famous when he was in a tavern brawl and killed three men with his bare fists. Self-defense, the jury said. It was in all the newspapers.”
“So he is
“The one and only,” Kutler said proudly. “The scourge of the Mississippi, they used to call him. But he had to leave the river and wound up here.”
Fargo studied the women. Indian women, they were, and not one had seen twenty winters. All three wore finely crafted doeskin dresses and moccasins.
“That was six months ago,” Kutler was saying. “Now Big Mike pretty much runs Polson as he pleases.”
Indicating the women, Fargo asked, “How do they fit in?”
“Their fathers or husbands borrowed money from Big Mike and can’t repay him, so these squaws have to work off the debt.”
Fargo was about to ask how when the man behind Kutler gave a harsh bark of impatience.
“Damn it, Kutler, how much longer are you two going to jaw? I want to get back. Another day without whiskey and my insides will shrivel.” He was a small man with a hooked beak of a nose, a scar on his pointed chin, and a perpetual scowl. Like Fargo, he wore buckskins. Cradled in his left arm was a Sharps. A revolver adorned his hip.
Kutler glanced sharply over his shoulder. “That will be enough out of you, Tork. Big Mike put me in charge. We will ride on when I say we ride on.”
Tork looked at the two men who were on either side of the women and made a show of rolling his eyes.
Fargo saw Kutler’s hand drift toward his revolver, but for whatever reason, Kutler let his hand drop and muttered something under his breath. “Good friends, are you?” Fargo remarked.
Kutler snorted. “Tork doesn’t like me and I don’t like him. But so long as we both work for Big Mike, nothing much will come of it.”
“Why is that?”
“Because if one of us kills the other, Big Mike will kill whoever lives.” Kutler lifted his reins. “If you are ever in Polson, look me up. I am usually at the Whiskey Mill.”
Fargo had to ask before they rode off. “You say these women are to work off a debt? How do they do that, exactly?”
“How do you think?” Kutler rejoined, with a wink and a leer. “They would run off if they could but we do not give them the chance.” He clucked to his horse. “If any of these squaws strike your fancy, they will be at the Whiskey Mill, too.”
The women filed past with their heads bowed. Judging by the way they wore their hair and the styles of their dress, two were Flatheads and one was a Coeur d’Alene. The youngest Flathead was quite pretty, with nice lips and full cheeks and beautiful eyes that fixed on Fargo’s as she went by in what he took to be mute appeal.
“Get along there!” snapped one of her guards.
Fargo sat and watched them until they were stick figures. “Hell,” he said to the Ovaro. His gaze drifted to the range of mountains to the northwest. Several of the peaks were so high, they were mantled with snow all year long. If he wanted to be by his lonesome, that was the place to go.
Fargo reined toward the lake. He held to a walk. There was no hurry, and the Ovaro was tired. The image of the pretty Flathead seemed to float in the air before him. “Now I have even more reason,” he said aloud.
Fargo was looking forward to a hot meal, a bottle of whiskey, and a card game. He must remember to keep his ears pricked. As his friend, Colonel Travis, had made plain the night before Fargo left the fort: “Your orders are to find out if the rumors are true. If they are, get word to me, and I will take whatever measures I deem necessary. Unfortunately, since this is largely a civilian matter, I must be careful how I proceed or the newspapers will be clamoring for my hide.”
Fargo had said that he understood.
“I wouldn’t ask this of you but there is no one else I trust half as much as I trust you,” Colonel Travis remarked. “But be careful. Don’t get involved if you can help it.”
“I will try my best not to,” Fargo had responded.
Now, with the sun well past its apex, Fargo reckoned he would reach Polson about twilight. He came on an isolated cabin, and shortly after, a second homestead. They were not there the last time he was here, and each brought a frown of disapproval.
The West was growing too damn fast for his liking.
Fargo rounded a bend and suddenly had to rein up to avoid riding into an old man in shabby homespun who was staggering down the middle of the trail, a nearly empty whiskey bottle clutched in his bony hand. “Watch where you are going, old-timer.”
The man stopped and swayed, peering up at Fargo through bloodshot eyes. Taking a swig, he testily demanded, “What are you trying to do? Ride me down?” He was so drunk he slurred every syllable.
“If you don’t want to be trod on, you shouldn’t hog the trail.”
Sniffing in resentment, the old man put his spindly arms on his bony hips. He wore a Colt Navy in a scuffed holster but he made no attempt to draw it. “For your information, I am almost out of bug juice and I am on my way into Polson for more.”
“I reckon you have had enough,” Fargo mentioned.
“What makes you say that, you busybody?”
“You are going the wrong way.”
The old man gave a start. “How’s that?”
“Polson is to the north. You are walking south.”
“The hell you say!” The oldster glanced about him in bewilderment, then cackled and exclaimed, “I’ll be damned! Somehow or other I got turned around.”
“I wonder how,” Fargo said drily.
The old man smiled and held out a hand. His teeth, the few that were left, were yellow. “Thaddeus Thompson, sir. Thank you for pointing out my mistake.”
Fargo bent down. It was like shaking hands with dry bones. “It will be dark soon. Maybe you should go home.”
“And not get my refill?” Thaddeus took a step back in indignation. “How do you expect me to make it through the night? When I am sober the nightmares are worse.”
“Why would a gent your age have nightmares?”
Thaddeus grew even more indignant. “What does my age have to do with anything, you ornery pup? I have nightmares for the same reason anyone does. Because things happened that seared my soul. Because in the dark of night, the dead haunt us.”
“For a drunk you have a way with words,” Fargo complimented him.
Sorrowfully hanging his head, Thaddeus said, “They blame me, so they come back to remind me.”
“Who does?”
“My wife, Martha, and my brother, Simon. They were murdered and there was nothing I could do.” Thaddeus upended the last of his whiskey into his mouth, then uttered a low sob.
“Someone killed them?”
“I swear, you do not have enough brains to grease a pan. Isn’t that what I just said? But I don’t have proof so there is not much I can do.”
“I would like to hear about it,” Fargo said.
“Go to hell. It hurts too much. It is bad enough Martha and Simon crawl out of their graves at night to point fingers at me.” Wheeling, Thaddeus staggered in the direction of Polson, swinging the now empty bottle by its neck.
Fargo kneed the Ovaro and came up next to him. “How about if we ride double? You will reach the settlement a lot sooner.”
“When I get there, I get there,” Thaddeus declared. “I would not go at all if I did not need more gut- warmer.”
“It is a long walk,” Fargo tried again.
“I am no infant. Kindly take you and your horse elsewhere so I can suffer in silence.”
“I am in no hurry.”
