you’re headed next.”
Parker’s hands shot into the air. “Don’t shoot me, Fargo, please.”
Fargo was about to say more when a shot rang out from inside the room. The bullet caught Parker directly in the temple, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter across the narrow hallway. He dropped dead.
Knowing that hesitation would be just as likely to get him killed, Fargo tore open the door and lunged into the room, falling into a roll, but keeping a firm grip on his Colt.
Hattie held a Colt .45 in her hands, the barrel still smoking.
“Hattie, what the hell did you do!” H.D. exclaimed.
“Solved a problem,” she said, her voice ice-cold.
Fargo came to his feet, keeping his gun trained on them. “Nobody moves,” he said.
“You truly are dumb, Fargo,” Hattie snapped. “If you shoot me, H.D. will gun you down. If you shoot him, I’ll gun you down. You’re not that fast.”
Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed slightly and he grinned. “Are you willing to bet your life on it?” he asked.
Suddenly, H.D. pulled his own piece and put it to Hattie’s head. “Hattie Hamilton,” he said, his voice shaking. “You’re under arrest.”
“What?” she screeched, turning away from Fargo, turning the gun toward H.D.
“Ah, damn,” Fargo muttered, then shot her in the arm.
She screamed and dropped the gun, which H.D. quickly picked up.
“You sonsabitches,” she moaned, holding her arm. “You goddamn sonsabitches.”
Fargo looked at H.D. “What’s it going to be, old friend?” he asked. “Do I have to kill you?”
H.D. slowly lowered his own gun, putting it back in the holster, and tossed Hattie’s across the room. “I wish you wouldn’t, Fargo. At least not until I can explain.”
A voice from the doorway said, “I may be able to help with that.”
Fargo turned to see Horn standing in the doorway, a grin on his face. “The least you can do, Fargo, is say you’re sorry for hitting me in the head.”
“Who are you really?” Fargo snapped.
“I tried to tell you,” the man said. “I’m James McKenna, of the Pinkerton Agency.”
“So what’s your role in this, H.D.?” Fargo asked. “I thought you were in it with Hattie and the others.”
H.D. nodded, then knelt down and tore a strip of sheet off the bed, using it to bind the still-cursing woman’s bleeding arm.
“I’ve been working with the Pinkertons,” H.D. said. “It’s a long story, but I had to make everyone think that I was on the take. It was the only way to get close enough to find out what Parker and Beares were really up to.”
Fargo looked at the two men, then nodded and holstered his Colt. “What now?” he asked. “Aside from needing a drink and an explanation, I’ve had about all of New Orleans I can stand.”
“Let’s get Miss Hamilton here to the sawbones,” H.D. replied. “Then we’ll explain everything.”
“Do I have your word on that?” Fargo asked.
His old friend nodded. “This time, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. You have my word.”
“Then let’s go,” Fargo said. “I just have one more thing to do.”
“What’s that?” McKenna asked.
Fargo stepped into the hall and rolled Parker’s body over. Inside his suit coat, he found the man’s wallet and pulled a stack of bills from it. “Just collecting my paycheck,” he said. “After all, no one cheated at the poker game and that’s what he paid me for.”
McKenna laughed. “You’re something of a mercenary, aren’t you, Fargo?”
Fargo gave McKenna a warning glance. “I wouldn’t push that if I were you. Now, where’s Mary?” he asked. “I thought for sure you’d killed her or something.”
“Not at all,” McKenna said. “She’s safely tucked away over by the sheriff’s office. We’ve got two deputies keeping an eye on her.”
Relieved, Fargo helped them gather Hattie Hamilton off the floor, then they escorted her out the door and headed back into New Orleans and the Storyville district.
There were still answers he wanted, but as far as Fargo was concerned, this game was almost played out.
14
The morning sun was bright and quickly burning off the mist that drifted in from the swamps and the shore during the long hours of the night. New Orleans was waking up, a slumbering two-bit whore rising from her filthy mattress to greet another day.
Fargo’s eyes scanned the buildings and the people as he and the others rode by, heading into Storyville to bring an end to things. The Ovaro nickered and huffed several times, obviously not pleased to be riding back into the city. He was an animal that, like his owner, much preferred the open trail.
Looking around, Fargo realized that they were in a section of the city he hadn’t seen before. The buildings seemed to symbolize the things he didn’t like about the city itself. They were either mausoleumlike tombs or crowded together and dirty. It was little wonder that fires had ravaged them so often. From what he could see, many of the buildings were still stained with grime and soot. There was little in this place that appealed to him.
With H.D. in front of him, holding Hattie on his saddle, and McKenna behind him, Fargo figured not too many people would bother to stop them and he was right. Most of the people they passed simply glanced and looked away. A few stared, but they were the stares of the terminally curious—the people who would watch a hanging for entertainment simply because it was there.
They rode down the center of Basin Street and went past Anderson’s Cafe, which was still closed. Fargo reckoned that the man had decided to hunker down until the situation settled. It proved that he was a lot smarter than your average street criminal. He’d built himself a little empire and he sensed that a great burning was about to come. He wanted to hold on to his dream a while longer and Fargo couldn’t blame him.
If what McKenna had told him was true, New Orleans would burn again—a fiery death to serve as an example for the rest of the country. It seemed pointless to Fargo, but how could he stop it? Killing McKenna would only get the Pinkerton Agency on his trail and they’d send other agents down here to do their hideous deed, anyway.
He sighed heavily, and felt the first waves of genuine exhaustion wash over him. He wanted a meal, a drink, and a long bit of sleep. Then he wanted out of this place as fast as his Ovaro could take him. He’d collected a good bit of money—though not as much as he’d hoped—but still more than enough to keep him in steak and good sour mash for a long while to come.
They pulled up their horses outside H.D.’s office and tied them to the rail. H.D. climbed out of the saddle, then assisted Hattie down as well. McKenna tied his own horse while Fargo eased out of his own saddle. He was bone-tired.
“Come on inside,” H.D. said. “I’ll brew us up a pot of coffee.”
“Sounds fine,” Fargo said. “What about her?”
“McKenna, would you mind going down to the sawbones’ office—it’s just down the street—and bringing him back here to patch her up? We need to keep her here.”
“Sure,” he said. He touched a hand gingerly to his scalp and winced. “Maybe he can look at this knot on my head, too. You hit hard, Trailsman.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Fargo said. He followed H.D. into the sheriff’s office and took a seat while H.D. put Hattie in a holding cell.
She screeched like a banshee until H.D. snapped at her to shut up or she could damn well do without the doctor, too. She shut up, which Fargo was grateful for.
H.D. got the coffee brewing and by the time it had started to percolate, McKenna came back, dragging the doctor along, who wasn’t very happy at being rousted from his office. He was an older man, with a stout build and a shock of white hair. His face was wide and heavily jowled, and his skin was so pale he almost looked like a
