“No, H.D., not unless I find out that you’re in this with her. My advice to you is to find a way to get yourself clear of this place. It’s no good.” He paused, then said, “She’s no good.”
“I know,” H.D. said. “I just . . . I don’t know what to do.”
“Yes, you do,” Fargo said as he stepped out the door and back into the night. “Or at least you used to.”
He listened, but his old friend didn’t say anything else, and Fargo realized that more than likely H.D. wasn’t someone he could call a friend anymore.
Worse, he might just be an enemy.
Still, he would deal with that when the time came. For now, he had to see a man about holding on to a very large sum of money.
Fargo only hoped that his instincts would prove accurate this time. Any kind of game played in this place was dangerous. But he’d managed to find one that was especially so. He remembered something an old friend of his named Cheyenne had told him once: “There’re two things a man’ll kill you for right off. Money and a woman. He’ll kill you faster for the woman but he’ll kill you slower for the money.” Fargo reckoned that that was the kind of good advice that would never go out of style. He’d found it true too many times to doubt it.
And without doubt Cheyenne’s words applied to a place like this.
13
Fargo headed for Anderson’s Cafe and wasn’t all that surprised to find both father and son still awake and discussing the events of the night. The door was locked and he could see them sitting at a table, an oil lamp burning low between them.
He tapped lightly on the door, then stepped away from it. There was no sense in crowding the space and risk getting shot for his trouble. Tommy peered through the window, saw who it was, and opened the door. “Skye Fargo,” he said, smiling. “What brings you here at this god-awful hour of the day?”
“Can I come inside for a moment?” Fargo asked.
“Sure, sure,” Tommy said. He turned back to where his father was still sitting. “Dad, it’s Fargo.”
“I heard, boy,” Anderson said. “Don’t keep him standing in the doorway. Let him in.”
Tommy moved aside, then shut and locked the door behind him. “Can’t be too careful right now,” he said. “Things are a bit unsettled.”
Fargo chuckled and crossed over to where Anderson was sitting. “Unsettled is putting it a bit mildly.”
“He’s got a gift for understatement,” Anderson said. “Yet that same mouth lands him in so much trouble.”
“He’ll grow out of it,” Fargo said. “Probably.”
“Sit down, Fargo,” the man said. “Can I get you something?”
“No, I’m fine,” he replied, taking a seat across from the mayor. “But I’ve come to ask a favor.”
Anderson laughed. “I’m on my way to being the mayor of nowhere and you want a favor? All right, why not? What can I do for you?”
Fargo pulled his saddlebags off his shoulder and tossed them on the table. “I need you to hold these for me, keep them safe until all of this gets figured out.”
“What’s in them?” Anderson asked.
“About three hundred thousand dollars,” Fargo said. “The money from the poker game.”
“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “How did you find it? Did you catch Horn? What happened?”
“For a man who didn’t seem all that concerned about money during the game, you seem awfully excited to have that money back,” Fargo said.
Anderson nodded. “I was bluffing. Even if I get every damn dime I’m owed by people, I wouldn’t have enough to rebuild what I’ve got here. I was laying it all on the line in that game.”
“I thought so. You’re either really brave or incredibly stupid, Anderson. The game was a setup from the beginning.”
“I figured as much, but what else was I going to do except try to win?” the man asked. “Parker and Beares had me cornered.”
“Beares is dead,” Fargo said evenly, “which gives you one less enemy to deal with. As for Parker, I’m not sure what his role in all this is just yet, but I’ll know sooner rather than later.”
“What happened to Horn?” the younger Anderson asked.
“He’s over in the jail,” he replied. “H.D.’s got him locked up nice and tight.”
Anderson sighed heavily. “Fargo, I know he was a friend of yours, but H.D. Timmons is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. He’s been on Parker’s payroll for at least two years.”
Fargo absorbed this information in silence, his worst fears about his old friend confirmed. The lure of money had taken him from the side of right and justice. “Are you sure?” he asked. “He’s got a wife.”
Anderson burst out laughing. “Oh, wow, Fargo, you missed
“He doesn’t?” Fargo heard himself ask, while his mind raced in another direction.
“No way,” the younger Anderson said. “He gets his down at the Blue Emporium, like everyone else on the take around here.”
“Ah, shit,” Fargo said. “Things just got more complicated. ”
“What do you mean?” Anderson asked.
Fargo shook his head. “It’s not important right now. Can you get that money into a safe and hold it until all this is straightened out?”
The mayor of Storyville nodded. “Sure. You mind if I take out my investment?”
“Go right ahead,” he said. “But let’s make sure the rest of it stays there. I think we’re going to need it later, to square the accounts.”
Anderson agreed and gave the saddlebags to his son. “Take this to the vault,” he told him. “Count out fifty thousand and set it in my personal drawer. Leave the rest alone.”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, scurrying away.
“Anything else I can do for you, Fargo?” Anderson asked. “It’s been a long night and right now, I just want to get some sleep.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll be back later today, hopefully to settle all this once and for all.”
“Where are you going now?”
“It’s time I had a talk with Senator Parker,” Fargo said. “Do you know where his mansion is?”
Anderson gave him the directions and told him the fastest way to get there. “Just watch yourself out there,” he added. “Parker’s men play for keeps.”
“So do I,” Fargo replied, getting to his feet.
“You don’t lay down very often, do you?” the man asked.
“Not if I can help it,” he said.
“You’ve got sand, anyway,” Anderson said. “Stay safe, and when you get back, I’ll buy you a drink or four.”
“Sounds good,” Fargo said, heading for the door. Anderson’s voice stopped him.
“How come you brought the money to me?” he asked. “Why did you trust me over your friend H.D., or why not just hold on to the money yourself?”
The Trailsman chuckled quietly. “You were the only one at the table tonight playing for stakes that mattered to you,” he said. “Despite your reputation, you actually care what happens to Basin Street and the people who live here. The others just want money and power.”
“Thanks,” Anderson replied. “Thanks, Fargo.”
“Thank me if I live,” he said, then unlocked the door and slipped back out into the night once more.
The livery stable was dark, and Fargo didn’t bother waking the man on night duty, who was curled up on the hay, hands wrapped around a cheap bottle of rot-gut and snoring like a hibernating grizzly. In point of fact, Fargo didn’t think the end of the world would wake him up.
He found his saddle and tack on a rack outside the Ovaro’s stall, and when he opened the gate to let the
