“What good will that do?” Francis Spencer demanded. “She’s not here.”
“I know that. But I didn’t have much of a chance last night and I have a man with me who might be able to help us.”
Francis fixed her bloodshot eyes on Fargo. “Him? What good can he do?”
“He’s a tracker.”
“Tracker?”
“He reads sign as good as an Indian can.”
“He almost looks like one, as dark as he is. If it wasn’t for that beard ...” Francis stopped and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, mister. I don’t mean to compare you to a redskin. I’m not myself at the moment.”
“I’ve been called a lot worse,” Fargo said.
Francis moved aside. “Come in, please, both of you.”
“Where’s your husband?” Tibbit asked.
“Joseph isn’t here. He went off at first light with several men to search for Myrtle. He plans to stay out all day if need be.”
“He should have told me.”
“Why? Would you have tried to stop him?”
“Of course not.”
“He wouldn’t let you anyway,” Francis said. “It’s our daughter we’re talking about. You know how devoted he is to her. So am I.” Francis’s eyes misted and she dabbed at them with her sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I can’t seem to keep from crying.”
“It’s to be expected,” Tibbit said, kindly. “Why don’t you show us out back and we will take it from there?”
The backyard had an outhouse, a small pen for horses, and a chicken coop. The ground was mostly grass. To one side a stake and a rope showed where the dog had been tied. A mound of fresh earth showed where the dog was now.
“Tell me again how it happened,” Fargo requested.
“There’s very little to go on. The family was in the parlor and heard their dog bark. When it didn’t stop, Myrtle came out to shush it. That was the last they saw of her.”
“Why didn’t the father or mother come out?”
Tibbit shrugged. “Why should they? The dog was Myrtle’s. She’d raised it from a pup and it went with her everywhere.”
“The parents didn’t hear anything? No shouts or screams or a scuffle?”
“Not a sound. Joseph said that the barking stopped as soon as Myrtle went outside. He went on reading and Francis went on sewing until it occurred to them that Myrtle had been gone an awful long time. Joseph went out and that’s when he saw the dog with its throat cut.”
Fargo went to the rope and stake. The dog’s constant pacing had worn a lot of the grass away. Its big prints were everywhere. “What kind was it?”
“Kind?” Tibbit said, and shrugged. “A mongrel. Big as a calf.”
“You said its throat was cut.”
“Yes. So?”
“So why did it let the killer get close? Did the killer sneak up on it? Or was there something else?”
Tibbit said excitedly, “As in, maybe the dog knew the killer? I hadn’t thought of that.”
“If it knew the killer why did it bark?”
“Oh. Damn.” Tibbit rubbed his double chins. “This law business can try a man’s brain.”
Fargo examined the tracks closest to the rope. Most were the dog’s. A small foot with a petite shoe he figured to be Myrtle’s. There was also a number of tracks made by the same man—store-bought shoes with wide heels. “Does the father wear shoes or boots?”
“Joseph?” Tibbit did more rubbing. “I believe he wears shoes. He’s the town butcher and has no real need for boots. Why?”
“His tracks,” Fargo said, and moved to a lone print on the other side of the stake. The toes pointed toward the stake, which meant whoever made it had come over the fence and, if the dog was facing the house, come up behind it. He sank to a knee and examined the print closely.
“What do you have there?”
“How many people were in the backyard last night?”
“Let’s see.” Tibbit ticked them off on his fingers. “There were Joseph and Francis, of course. There was me, when I got here. And a couple of townsmen. Oh, and Sam Worthington.”
“No one else?”
“No. I shooed everybody out except for Joe and his wife and told them not to let anyone else in as a precaution in case there was a clue that might be disturbed. Do you think I did right?”
“Know anyone who wears a boot with a split heel on the left foot?”
“How would I know that? I don’t go around asking folks to lift up their feet.”
“Maybe you should start.” Fargo walked to the back gate. He opened it and noticed that unlike the front gate, it squeaked. Bare dirt was on either side, covered with tracks from the family’s comings and goings. At the edge of the grass was another footprint with a split heel. He closed the gate and roved the yard. The chickens were out and moved out of his way, clucking in annoyance. The rooster flapped its wings. It gave him a thought. “Were the chickens acting up or just the dog?”
“I never thought to ask. Who cares about chickens?”
In the pen were two sorrels, older horses, well broke to the saddle, if Fargo was any judge.
Tibbit had followed him over. “The smaller one is Myrtle’s. The other Francis usually rides. And no, before you ask, I don’t know if they were acting up, either.”
Fargo checked the ground around the pen. He didn’t find any of the split-heel tracks. He walked back to the gate and gazed past it at a field of tall grass and wildflowers that bordered a thick forest. Going out, he started across the field, Tibbit sticking to him like a burr. Trampled grass and crushed flowers caused Fargo to grunt.
“What?”
“This is the way they went.”
“They?”
“Whoever took Myrtle was carrying her.”
“How do you know?”
“If two people were running side by side there would be more grass trampled. The girl was either trussed and gagged or he knocked her out.”
“How do you know that?”
“Did anyone hear her scream?”
“Oh. No. I see what you’re saying.” Tibbit coughed. “You’re good at this. You should wear a badge yourself.”
“Any ten-year-old Apache could do what I’m doing.” Fargo followed the flattened vegetation to the trees. A few yards in he squatted and pointed. “Here’s where his horse waited. He had this planned out, whoever he was.” Fargo reconstructed the abduction in his head. “He went up to the back gate and let the dog see him so it would bark. Then he snuck around the fence. When Myrtle came out and told the dog to hush, he hopped the fence, slit the dog’s throat, and jumped her before she could cry out.”
“You got all that from the tracks?”
“Some. Some of it I’m guessing.”
“That poor girl.”
“Either he gagged her or he knocked her out and carried her here and threw her over the horse. Odds are he was long gone before her parents came out to find why she was taking so long.”
“Clever rascal,” Tibbit said.
“Clever bastard,” Fargo amended.
“By now he could be anywhere.”
“But he made a mistake.”
“He did?”
