Tibbit fixed Fargo with slightly bewildered look. “All right. What’s your second reason?”
“That necktie social last night.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was nearly hung because some of those men blamed me for the women who have gone missing. I’d like to find the son of a bitch who took those women and show him what I think of having a rope around my neck.”
“You’re saying you want to help so you can see him hung?”
“I’m saying I want to find him so I can kill the bastard myself.”
Marshal Tibbit opened a drawer and took out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He opened it and poured some into his cup and tilted the cup to his mouth and gulped. It brought on a coughing fit and it was a while before he could say, “You are the most singular person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m no different from anyone else.”
“Yes, you are. But I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I can’t have you taking the law into your own hands. If we find whoever is responsible, I intend to place him under arrest so he can be tried in a court of law. Under no circumstances will I let you deprive him of due process.”
Fargo sat silent.
“I must insist on your word. Promise me that you won’t shoot him on sight. I’ll have to refuse otherwise, as much as I can use your help.”
“I won’t shoot on sight,” Fargo said.
“Good.” Tibbit smiled and drank heartily. “Very good.” He set down his cup. “I have to make my morning rounds and then we can be on our way. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes or so. You’re welcome to stay here until I get back.” Standing, he smoothed his jacket and adjusted his hat and strode out with the air of a rooster on the peck.
Fargo went to the window. The Worthington family came out of the general store and moved down the street. Three riders came up it from the other direction and dismounted in front of the Leaky Bucket. They tied their horses to the hitch rail and filed in.
“Well now,” Fargo said. He went out. Staying close to the buildings he came to the saloon and peered in the front window. The three were at the bar.
The only other customer was an older man at a table by himself. Fargo pushed on the batwings. They didn’t squeak and no one heard him until he was close enough for his spurs to give him away. Two of the three glanced over their shoulders to see who it was.
“You!” Dugan blurted.
“What are you doing here?” McNee asked.
Harvey Stansfield heard them and put down his glass and turned—straight into Fargo’s uppercut.
5
The blow smashed Harvey against the bar. Even as it landed Fargo was turning. He punched Dugan on the jaw and sent him stumbling, spun, and unleashed a flurry of jabs and a right cross that McNee tried to counter but couldn’t. McNee tottered. Again Fargo whirled. Harvey was clinging to the bar and shaking his head, trying to recover. Fargo rammed a fist into his jaw and Harvey’s knees folded. Pain in his side let him know that Dugan had jumped into the fray and he retaliated with a swift straight right to the jaw that rocked Dugan onto his bootheels and then with a looping left. Dugan dropped.
More pain, this time in the small of Fargo’s back. Wincing, he turned just as McNee drew back a fist to hit him again. Fargo blocked, sidestepped, planted a solid swing to the face, sidestepped again and planted another. McNee fell against the bar.
Harvey Stansfield was on his knees, still shaking his head. He had yet to land a blow. Fargo struck once, twice, and Harvey sprawled onto his belly, out to the world. Fargo pivoted. Dugan was still down but conscious and struggling to rise to his hands and knees. Fargo kicked him in the head. That left McNee, who thrust out a palm and bleated, “No! Don’t!”
Fargo hit him so hard it nearly broke his hand. McNee’s eyelids fluttered and he oozed to the floor and was still.
“God in heaven,” the bartender said.
Fargo stepped back and surveyed the three limp forms. “When they come to, tell them something for me.”
“Anything you want, mister.”
“Tell them I went easy on them.”
“Jesus.”
“Tell them they better have gotten it through their thick heads that they can’t go around stringing up whoever they please.”
“Oh,” the bartender said. “You’re him. The one they were bragging about right before you came in.”
“They bragged about trying to lynch me?”
The bartender’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “They were joking and laughing about it and Harvey, there, was saying as how it was a shame the marshal stopped them.”
Fargo swore. “Then tell them something else for me. Tell them that the next time I see them I’m going to do this again.”
“They won’t like that.”
“Tell them I’m going to keep on doing it until they leave town, or I do.”
“You sure hold a grudge.”
“If you had a noose around your neck you would too.” Fargo wheeled and stalked toward the batwings, and stopped.
Marshal Tibbit was holding them open, his face more pasty than usual. “I told you to drop it.”
“Wishful thinking.”
Tibbit nodded at the unconscious forms. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that. But I heard what you said. You can’t keep beating them up whenever you like.”
“You’re going to have to pretend a lot more,” Fargo said.
“Can’t you be reasonable?”
“Were they reasonable last night?”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
Fargo wanted to grab him by the shirt and shake him until his teeth rattled but instead he said, “Stepping on someone’s foot in a crowded room is a mistake. Hanging someone by the neck until they are dead is worse.”
“I can see it’s pointless to try and reason with you.” Tibbit stepped back and held a batwing open. “Let’s drop it for now and we’ll go visit the Spencers. We won’t need horses. They live right at the edge of town.”
That was fine by Fargo. He could use some air. His blood still roared in his veins.
The house was one of those with a white fence and green grass. It sat farther back than most and was bigger than most, too. It had been painted a shade of yellow.
“Must be hard on the eyes on a bright day.”
“What?” Tibbit said. “Oh. Yes. It’s my understanding that Francis—that’s the wife—is fond of lemons. She has them brought in special at the general store and eats them all the time and always drinks lemon tea. So she had Joseph paint the house so it resembled a lemon.” He chuckled. “Don’t people do the strangest things?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Fargo said.
“What’s another?”
“People are damn stupid.”
The gate didn’t creak and there was a stone path to the porch. Marshal Tibbit knocked and took off his hat. In a minute the door opened. A mouse of a woman in a yellow dress, her eyes bloodshot from crying and her face haggard from lack of sleep, exclaimed, “Marshal!” She grabbed his jacket and asked, “Have you found her? Have you found my Myrtle?”
“No, ma’am, not yet I haven’t,” Tibbit said, and gently pried her fingers off. “I need to look around again, if you don’t mind.”
