“The skin man. He likes to run his hands over it.”
“Who does?”
Badger glanced around and crooked a finger at Fargo and said in a whisper, “I’ve seen what he does. I’m sneaky when I need to be and I snuck right up and I saw.”
“Saw what?”
“What I shouldn’t have. It’s why I stay away from towns. I’ve always known. From when I was young, and my uncle.”
“You’re not making any damn sense.”
“I am to me,” Badger said, and tittered. “You would savvy if you were me but you’re not so you don’t. Stay away from them, mister. They’re rotten apples, all of them. Oh, they look all shiny on the outside but they’re rotten as sin on the inside.”
“Who is?”
“What have we been talking about? People.” Badger tugged on the rope and started down the canyon, the burro plodding doggedly behind.
Fargo reined the Ovaro next to him. “I mean it. I need to know about that bonnet.”
“What bonnet?”
“The one you stuck in your shirt.”
Badger put his hand on the bulge and his mouth split in his mostly toothless grin. “I never had me a bonnet before. I could have taken the dress but he’d be bound to notice it was missing, it being so new and all.”
“Who would? The skin man?”
“The beast.”
“Why do you call him that?”
Badger stopped and looked up. “We’re all beasts but he’s one of the worst. He ever finds out I know, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”
“The people in Haven call him the Ghoul.”
“Do they, now? Well, it fits.” Badger motioned as if shooing him away. “Now leave me be. Maybe I’ll visit that town you mentioned. I am low on tobacco and I can’t do without.” He tugged and hiked away, muttering under his breath.
Fargo almost climbed down to stop him. But it might do little good; the ore hound’s mind wandered all over the place. A better idea was to backtrack and see where Badger came from. He could always catch up later and press the old goat for answers.
Fargo reined around. The burro’s tracks paralleled the horse prints he had been following. Presently the canyon floor widened and the sandstone gave way to forested slopes. Another quarter of a mile, and the tracks diverged. Fargo came to a stop. The horse prints bore to the northeast; the burro’s tracks to the northwest. How could that be, he asked himself, if the old prospector had been spying on the Ghoul? He reined to the northeast, through dense woodland that was strangely silent. He didn’t hear birds or squirrels. Not even the buzz of a locust.
Reaching down, Fargo shucked the Henry. Animals never went quiet without cause. A prowling meat-eater would do it, or it could be something—or someone—else.
The trail led into tall pines. Needles carpeted the ground inches thick and the prints were harder to make out. Fargo came to a small clearing.
The prints ended in the middle. Past that spot, the needles were unbroken. He drew rein and climbed down. It seemed impossible. A horse couldn’t vanish into thin air. But it could
“No doubt about it,” Fargo said out loud. “You’re clever as hell.”
A horse was heavy enough that even with fur over its hooves it left impressions in dust and soft soil. But on a thick layer of pine needles it left precious few and the needles would smooth out after a little while just as if the horse never stepped on them.
Fargo refused to give up. Faint signs went off to the north and so did he, walking and leading the Ovaro. It was slow going. Several times he lost the trail and had to rove about to find it again.
The pines gave way to ground made up of near solid rock.
Fargo swore. Beyond the rock reared a series of cliffs that no horse could climb. He gazed at the high rims and caught the gleam of sunlight on metal. Instantly, he spun and vaulted into the saddle. Lead spanged off the rock where he had been standing even as the thunder of the shot crashed and echoed. Fargo raced for the woods. Another boom, and a slug whizzed past the stallion’s head. He reined right and then left, zigzagging to make the Ovaro harder to hit. Then he was under cover and drawing rein. Leaping down, he darted to the edge of the trees and hunkered behind a bole. The gleam high up was gone. He waited, hoping the shooter would show himself, but no such luck.
“Damn.”
By now the sun was low in the western sky. Fargo had a choice. Stay there all night and seek a way up or around in the morning, or go back to Haven and return at dawn after a good night’s sleep—or a night of making love to his landlady.
It really wasn’t any choice at all.
12
Night had fallen by the time Fargo reached Haven. He was surprised to find clusters of people the length of the main street talking in hushed tones.
When he rode past they fell silent and stared. He wondered if another woman had gone missing.
The boardinghouse was quiet. A lamp glowed in the parlor. Helsa was on the settee, knitting, and on seeing him she rose and came over and put her hand on his chest.
“Finally, you’re back. Where have you been?”
“I was playing cat and mouse with the Ghoul,” Fargo informed her. “Any chance of getting something to eat after I wash up?”
“The Ghoul?” Helsa said. “How can that be when Marshal Tibbit has him behind bars?”
Fargo didn’t wait for an explanation. He turned and hurried out. More than a dozen townsmen were gathered in front of the jail and he had to shoulder through them. He overheard a few comments.
“... wait for the circuit judge ...”
“... we should try him ourselves ...”
“Try him, hell. He’s guilty as sin. We should take the son of a bitch out and string him up.”
The door was barred on the inside. Fargo knocked, and when no one came, he knocked louder.
“Who is it?” Marshal Tibbit asked.
Fargo told him. The bar grated and the door was flung wide and Tibbit pulled him inside and slammed the door shut.
“Thank God. I can use some help.” Tibbit replaced the bar and went to his desk and wearily sank into his chair. “You saw them out there?”
Fargo nodded.
“A while ago they demanded I turn him over to them but I refused.” Tibbit removed his hat and ran his sleeve across his perspiring brow. “They want to lynch him but I’ll be damned if they will.”
“Him?” Fargo said. The cell was shrouded in shadow and the figure on the cot in the corner had his back to them.
“I caught the killer,” Marshal Tibbit said proudly. “He rode into town and made the biggest mistake he could.” Tibbit opened a drawer and took out a blue bonnet and placed it on his desk. “The fool waved this around at the saloon for all to see. It belongs to Myrtle Spencer.”
Fargo went to the bars. “Hello, Badger.”
The prospector rolled over and bared his toothless grin. “Well, look who it is. Did you find the skin man?”
“He took shots at me.”
