killings?”
“Indeed, the killings.”
“Do you actually know something or are you just talking?”
O’Malley leaned back and bestowed an impish grin on Fargo. A leprechaun for sure. “So you’re intrigued, Fargo.”
“I’m intrigued if you know something that’s a fact.”
O’Malley touched his chest as if he’d been mortally wounded. “And what do you think I deal in, sir, except facts? The truth, as I said, is to be found in the bottle. The bottle tells me many things and it never lies.”
Fargo’s amusement was wearing thin. “If you know something, you should tell Sheriff Cain.”
O’Malley barked a laugh. “Cain? You trust Tom Cain?”
“He’s the sheriff.”
“He’s a town tamer. There’s a difference. An honest sheriff does what’s best for the town. A town tamer does what’s best for him.”
“Well, if you won’t tell him how about telling me?”
“Sir, do you have any idea how a reporter works?”
Fargo yawned. “No, but I’m afraid I’m about to find out.”
“A reporter works in secrets and he keeps his secrets. If I were to reveal what I’m working on right now this town would explode. So I”—he doffed his derby once again—“I keep it under my hat as they say. My derby to be exact. You’ll be the man I turn to—if you promise me that you won’t share my secrets with Cain.”
Fargo wasn’t sure what to make of the Irish drunk. He was a windbag, that was for certain. And a damned irritating one at some points. But maybe his experiences on big-city newspapers—if they weren’t just a figment of his besotted imagination—might actually make him the one man in town who could sort through everything that had happened and make sense of it.
“It’s not always safe to keep secrets. If you’re on to somebody he may be on to you.”
“I keep a derringer up my sleeve. Spent some time on riv erboats as a gambler.”
“The killer’s going to come at you with a hell of a lot more than a derringer if he thinks you can identify him.”
“That, Mr. Fargo, is my concern, not yours.”
And with that he once again doffed his hat and disappeared into the night.
3
Trail dust and a good night’s sleep were Fargo’s two main concerns when he checked into the Royale. The nattily attired desk clerk assured him that both Fargo’s desires could be taken care of with no problem. With a great deal of pleasure, in fact, he said in his best desk clerk voice.
The lobby was filled with drummers. The checkered suits and the black bags gave them away. Fargo enjoyed his travels. He was just glad he didn’t have to wear stupid suits and hawk worthless products to naive men and women across the West. And not all of them were harmless. He’d run into a few snake oil salesmen who peddled everything from opium to murder. He’d once shot a drummer who hired out as a killer when he visited a town. He usually managed to escape in time. Until he happened to be in the same town as Fargo at the same time.
The room was small but clean and the mattress seemed to be new. He sat down to test it and liked what he felt. Now for the trail dust. The desk clerk had told him to go to room D where he would find a big aluminum tub. He would see that a woman was there to assist Fargo. Fargo brought clean clothes and found room D. The woman proved to be a fine piece of goods, dark—probably Italian—with sensuously sculpted features and a blue cotton dress that revealed rich breasts and hips made for handling.
Near the big tub were four buckets of water. Steam rose from them. And on a table behind the buckets were towels and soap.
“My name is Antonia.”
“Skye Fargo.”
“You’re a big one.”
“And you’re a pretty one.”
She obviously enjoyed the compliment. He pulled the silver button from his pocket and showed it to her. “You ever see this before?”
“No. It is from a woman’s garment.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Where did you find it?”
He changed the subject. “How about that bath?”
“I will step out while you take your clothes off. There is soapy water in the tub. It is cool. I’ll use the other buckets to heat it up as we go along.”
In a graceful glide she left the room. Fargo stripped down, piled his dusty clothes in a heap, then lowered himself carefully into the tub. The water was more than cool, it was downright cold. A couple of shudders and he was fine. “C’mon back.”
Antonia appeared and silently went to one of the buckets. She took the handle with long fingers and carried it to the tub. “I will pour slowly. You tell me when it’s too hot.”
As she bent over to pour the water, he noticed how her full breasts pressed against the blue cotton of her
