It was autumn but the heat of summer had not given way to the chill that would herald winter and the sun hung yellow and hot in the afternoon sky. Fargo was alone. He had snuck out of Haven without—he hoped—anyone spotting him. He didn’t want Tibbit along. The lawman meant well but he was a bundle of awkwardness waiting for an accident to happen.
Wild, remote, haunt of the Apache and home to the Navaho, Arizona Territory had yet to be fully explored. A white man took his life in his hands every time he ventured beyond the safe limits of a town. As if that were not enough to keep Fargo on edge, a madman was out to kill him. A man who snatched young women from their backyards—and did what to them? That was the question that burned in Fargo like a bonfire. He could guess, but the truth might be worse.
The pines thinned at the brink of the canyon. Fargo drew rein and dismounted. He let the reins dangle and moved to the spot where he had lost the trail. Below was the undisturbed talus, and below that, a slope dotted with boulders. He couldn’t see what was below them.
Fargo sat down and eased over the side. He slid several feet on the loose stones and dirt, raising curlicues of dust. When he stopped sliding he propped the Henry’s stock on the talus and used it to lever to his feet. The talus didn’t shift as he expected. He took a tentative step and nothing happened. Another step, and another, then the rattle of a small stone—the talus held. He poked at it, seeking to assess how deep the loose dirt and rocks were.
“I’ll be damned.”
The stock sank only an inch. Kneeling, Fargo set the Henry down and dug at the talus with his fingers.
“What the hell?”
Never in all his wide travels had Fargo come across a talus slope with so little talus. It was almost as if—he raised his head and scanned the side of the canyon for as far as he could see. This was the only talus patch. Relying on the Henry as a crutch, he stood and edged lower until he was on firm footing. A pair of enormous boulders blocked his view. He moved between them and nearly stepped in a line of pock-marks: horse tracks.
Son of a bitch, Fargo thought. The man the townsfolk called the Ghoul had spread the rocks and dirt himself to make everyone think it was talus.
The Ghoul would ride down it, dismount, then go back on foot and smooth the loose dirt and rocks over so that from above it appeared that a horse hadn’t crossed.
Fargo turned and climbed to the rim. He shoved the Henry into the scabbard to free both hands for riding and climbed on the Ovaro. He gigged the stallion over the rim and down onto the stones and dirt. For one of the few times ever, the Ovaro balked. Fargo tapped his spurs and the stallion took a few steps and stopped. “It’s all right, boy,” he said, and patted its neck. Another tap of his spurs and the Ovaro moved slowly down, stones clattering from under its hooves.
Once past the fake talus the footing was better but Fargo still had to exercise care. The trail was well marked, showing that his quarry had come and gone many times by the same devious route.
Over half an hour of cautious riding brought Fargo to the bottom. Drawing rein, he scanned the canyon. A quarter of a mile across at its widest, it was bordered on the north by ocher sandstone cliffs that reared hundreds of feet high. Bends in both directions prevented him from seeing how long it was. He reined to the west. High walls towered and the canyon narrowed until it was barely wide enough for a wagon.
Suddenly Fargo heard what he took to be the clank and rattle of pots and pans. Puzzled, he put his hand on his Colt. The next moment he rounded a bend and came face-to-face with a man, who was as surprised to see him as he was to discover the source of the clanking.
It was a prospector: a bewhiskered, wizened gent in worn clothes and a hat with holes in it, leading a burro heaped with tools and grub. He was carrying an old Sharps rifle with tacks in the stock, an Indian trademark. “Where the blazes did you come from?” he blurted, and started to raise the Sharps.
A flick of Fargo’s hand and the Colt was out and the hammer thumbed back. “I wouldn’t,” he said.
The prospector blinked. “Hold on, there, sonny. I wouldn’t really shoot you.”
“I’d shoot you,” Fargo said. “Set that buffalo gun of yours down and do it as slow as molasses.”
“And get dirt on it?”
Fargo thought that hilarious, given the man was caked with dust from his tattered hat to his scuffed boots.
“Can’t I just lean it against my leg?”
“Flat at your feet.”
“You’re a mean one,” the prospector complained but he did as Fargo wanted. “There. I hope you’re happy. You can put away that hogleg now.”
Fargo kept it trained on him. “Who are you?”
“Folks call me Badger, on account I’m always digging in the ground. Been roaming this highland for going on ten years now.” Badger smiled, showing more gaps than teeth. “Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I’m as friendly as can be.”
“How did you get down here?”
Badger pumped his arms up and down and did a good imitation of a crow.
“Caw! Caw!” Cackling, he said, “I flapped my wings and flew.”
“I’d really like to know.”
Pointing back the way he came, Badger said, “I walked here. How else? You ask damn fool questions.”
“Seen anyone?”
“Besides you?” Badger shook his head. “Not in a coon’s age. I fight shy of people. Haven’t set foot in a town in nigh on half a year and wouldn’t know where any was.”
Fargo bobbed his head to the south. “There’s one called Haven half a day’s walk.”
Badger’s eyes crinkled at the rim. “So that’s where.”
“Where what?”
“I figured one must be close.” Badger scratched under an arm and sniffed his fingers. “Where are you bound, anyhow?”
“I’m hunting a man who had a young woman with him. Maybe you’ve seen them?”
“I just told you I fight shy of folks,” Badger said. “What do they look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re hunting for them and you don’t know who you’re hunting? Mister, folks say I’m touched in the head but you have me beat.” Badger stooped to pick up his Sharps. “If you don’t mind I’ll be on my way.”
Fargo reined aside. The ore hound smiled and tugged on the lead rope. The burro was almost past the Ovaro when splash of color caused Fargo to rein in close to it. “Hold it,” he commanded.
“What now?” Badger said.
Fargo bent and snatched the object that had caught his attention: a blue bonnet, hanging by its straps from a pick handle. “Where did you get this?”
“I don’t remember,” Badger said. “I’ve had it quite a spell.”
Fargo didn’t believe him. The fabric was new. The bonnet hadn’t been worn more than a few times. And he recalled someone saying that Myrtle Spencer had been wearing a blue dress when she disappeared. He sniffed it and caught the lingering scent of perfume. “I want the truth.”
“Who do you think you are?” Badger bristled. A wild gleam came into his eyes and he lunged and grabbed the bonnet from Fargo’s hand and held it close to his chest. “This is mine, you hear me! Mine, mine, mine!”
“Where did you get it?” Fargo asked again.
“I don’t remember.” Badger unbuttoned two of the buttons on his shirt and stuffed the bonnet under it.
“Yes, you do.”
Badger picked up the lead rope to the burrow and glared. “I don’t think I like you. I don’t think I like you even a little bit.”
Fargo exercised patience. “The woman who wore that has gone missing. I’m looking for her.”
“She’s one of those you don’t know how they look?” Badger shook his head. “If you don’t know, how would I?”
“It’s important,” Fargo persisted. “The man who took her might have killed her.”
Badger gazed back the way he had come and a shudder shook him. “The skin man,” he said.
“The what?”
