Hannibal Rising

“Just an impression I had,” Maude answered.

“Were they on the deck before you got there?”

“Now that I think about it,” Harold said, “no, they weren’t. They showed up just a bit before you did.”

Fargo rubbed his sore jaw and pondered. It made no damn sense.

“Maybe they saw you win big at the poker table and were out to help themselves to your poke,” Sweetpea said.

“Could be.” Fargo had a hunch there was more to it. The pair had been as fiercely intent as starved wolves out to bring down a bull elk.

“Let’s hope they don’t try again.”

“Oh my,” Maude declared. “Wouldn’t that be positively awful?”

2

Hannibal, Missouri wasn’t the sleepy settlement Fargo remembered. It had grown into a bustling town of about three thousand people. Two sawmills provided the lumber for the buildings and sold boatloads more downriver. The four slaughterhouses did the same. Some folks complained about the constant squeals of the hogs being butchered but they were few. To most, those squeals were money in the bank and Hannibal was all about money.

In addition to the sawmills and the slaughterhouses, there were over a dozen general stores—two that sold nothing but hardware—millineries for the ladies, not one but two newspapers, and churches galore. Hannibal had the railroad and a steamboat landing.

It also had, to Fargo’s mild surprise, plenty of saloons. From the landing he made straight for the first one he saw, leading the Ovaro by the reins. He’d paid extra to have the stallion brought upriver and he imagined it was as glad as he was to be off the steamboat and to be able to move about again. He looped the reins around a hitch rail and sauntered into a whiskey den that put saloons west of the Mississippi to shame. An ornate mirror ran the length of the back wall. Overhead hung a chandelier that tinkled whenever the front door was opened. The floor was swept clean, the bar polished to a shine. The bartender had muttonchops thick enough to hide in and wore a white shirt with gold suspenders.

Fargo paid for a bottle and retreated to a corner table. He filled his glass and gulped half, and smiled. He was about to gulp the rest when a two-legged mouse in a suit and bowler timidly approached and gave a slight bow. The man had small, deep-set eyes and no chin to speak of.

“Excuse me, but would you be Mr. Fargo?”

“Go away.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Skedaddle. Light a shuck. Leave me be. Scat. Take your pick but do it.” Fargo drained the glass.

“You’re a bit of a grump.”

Fargo refilled the glass and raised it. “Are you still here? You have nuisance written all over you and I want to relax a spell before I go see the gent who sent for me.”

“Ah, yes, well.” The mouse drew himself up and squared his sloped shoulders. “Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Theodore Pickleman and I was . . .”

In the act of swallowing, Fargo started to laugh and snorted whiskey out his nose. “Damn. Look at what you made me do.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Pickleman?”

“I am afraid so, yes. I’m a lawyer and I’ve been . . .”

Again Fargo cut him off. “I was right about you. If there are bigger nuisances than lawyers I have yet to meet them. Go away.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. You see, as I was saying, I represent the Clyborn family and I’m here at the request of the person who wants to hire you.”

“Sam Clyborn? Why didn’t you say so?” Fargo fished the telegram from his pocket. “I was in Saint Louis when this reached me.” He unfolded it and read it again out loud. “Skye Fargo. Urgent you come immediately to Hannibal. Will pay two thousand dollars for your services.” He flicked it toward the lawyer. “It’s signed Sam Clyborn.”

Pickleman picked up the telegram. “I know what it says. I’m the one who sent it.”

“How did you know I was in Saint Louis?”

“Sam read in the newspaper about how you were recuperating from a run-in with hostiles. Something about an arrow in your leg.”

“I’m fond of Saint Louis,” Fargo admitted. “It has almost as many bawdy houses as Denver.” He chuckled and downed another half a glass and sat back. “Tell you what. Pull up a chair and you can tell me what Clyborn wants.”

“I can’t. I’m under strict orders to fetch you straightaway. The Yancy was early for once or I’d have caught you at the landing. As it was, a couple named Harold and Maude pointed you out to me as you were going off up the street or I’d have missed you entirely.”

“I aim to drink and eat before I go anywhere,” Fargo informed him.

Pickleman fidgeted and said, “I am sure Sam will have the cook prepare a meal for you. Bring your bottle if you wish but please accompany me or I will be in hot water.”

“You sound scared.”

“It’s not that so much,” the lawyer replied. “But when Sam wants something done, it had better be done the way Sam wants or there is hell to pay.”

“Sounds like him and me won’t get along,” Fargo predicted.

Pickleman uttered a strange sort of bark. “To the contrary. Based on what I’ve been able to learn about you and your proclivities, I’d say the two of you will hit it off.”

“My what?” Fargo seemed to recollect hearing the word before but he would be damned if he could remember when or where.

“Your fondness for whiskey and cards and—how shall I put this?—other things.” Pickleman clasped his hands. “Please. I’ll beg if I must. I can’t afford to have Sam switch to another attorney.”

Fargo was loath to go. His stomach was growling and the whiskey they served here was damn good. “You need to learn to stand up for yourself.”

“No one stands up to the Clyborns.”

“There’s more than one?”

“Oh, goodness, yes. There are six now that Thomas Senior has passed on. His wife died years ago. That leaves their four sons and two daughters. Sam is the oldest.”

“Didn’t I see the name Clyborn on one of the general stores?”

“That you did. Thomas was one of the first to settle here. He saw potential where others saw only wilderness. He realized that where Bear Creek flows into the Mississippi was the perfect spot for riverboats to put in. He started up the first sawmill, and the family still holds a controlling interest. He started up the first slaughterhouse, as well. I daresay half the businesses in Hannibal owe their existence to him.”

“So the family is rich?”

“Thomas’s net worth when he died was over ten million dollars. Yes, you heard right. Million. A sum to stagger the imagination, don’t you think?”

It staggered Fargo’s. The most he ever had at any time in his life was ten thousand, which he promptly lost in a game of five card stud.

“Now can we go?” Pickleman requested. “I have a carriage waiting. You can tie your horse to the back. The estate is about three miles south of town and we’ll want to reach it before nightfall.”

“Afraid of the dark, are you?” Fargo poked fun.

“If you read the Hannibal Journal you would understand. A scoundrel called Injun Joe has been terrorizing the territory. He is believed to be to blame for several murders and a score of robberies. I wouldn’t put it past him to stop our carriage and demand our money.”

Fargo patted his Colt. “He’s welcome to try.”

“Yes, I have heard you are uncommonly quick and accurate. But Injun Joe isn’t to be taken lightly. He shows no mercy and he has no remorse or he wouldn’t do the horrible deeds he does.”