forest. “Tell me. What do you see?”
Fargo wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “Trees?”
Pickleman smiled smugly. “Indeed. You and I see trees. Not Tom Clyborn. He saw black walnut. Hickory. Ash. Sycamores. Maples. An entire logging industry there for the taking.”
They had passed logging operations at the outskirts of Hannibal. Trees were being felled at a terrific rate. Fargo couldn’t help but reflect that as fast as the forest was being chopped down, in another twenty years there wouldn’t hardly be any forest left. He said as much.
“So? That’s a long way off. The important thing is that we make money now.”
“There’s more to life than money.”
Pickleman tilted his head and studied Fargo as he might a new kind of bug.
“Don’t let Sam hear you say that. To the Clyborns, money is everything. Power. Prestige. Luxury.” He patted the victoria’s seat. “As you can tell, they only buy the best. Which, by the by, is one of the reasons Sam saw fit to send for you.” He paused. “You are widely regarded as being the best there is at what you do. Is that true?”
Fargo shrugged.
“I see. You’re not one to brag. But I hope for your sake it is. Sam will be most displeased if you’re not all it’s claimed you are.”
Fargo remembered the comment about a hunt. “Has a bear been acting up? Is that why he sent for me?” So far as he knew, the only other meat-eaters that still roamed these hills and might pose a threat to people were cougars, but cougar attacks were rare.
“Oh, goodness no.” Pickleman laughed and shook his head.
“You’re not here to hunt wild game. Sam sent for you for a special purpose.”
Fargo was fed up with being kept in the dark. He fished for information by saying, “Clyborn meant what he said about paying me two thousand dollars?”
“A thousand a day for two days of your time, yes. Not bad when you consider that the yearly income for most people is about five hundred.”
The lawyer lapsed into silence, for which Fargo was grateful. He closed his eyes and pulled his hat brim down. A little rest would do him good. He had been up most of the night with Sweetpea. He relived the feel of her lips on his, of her full mounds in his hands, her hard nipples against his palms. He’d like to be with her now, parting those silken thighs of hers and running his hand from her knees to her moist cleft. He felt himself stir and inwardly smiled.
Unexpectedly, the victoria came to a stop.
Fargo opened his eyes. The sun was gone and night was falling. The driver was in the act of lighting the two lamps, one on either side of the seat, that would illuminate their way in the dark.
“Hurry it up, James,” Pickleman said. “We don’t want to keep Sam Clyborn waiting, do we?”
“No, sir,” James replied. He had the first lamp lit and closed the glass. Turning to the second, he opened the glass and bent to light it. In the woods a rifle boomed and the back of the driver’s head exploded in a shower of hair and flesh and silk hat.
Fargo was in motion before the sound of the shot died. It had come from the trees to the right; he went left, clearing the seat and the step and landing in a crouch with the victoria between him and the shooter.
Theodore Pickleman was frozen in shock.
“Get down!” Fargo rasped, and when the lawyer didn’t move, he reached up and hauled him out of the seat. A second shot blasted and the slug ripped into the victoria inches from his head. Ducking, Fargo turned Pickleman toward the vegetation and gave him a shove.
The lawyer unwittingly straightened and took a step.
Instantly, Fargo grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to the ground. “Are you trying to get yourself shot?” He hunkered beside the rear wheel.
Pickleman didn’t move. His mouth worked but no sounds came out. Then he gulped and bleated, “What is going on? Who shot James?”
“How the hell would I know?” Fargo raised his head to peer over the top and nearly lost an ear to a leaden hornet. Only this time the shot came from a different spot and by the sound was a revolver. He worked the Henry’s lever, feeding a cartridge into the chamber.
“This can’t be happening. It just can’t.”
“Tell that to your driver.” Fargo risked a look around the rear of the carriage. A black veil had fallen and was rapidly darkening.
Pickleman sat up. “Oh, God. Poor James. I don’t understand why anyone would shoot him. He was a good man. He’d never harm a soul.”
“They shot him first to keep us here,” Fargo guessed. “Now they’re waiting for one of us to try and climb up on that seat so they can do the same to us.”
“You keep saying
Fargo didn’t waste breath explaining. He edged away from the wheel and toward the Ovaro. He was worried the bush-whackers might decide to shoot the horses.
Across the road the undergrowth spouted flame and sound and lead smacked the victoria. Fargo answered in kind, banging off three swift shots. Spinning, he crab-stepped toward the driver’s seat. “We have to get out of here,” he whispered. “When I climb up, you jump in.”
“Not on your life,” Pickleman said with a vigorous shake of his head. “We’ll be killed before we go ten feet. They can see us but we can’t see them.”
Fargo remedied that. He shot the lamp. It burst in a shower of flame and whale oil, plunging them in darkness. It also spooked the team. With a strident whinny the near horse bolted and the other horse ran with it. Fargo lunged to try and grab hold of the victoria and swing up but he couldn’t get a firm grip and pitched onto his side. The carriage was a score of yards away—and taking the Ovaro with it—before he could get to his knees. “Damn.”
“Oh my,” Pickleman said.
In the woods a gun thundered.
Fargo saw the muzzle flash. He slammed off two shots while backpedaling. “Hunt cover!” he snapped, and Pickleman scrambled after him.
Across the road both the rifle and the revolver opened up, peppering the undergrowth.
The wide trunk of a maple offered haven. Fargo darted behind it and worked the lever. His elbow bumped the lawyer, who was practically clinging to his back. “When I said to hunt cover I didn’t mean
“Oh, sorry.” Pickleman moved a bit back. “It’s just that I’ve never been involved in anything like this before.”
Fargo had, more times than he cared to count. “The first rule is don’t get shot.”
“Am I mistaken or is there more than one shooter?” the lawyer asked.
“The second rule is whisper.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Pickleman closed his eyes, apparently wrestling with his emotions, and when he opened them he was calmer. He whispered, “There are two of them, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not Injun Joe. He works alone. But for the life of me, I can’t think who else it would be.”
“Hush.” Fargo was listening. The pair might be stalking them.
The brush remained still, the night quiet, save for the far-off hoot of an owl.
Pickleman didn’t stay quiet long. “The Clyborns do have enemies, though. Well, some of the Clyborns do. The youngest, Charlotte, doesn’t have any. She’s so nice and sweet that everyone in Hannibal adores her.”
Fargo looked at him. “There’s a third rule to follow.”
“There is? What would it be?”
“When I tell you to shut the hell up,” Fargo said, “you shut the hell up.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Minute after tense minute followed one after the other until fully a quarter of an hour went by. The moon rose above the hills to the east, splashing the woodland with pale light.
“I think they’re gone,” Pickleman said.
