“I’d never admit this to my brothers or sisters, but the reason I’ve spent so much time in the woods was to get away from my father and to get away from them. Father, with his carping and his insults. My siblings, with their never-ending bickering. It got so, I spent more of my time at the hunting lodge than I did at the mansion.”
“You like killing game?” Fargo had met some who lived for the thrill of the chase and the blood of the shot.
“I don’t kill just to kill, if that’s what you’re getting at. I hunt for food. That might sound silly given how well- off we are but I’d rather eat venison than beef any day, and the butcher doesn’t carry bear meat.”
“What will you do if you end up with all your father’s money?”
“Give shares to my brothers and sisters. It’s only right, the hell we’ve endured. The rest I’ll sock away in a bank and live pretty much as I have been all these years. I don’t care about controlling everyone, like Sam does. Or only wearing the best clothes and being a member of the most expensive men’s club in Hannibal, as Charles does. To me the forest has always been enough.”
Fargo decided he liked this man. “I hope you win.”
Roland shifted and gazed down the line. “Don’t let Sam hear you say that or she’s liable to take her riding crop to your head.” He grinned as he said it but he was serious.
“Everyone keeps saying how mean she is but I’ve yet to see it,” Fargo mentioned.
“It’s not that she’s mean so much as she is controlling. She loves being in charge, and woe to anyone who bucks her.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“No doubt you can in the mountains and on the prairie. But this is Missouri, and Sam is a power to be reckoned with. If she wanted, she could have you arrested and the key thrown away.”
“On what charge?” Fargo skeptically asked.
“Take your pick. Right now you’re in her good graces but whatever you do don’t cross her.”
On that dire note Fargo fell back in line. He kept to himself for the next couple of hours. The humidity got to him but for the most part he enjoyed the Missouri woods as much as he would any other.
In addition to bear and deer, Missouri was home to elk and—or so he had heard—a few moose. The streams and rivers were favorite haunts of beaver and muskrat while wood-chucks were the bane of many a farmer. Smaller game like rabbits, foxes, and raccoons were everywhere. The day sky was ruled by eagles and hawks, the night sky by owls and bats. Catfish and carp were fished out of deep pools while bass thrived in the ponds and lakes and trout ran the swifter waterways.
Fargo could see why Roland liked it here so much. There was plenty of animal sign for those who knew how to read it.
Their little caravan stopped about midmorning to rest the horses. Roland called a halt in a clearing and Fargo dismounted to stretch his legs. He had taken only a few steps when a petite bundle of winsome legs and young innocence imitated his shadow.
“Can we talk, Mr. Fargo?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m right popular today.”
“It’s about my sister.”
“What about her?” Fargo figured either Samantha had told her of his remarks about ladies spreading their legs or Samantha was having second thoughts about hiring him.
“What have you done to her?”
“Not a damn thing. Why? What did she say?”
“She confided in me that she thinks you are just about the most interesting man she ever met.”
“Are you sure she was talking about me?”
“Yes, indeed.” Charlotte bobbed her chin and her lustrous hair bobbed with it. She put her hands on her slim waist and squared her shoulders, which had the effect of thrusting her bosom against her dress. “I’ve never heard her say the flattering things about any man that she does about you.”
“You must have heard wrong.”
“No, I did not. It only came up because I happened to mention I think you are uncommonly handsome and she—”
“You do?” Fargo interrupted, and smiled. “I happen to think that you’re uncommonly handsome, too.”
“Honestly, Mr. Fargo,” Charlotte said in mild exasperation. “Women aren’t handsome. They’re beautiful or lovely or pretty.”
“You’re all of that, too.” Fargo bent close to her ear. “You remind me of a ripe cherry in a cherry tree.”
“I do?”
“I want to pluck you and eat you.”
Charlotte gasped and put a hand to her throat. “Mr. Fargo! The things that come out of your mouth.”
Fargo stared at her bosom. “It’s the things that go into my mouth that I’m fond of.”
“Surely you can’t mean—” Charlotte stopped and flushed a vivid scarlet. “You are scandalous, sir. How can you talk about me this way when I’ve just told you that my sister thinks so highly of you?”
“I like greener pastures as much as the next hombre.”
Charlotte’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite frankly, I don’t think I want to.” She peered at his face as if trying to see through him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you are undressing me with your eyes.”
“I am,” Fargo said with a grin, “and I like what I see.”
“Well, I never.” Charlotte turned and said over her shoulder. “I will keep this between us to spare Sam. But if you ever talk to me like this again, I’ll slap your face.”
“That’s fine by me.”
“It is?”
“I like it rough.” Fargo smothered a laugh at her shock and hasty departure.
Two seeds planted, he thought to himself. He gazed at the ring of trees and noticed the glint of the sun off of metal a score of yards into the undergrowth. One of their servants, he reckoned. But glancing about, he realized that everyone was accounted for.
The next instant a shot blasted.
7
After the two attempts on his life Fargo took it for granted this was the third. As the shot shattered the muggy Missouri air, he dived flat. He didn’t feel the searing pain of lead ripping through him and thought the shooter had missed. Then he glanced up.
Emmett Clyborn had a hole in the center of his forehead and an even bigger hole on the back of his head where the slug had burst out. He was swaying, his eyes wide with shock. Many of the others were gaping at him in stunned disbelief.
“Get down!” Fargo bellowed.
A second shot cracked.
Charles Clyborn had started to duck and his hat went flying. He dropped flat just as a third shot rang out but the third one didn’t come from the woods; Roland Clyborn was shooting back.
Fargo whipped out his Colt and added to the hail. He fired at where he had seen the gleam of metal, two swift shots, and then he was up and running toward the woods, zigzagging to make it harder for the shooter to hit him. Roland ran with him and together they charged toward where tendrils of gun smoke hung in the air.
“Where?” Roland roared, turning right and left.
Fargo spied movement off through the trees. “There!” He pointed and weaved among the boles on the fly. All he wanted was one clear shot. Just one. The crash of the undergrowth and the hammer of hooves told him he wasn’t going to get it. In anger he snapped off a shot in the direction of the sounds and came to a stop. The hoofbeats rapidly faded.
“We should go after him!” Roland fumed.
“And leave the others?” Fargo shook his head. Especially since in both previous tries on his life there had been two would-be assassins, not one. Which begged the question: Where was the other one?
