you. David Parker would skin a starving cat for a new pair of gloves if he liked the color of its mangy fur.”
“He sort of strikes me that way, too,” Fargo said. “But a man in my position can’t afford to turn down money like he was offering.”
“If you do what he says—keep the game fair—then you’ll have earned your wage and then some,” Anderson said. “I think the whole thing is some kind of setup. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, David Parker is one smart fella. He likes to gamble—loves it, in fact—but he also likes to win. Out at the racetrack, the odds change when he takes a seat in the clubhouse. This game was his idea. We’d all sit down, play a high-stakes game of poker. The money is part of it, but the real stakes are unspoken. The winner gets Basin Street and Storyville. The losers can find somewhere else to play.”
“I figured it was something like that,” Fargo said. “The problem is that the whole game has to be rigged. Somehow. Otherwise, Parker wouldn’t have suggested it.”
“You think he’ll cheat?”
Fargo shook his head. “I don’t reckon he’ll be that obvious about it. There must be something else involved. He likes the odds to favor him.”
“Fargo, H.D.’s told me the story about what happened out in Kansas. He says you’re the hardest man he’s ever met—but you’re also fair. Will you help keep the game fair at least?”
“If I spot anyone doing anything out of line,” Fargo said, “you can be sure I’ll say something. There’s more than money or a business on the line here, I think. There’s all the folks who live and work in this area. Seems to me like you’ve tried to do right by them, much as you can. I’m not sure Parker and Beares are so high-minded.”
“They aren’t,” Anderson said. “Ask around and you’ll learn the truth.”
“I intend to,” Fargo said.
He was about to add something more, when Anderson stood. Coming through the door were the two men who’d left earlier, dragging another man between them.
It was the man who’d stolen Fargo’s horse.
“Ahhh, if it isn’t Slick Willie Smith,” Anderson said. “How are you, Willie?”
Willie’s eyes were wide and frightened. It didn’t look like the men had roughed him up too much, but his coat was torn and his lip was bleeding. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. I didn’t know he was a friend of yours! I swear it! I just thought he was passing through!”
“Willie, we’ve talked about this before, haven’t we? You aren’t supposed to be stealing at all. What happened to that job I got you over at the stables?”
“I got drunk,” the man said. “Ol’ man Simms, he fired me on the spot.”
“I would’ve, too,” Anderson said. He looked up at his men. “Did you retrieve Mr. Fargo’s belongings?”
One of the men nodded. “Yes, sir. Willie was trying to sell the tack when we caught up with him.”
Fargo breathed a sigh of relief. He and the Ovaro had been through a lot together. Losing his tack and gear would be one thing—those were replaceable—but a great horse like the Ovaro would be all but impossible to find again.
“Well, Fargo,” Anderson said, “what do you want done with him?”
Willie was all but gibbering now, and Fargo shook his head. “Let him go,” he said to the men. They released him and as Willie started to backpedal, Fargo snatched his coat lapels and yanked him forward, lifting him off his feet.
“Don’t hurt me, please, mister!” Willie screeched.
“Stealing is a sorry-assed way to make your way in the world, Willie,” Fargo said. “Mr. Anderson here gave you a shot at the straight life—got you a job—and you ruined it. Now I’m going to give you one: get sober and get a job. If
“Yes, sir,” Willie said. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fargo. I understand. ”
Fargo shoved him away. “Now get out of here,” he said.
Willie ran for the door and Anderson chuckled. “I thought he was going to wet himself for a minute there.”
“So did I,” Fargo said. “I’d best get going. I still need to see to my horse and meet up with H.D., and I still haven’t gotten a room yet.”
“Where did Parker tell you to stay?” Anderson asked.
“The Bayou,” he said. “Across from the Blue Emporium. ”
“I know it,” Anderson said. “He owns it, but it’s a decent enough place.” He looked at Fargo seriously. “This is a dangerous bit of business you’re in, Fargo. A lot of money and lives are on the table. Watch your back, and if you run into trouble, come find me. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the game and pray that you’re as straight an arrow as you seem.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Fargo said. “One thing I can tell you: there’s only one set of rules I play by, Anderson. Mine. They’re harsh but fair. If I catch anyone cheating, you can be sure I’ll say something.”
“Good enough,” he said, offering his hand.
Fargo shook and took his leave, finding his horse tied up outside and all his gear exactly as he’d left it. He pulled his gun belt out of the saddlebag and put it back on.
So far, what he knew was that Parker wasn’t telling the whole truth, and Anderson was telling his version of it. And there was still the matter of figuring out what Richard Beares was all about, too.
A lot of people, all of them telling lies of one kind or another.
“It’s no wonder they call it Storyville,” he said to the Ovaro, who nickered at him in reply. He climbed into the saddle, and turned the horse toward the livery.
The humid air was still and heavy as the early evening sun went down on the water. All the way to the livery, Fargo felt eyes on him and he knew that word had spread.
And that he was being watched by everyone.
John H. D. Timmons had spent most of his forty-two years of life living in bad circumstances and working in worse. His father had been a Baptist minister in New Hampshire who took the sentiment “spare the rod, spoil the child” to heart and regularly beat the young, defenseless John H. D. Timmons within an inch of his life. Believing that women were much like children, the man had treated his wife the same.
The year he was sixteen, H.D.’s father had beaten his mother to death. H.D. returned the favor, burned down the small home and attached church he’d grown up in, and left, heading west and not stopping until he’d reached Oklahoma.
Punching cows was tough, but compared to growing up with the Reverend (as he often thought of his father) it was easy. He learned to ride, shoot, drink, fight, and generally take care of himself. When a group of cattle rustlers began stealing from the Double Bar T ranch, it was H.D. who’d helped the marshal track them down and bring them to justice. From that point on, his future in law enforcement was assured.
He’d worked in a lot of prairie towns, from Oklahoma to Nebraska and then back down to Kansas, which is where Fargo had first met him. The work was hard and dangerous, but H.D. brought perspective to it, wasn’t on the take, and treated the citizens who were law-abiding as they deserved to be treated. The years had aged him—he’d gone a little softer around the middle, and there was more gray in his hair than black, but his hands were still rock steady as he poured two shots of sour mash and raised his glass in a toast.
“Here’s to still being alive,” he said. “And to still being a bit faster than the fella trying to kill you.”
Fargo raised his own glass, and added, “Or to just being a bit luckier.”
H.D. laughed and both men tossed back the bourbon. “It’s good to see you again, Fargo. Last I heard, you were headed to the Dakotas.”
Fargo nodded. “I went up there for a spell, but didn’t stay. There’s too many bad men up that way, stealing land, cattle, and grubbing for gold. Seems like that’s all anyone was interested in, so I moved on.”
“You run into trouble?” H.D. asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said. “But it
“I’ll say,” H.D. said. “But it’s not trouble that finds you. Not really. It’s folks who need help. Trouble of one kind or another usually follows right along with that.”
