Fargo stood and used his foot to shove his chair back. “You can tell me more on the way out to the Clyborn place.”
“You’re going then?” Pickleman lit up like a lamp. “I can’t thank you enough. I’m in your debt.”
Fargo figured he might as well get it over with. He tucked the bottle under his arm and followed the lawyer out. The sun was poised on the western rim of the world and would soon relinquish its reign to the moon. He opened his saddlebags and slid the bottle in while Pickleman impatiently tapped a foot. “Where’s this carriage?”
“Down the street.”
Fargo unwrapped the reins and followed. It was close to the supper hour. Shops and stores were closing or about to close and people were hurrying home. A lot of them, he noticed, stared at him as they went by. He thought maybe it was his buckskins. Everyone else was wearing either homespun or store-bought clothes. Then he realized he was the only one wearing a six-shooter.
Suddenly a man blocked the lawyer’s way. He wore a suit and had a high, wide forehead and a long upturned nose. The lower half of his face was wreathed in a beard as neatly trimmed as Fargo’s. “Is it true what I’ve heard?”
“How can I say when I don’t know what it is?” Pickleman responded.
“You know very well what. I find it incredible bordering on the absurd. How could he do such a thing?”
“Now, now. Don’t make more of it than there is.”
“And don’t you make light of it. On second thought, I know perfectly well how he could do it, given his nature.”
Fargo said, “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” Pickleman said. “Where are my manners? Skye Fargo, I’d like you to meet Orion Clemens. He owns the
“How do you do?” Clemens offered his hand and looked Fargo up and down. “Fargo, did he say? By your attire I take you for a plainsman.” Clemens gave a slight start. “My word. You’re not by any chance the man they call the Trailsman? I’ve read about you, sir.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
Clemens stared down his long nose at the lawyer. “This becomes more interesting by the moment. How does this rather famous gentleman fit into Tom Senior’s insane scheme?”
“Insane scheme?” Fargo echoed.
Pickleman waved a hand dismissively. “Pay no attention to our esteemed journalist, Mr. Fargo. He has newspapers to sell, after all.” He started to go around but Clemens again blocked his path. “Here now. Out of my way, if you please.”
“Be reasonable, Theodore. I owe it to my readers. I already know about the hunt but not the exact rules and who is to oversee it.”
“You won’t hear them from me.” Pickleman glanced about them and lowered his voice. “You’re the one who isn’t being reasonable. You know very well that an attorney can’t violate a client’s confidence. I’m sorry but you’ll have to dig up your dirt elsewhere.” He walked on.
Fargo had caught the one word that might explain why he was sent for. “What was that about a hunt?”
“All in due time, sir.”
The carriage was actually a victoria, a luxurious model with a fold-down top and a scalloped floor. The driver wore a purple uniform and a high silk hat. He began to climb down.
“That’s all right, James,” Pickleman told him. “I’ll climb in myself.”
Fargo went around to the rear to tie the Ovaro. He wasn’t paying attention to the passersby and didn’t notice a man come up and stop.
“What’s this, then?”
“Hello, Marshal,” Pickleman said.
The lawman was broad and square-jawed and wore his badge high on his vest. He wasn’t wearing a gun belt but there was a telltale bulge under his left arm. “You didn’t answer me.” He pointed at Fargo’s waist. “Explain to me why your friend is wearing a sidearm in violation of town ordinance?”
“He just got off a steamboat.”
“The
Pickleman calmly introduced Fargo. “This is Dick Lamar, our marshal. As you can tell, he takes his duties seriously.”
“Damn right I do.” Lamar held out his hand. “I’ll take the Colt, mister. You can have it back when you leave town.”
“Sam wouldn’t like that,” Pickleman said.
“How’s that again?”
“Sam Clyborn sent for him. Certainly, take his revolver if you must but don’t blame me if Sam wants your head.” The lawyer smiled and said not unkindly, “Besides, as you can plainly see, we’re on our way out of town anyway so why not let him keep it? He’s only here for the weekend. Monday afternoon he is to take a steamboat back down the river to Saint Louis.”
This was the first Fargo had heard of working only for two days. Here it was, almost Friday evening. What kind of hunt took that short a time and required someone with his particular skills? There had to be plenty of local hunters who knew the habits of the local wildlife.
Marshal Lamar lowered his hand. “Very well. I’ll make an exception but just this once.” He stepped up to Pickleman. “Don’t think I do it out of fear, either. I’m the one person in Hannibal that Sam can’t lord it over and Sam knows it.” He wheeled on a boot heel. “Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”
Pickleman leaned toward Fargo and said quietly, “You must excuse him. He’s been at odds with the Clyborn family now and again.”
“Why?”
“The marshal lives by the letter of the law and the Clyborns like to bend the law to suit them. But after all, that’s always been a prerogative of the rich and the powerful, hasn’t it?”
Fargo didn’t answer. He shucked his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard and climbed into the victoria. There was hardly a speck of dust anywhere and the leather had a nice smell. He settled back with the Henry across his lap.
Pickleman stared at the rifle as if it might bite him. “I honestly doubt you’ll have need of your long gun.”
“You’re the one who said he was worried about Injun Joe,” Fargo reminded him.
James cracked his whip. With a slight jounce they were under way. They turned south at the next corner. Beyond the outskirts of town rose a sweep of densely wooded hills.
“I’m only staying the weekend?” Fargo brought up.
“Oh. Yes. I can confirm that much, at least. It’s not very long, I grant you, given how far you’ve come and how much you are being paid. But I think it’s safe to say you are in for one of the most interesting experiences of your life.”
3
All that was left of the sun was a golden arch. The woods on both sides of the road were mantled in spreading shadows. Soon twilight would descend and they still had miles to go.
Theodore Pickleman was a talker. He prattled on about the glories of Hannibal, about how it was a hub of commerce, how it had grown by bounds the past decade, about the foresight of the man some considered the town’s founding father. “Yes, sir. Tom Clyborn was a visionary. He turned that vision into riches most men can only dream of.”
Fargo listened with half an ear. He wished he had kept the bottle. He could use a drink. Folding his arm across his chest, he remarked, “Didn’t you tell me that creek we crossed is called Bear Creek?”
“Yes. Once these woods teemed with black bears but now there are far fewer.” The lawyer gestured at the
