Pickleman.
The mansion was half a mile farther.
“How much land does the Clyborn family own?” Fargo asked over his shoulder as the lights came into sight.
Pickleman chuckled. “You’ve been on Clyborn property since we left Hannibal. Tom Senior laid claim to ten square miles of prime woodland, in addition to his other holdings.”
Light lit every window. From a distance it lent the illusion of being a small town.
As soon as they rode up, servants rushed to take their mounts and tend to the carriage. Roland gave orders that the driver’s body be carried to the springhouse and wrapped in a blanket until the carpenter could make a coffin.
“You have your own carpenter?” Fargo asked.
“We have our own everything,” was Roland’s reply.
“Someone will have to inform Marshal Lamar first thing in the morning,” Pickleman said.
Roland turned. “What for? His jurisdiction ends at the town limits. The one to report this to is Sheriff Edes.”
“I happen to know that the sheriff is off at the capital with his deputy and won’t be back for a week to ten days. By then we’ll have to bury the body or it will stink to high heaven.”
“I don’t like involving Marshal Lamar.”
“It can’t be helped. The murder must be reported,” Pickleman insisted.
A gray-haired servant reached for the Ovaro’s reins. Fargo motioned him away and said curtly, “No.”
The servant looked questioningly at Roland Clyborn.
“Your animal will be taken good care of, I assure you.”
“I’ll tend to my horse myself.”
“That’s what the servants are for,” Pickleman said. “Why do anything we don’t have to?”
“I’m not sure I’m staying.” Fargo didn’t add that, whether he took the job or not, he intended to track down whoever tried to make worm food of them.
Pickleman’s face puckered in worry. “Did I hear correctly? You’re thinking of turning Sam down?”
“I haven’t heard why I was sent for yet.”
“I told you. Sam wants to do that. But you can’t have come all this way only to refuse. It would upset Sam terribly.”
Fargo looked for a hitch rail but there was none. He led the Ovaro to the base of the mansion steps and let the reins dangle. The stallion was well trained; it wouldn’t stray off. The gray-haired servant had followed him so Fargo made it plain. Patting the saddle, he said, “Anyone touches him, I’ll crack their damn skull. Understood?”
Again the servant looked at Roland who motioned. The servant gave a slight bow and walked off.
Fargo shucked the Henry and cradled it in his left elbow.
“You won’t need that inside,” Pickleman said with an amused twinkle in his eyes.
“It goes where I go.”
“I must say,” the lawyer remarked. “You’re about the most strong-willed person I have ever met, and that includes Tom Senior.”
“Follow me,” Roland said.
The interior was as lavish as Fargo expected: polished floors, mahogany furniture, paintings, even a few sculptures. The servants who passed them always bowed their heads.
Fargo was led to a sitting room the size of most saloons. Roland indicated a divan and said he would go fetch Sam.
The lawyer began to pace.
“Nerves bothering you?” Fargo asked.
“Sam won’t like the attempt on our lives. Not one little bit. And when Sam gets mad—” Pickleman didn’t finish.
“I’m not fond of being shot at, myself.”
“Highwaymen, I tell you. Everyone knows that road is used almost exclusively by the Clyborns. They figured to kill us and rob us.”
Fargo had noticed a portrait. It showed a big man in his fifties or sixties with the same broad shoulders and bushy eyebrows as Roland. The artist had captured the man’s piercing gaze and a sense of brooding power. “Thomas Clyborn?”
“Senior, yes. As you can tell, he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. Sam is very much the same.”
“What about Tom Junior?”
“He’s the oldest of the four boys. But how shall I put this?” Pickleman scratched his chin. “Tom the younger isn’t exactly a chip off the old block. Fact is, there are some who suspect he’s not from the same block at all if you take my meaning.”
Before Fargo could reply, into the room swept a force of nature. That was the only way to describe her. She was tall and ravishing, with rich auburn curls, cherry red lips, sharp hazel eyes, and high cheekbones. Her dress had to cost hundreds of dollars. She swept in and stood poised like a monarch about to deliver a speech, those hazel eyes of hers flicking from the lawyer to Fargo and then raking Fargo from his hat to his boots.
Fargo grinned. She was undressing him and studying him and taking his measure all in that one look.
“Samantha!” Pickleman blurted.
It hit Fargo that this was the “Sam” everyone had been talking about. She was as fine a figure of a woman as he ever set eyes on. He caught a whiff of expensive jasmine perfume, and down low, he stirred.
“So you’re the famous scout?” Samantha Clyborn asked in a voice as husky as a caress.
“That he is,” Pickleman confirmed. “I’ve brought him from town just as you requested.”
Samantha focused on the lawyer. “I didn’t
Pickleman blanched. “Roland told you? Be reasonable, Sam. How was I to know outlaws were lying in wait?”
Roland and others appeared behind her. Since they weren’t wearing uniforms Fargo took them to be members of the family.
“Well?” Samantha Clyborn was addressing him. “Are you going to stand there mute or say something?”
“Why did you send for me?”
The vision of loveliness smiled. “Direct and to the point. I like that. I’ll answer your question shortly but first there’s this business of the attempt on your life.”
“Second attempt.”
“What?” Samantha said.
“What?” Pickleman echoed.
Briefly, Fargo recited the knife attack by the man and the woman on the steamboat. “I thought they were after my poke but maybe I was wrong and they were after me.”
“This is most disturbing,” Samantha said. “No one knew I sent for you except for my siblings and Theodore.”
“And some of the servants,” Pickleman said.
Roland and those with him came up on either side of Samantha. Three of the four were men. All had the same auburn hair and a similar shape to their faces, save one. He was bone thin and had raven black hair and a complexion so pale it gave the impression he hardly ever set foot outdoors.
“Surely you’re not suggesting one of us is to blame?” Roland said to Samantha.
“Perhaps one of you thought he would give me an advantage.”
The black-haired man stirred. “
Samantha regarded him as someone might regard a spider they wanted to step on. “Each of us is allowed a helper, Thomas. Anyone of our choosing, that’s how the will reads.”
“Yes,” Tom said, bobbing his bony chin. “But to send for the likes of him”—he jabbed a finger in Fargo’s direction—“Honestly. What can he possibly do that any of our local backwoodsmen couldn’t?”
Another of the siblings, whose suit was immaculate and whose every hair was slicked in place and neatly
