But it was.
Fargo went around the next turn, and there, staggering toward him while merrily singing off-key, was none other than Thaddeus Thompson, the ever-present bottle in hand.
Thaddeus took a swig, went to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and took a step back. “You again!”
“Small world,” Fargo said drily.
“What are you doing? Following me?”
“If I was, wouldn’t I be behind you?”
Thaddeus looked over his shoulder, and chuckled. “When I am this booze blind, I can’t tell front from back and sometimes up from down.”
“How are things in Polson?” Fargo asked.
Slurring his words atrociously, Thaddeus said, “There was a ruckus earlier. I heard that one of Big Mike Durn’s Indian girls got away, and he is none too happy.”
“You don’t say.” Fargo feigned innocence.
“Yep. Somebody knocked two of Big Mike’s toughs over their noggins and lit out with her.” Thaddeus tittered. “It serves him right, the murdering bastard.”
“Has Durn returned yet?”
“A couple of hours ago. Him and his men were plumb tuckered out, and he was growling at them fit to bite off their heads.”
“Have you heard who took the Indian girl?”
“No one knows. Of if Durn does, he hasn’t said.” Thaddeus wet his throat again. “Sally Brook is right pleased, though. I heard her tell Durn that it was too bad all those girls didn’t get away.”
“How did Durn take that?”
“How do you think? He stomped into his saloon as mad as an old bull. Sally takes an awful chance mouthing off to him, but she is the only one who can get away with it.”
Fargo looked forward to talking to her. “Want me to see you to your cabin, old-timer?”
Thaddeus snorted. “What the hell for? I’m not helpless.”
“What about that griz—” Fargo began.
“Old One Ear? Don’t start with him again. He is practically my pet.”
The mention sparked Fargo to ask, “That reminds me. Have you heard anything about Mike Durn having a pet of his own?”
“Is it a polecat?” Thaddeus rejoined, and cackled.
“I take it that is a no.”
“If he has one, no one has told me. Now be on your way. I have half a bottle yet to drink and the night ain’t half over.”
“Are you sure you can make it? You look fit to bounce off trees.”
“How do you think I stay on my feet?” Beaming, Thaddeus fondled the bottle and walked on by. His off-key singing again rose to the stars.
Shaking his head, Fargo clucked to the Ovaro.
The lights of Polson were a mile off when hooves pounded and half a dozen riders swept across the trail, blocking it. Fargo drew rein, his elbow crooked so his fingers brushed his Colt. He did not recognize any of them except the small man in the middle.
Tork hefted his Sharps, then said, “Well, look who we have here. Mr. Durn was wondering what happened to you. Where have you been?”
“None of your damn business,” Fargo said.
“Don’t prod me, mister,” Tork snapped. “We have about ridden our horses into the ground hunting for whoever took one of Mr. Durn’s squaws. He is of the opinion it might be you.”
“I better go have a talk with him. Where is he?”
“Back at the Whiskey Mill,” Tork answered. “We will escort you in. But first, hand over your six-shooter.”
“No.”
Tork bristled with, “There are enough of us that you will be lucky to get off a shot.”
“So long as the shot I get off is aimed at you,” Fargo called the little man’s bluff.
“You don’t scare me none,” Tork sneered. But he did not make an issue of it. “Go on ahead of us and we will follow.”
“I will do the following,” Fargo told him. “Less chance of a bullet in the back that way.”
“If you and me tangle, it will be head-on,” Tork predicted. “I am no coward.” He reined his mount around, bawling, “We will do as he wants, boys. He gets to go on breathing until Mr. Durn says different.”
A hardcase on the right spat on the ground. “I don’t much like how he tells us what to do.”
“I am the one telling you,” Tork said. “And I speak for Mr. Durn. Now spur that critter of yours or your neck will need a new head.” So saying, he trained his Sharps on the malcontent.
Fargo half hoped they would shoot one another but the other man did not have the backbone to buck Tork, and fell in with the rest.
On the ride back Fargo had plenty of time to think over what he was going to say.
Polson had quieted. Fewer people were on the street and some of the houses were dark. He let Tork’s bunch go in first. At the batwings he paused to check the lay of the saloon.
Big Mike Durn was at the bar. He was not alone. Seven of his men were drinking with him. Kutler was nowhere to be seen, but Grunge was there. About half the tables had card games going. Fewer maidens were mingling with the customers.
Fargo pushed on through.
Tork had reached the bar and said something to Durn, who turned with his elbows on the counter and regarded Fargo with his usual cold smile. The cardplayers paid little attention as Fargo wound among the tables and planted himself a good six feet from the ruler of the Polson roost. “What is this about me helping one of your girls get away?” he started right in.
“Mr. Fargo,” Durn said with feigned politeness. “Perhaps you would be willing to account for your whereabouts tonight.”
“I would not.”
“Might I ask why?”
“I will tell you what I told your cur,” Fargo said. “What I do is my own affair.”
“I ask you to reconsider,” Big Mike said.
“And if I don’t?”
Durn snapped his fingers. Instantly, Tork and Grunge and the others turned with their rifles leveled or their revolvers out and pointed.
Fargo froze.
“If you don’t,” Durn said, still acting polite as could be, “I will snap my fingers again and my men will turn you into a sieve.” His cold smile widened.
“It is your choice.”
7
Fargo had a contrary streak in him a mile wide, and he showed it now. He clamped his jaw and said nothing.
Mike Durn arched an eyebrow. “I have heard of stubborn but you are ridiculous. Or is it something else?” His forehead knit in perplexity.
Fargo stayed silent.
“Whether you are or you aren’t, you are damned clever,” Durn paid him the same compliment Birds Landing had. “But I can be clever, too.”
