Backwoods Bloodbath (11 page)

“You know how gossip and rumors spread,” Draypool said. “And remember, we have no idea who the Sangamon River Monster is. It could be anyone.”

“Which reminds me,” Fargo said. “How am I to track him? Do we wait around for him to strike and I pick up his trail?”

“That is one option, yes. But the group I work with has been quietly trying to learn his identity. We have a network of informers at our disposal. And we have a description to go by. The Monster is a man in his forties, maybe early fifties. He is tall, over six feet, and rather thin. He has a beard but no mustache.”

“That could fit hundreds of men,” Fargo noted.

“True. But we also know he has black hair, a big nose, and big ears. That narrows it down some.”

Still, it was like looking for a needle in a giant haystack, and Fargo said so.

“Does that mean we give up before we begin?” Draypool responded. “I should say not! Think of all those this man has killed. Think of those he will slay in the future if he is not stopped.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

“We are counting on you,” Draypool said. “More than you can imagine. The success or failure of our enterprise rests entirely on your shoulders. Are you up to the challenge? Have I made a mistake?”

“I’ll do what I can.” Fargo would not make promises he could not keep.

Draypool gave him a searching scrutiny and sighed. “We can only hope for the best. We will help you every step of the way as best we are able.”

Later, Fargo lay on his back under his blanket, his arm pillowing his head, and gazed absently up at the sparkling myriad of stars. He felt uneasy, and he could not say why, which added to his unease. It wasn’t the risk he was taking in going after a butcher like the Monster. He had tangled with the likes of the Apaches and the Comanches, and certain white outlaws and badmen who were every bit as formidable. No, it was something else. But what? He racked his brain for over an hour. He reviewed all that had happened since he met Draypool. And when he was done, the unease still gnawed at him, and he still could not say why. Then sleep claimed him.

The next day was a repeat of the previous one. Zeck stuck to the less-used roads. Whenever they came upon other travelers, Draypool visibly tensed and came up close to Fargo. Yet another puzzlement.

At midday they stopped at the side of the road. The packs on one of the packhorses were loose, and Draypool instructed Avril and Zeck to tighten them. Dismounting, Draypool sat in the shade of a maple and dabbed at his perspiring brow with a handkerchief.

“I have never gotten used to this damnable humidity.”

“I need to stretch my legs.” Fargo pushed his hat back on his head and strolled into the woods.

“Don’t be gone long,” Draypool called after him. “We have many miles to travel yet today.”

A gray squirrel chattered at Fargo from high in a tree. Sparrows chirped and frolicked. Crows were active to the west, their
caw-caw-caw
borne on the breeze.

Fargo breathed deeply of the dank forest scent and was at peace. He hiked another ten yards and unexpectedly emerged from the dense growth onto a clearly defined path that paralleled the road. Even more unexpected was the old woman walking down the path toward him. A faded homespun dress clung to her spindly frame, and she walked with the aid of a bent cane. She slowed in surprise, but only for a second.

“How do you do, young man? You startled me, coming out of nowhere like that.”

Fargo smiled and said, “I’m not the Sangamon River Monster, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Her gray eyebrows puckered. “The what?”

“The Sangamon River Monster,” Fargo said. “The man who has been killing people in these parts for the past ten years.”

The old woman tilted her head and regarded him as if he might be addlepated. “Sonny, as the Lord is my witness, I never heard of the fella.”

Arthur Draypool had an explanation. “I don’t know who the old woman was, but the elderly tend to be feebleminded.”

“Her mind was as sharp as yours or mine.” Fargo had questioned the woman closely, and although she had lived in Illinois all her life, she could not recall so much as a single mention of the Sangamon River Monster.

“Maybe so,” Draypool said. “But there’s also the fact we’re still well south of the Monster’s usual haunts. Besides”—he paused and gestured at the thick greenery on both sides of the road—“it’s not as if there are daily or weekly newspapers out here. Most news is spread by word of mouth.” He paused again. “And didn’t you say she lives all alone off in a cabin somewhere? If she doesn’t have much contact with the outside world, how can you expect her to know about the Monster?”

Fargo supposed it was possible. The woman
had
told him she lived like a hermit, and liked it, because she had little hankering for human company.

“What exactly are you implying, anyhow?” Draypool demanded. “That there is no killer? That I went to considerable effort to find you, that I’m paying you a small fortune when you complete your task, as a lark?”

Fargo had to admit the notion was preposterous.

“Make no mistake,” Draypool said earnestly. “I have never been more serious about anything in my life. I have pledged my heart, body, and soul to bringing the man we are after to bay. Whether you help us or not, I won’t rest until I have accomplished what I have set out to do.”

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. They passed several cabins, and Fargo resisted an impulse to ask the occupants if they had ever heard of the killer. Draypool would not take it kindly.

Another night under the stars.

Fargo grew inwardly restive to find the Monster and get it over with. He reminded himself that for ten thousand dollars he could afford to be patient.

The next couple of days were spent wending to the northeast through a backwoodsman’s paradise. A sign appeared, letting them know Springfield was ten miles ahead. Fargo was looking forward to a bath, a whiskey, and a woman, not necessarily in that order, and he was not happy when Arthur Draypool announced, “We will take the north fork when we come to it and go around Springfield, if you please, Mr. Zeck.”

Fargo gigged the Ovaro up next to Draypool’s animal. “Give me one good reason why we’re not stopping.”

“The fewer people who see us, the less likely that word will reach our quarry.”

“No one knows who we are or what we are up to,” Fargo said, more harshly than he intended. Being cautious was one thing. Draypool was taking it to an extreme.

“And I want to keep it that way. We are now in the heart of the killer’s territory. We must not leave anything to chance.”

Fargo had seen few men in buckskins since crossing into Illinois. His attire was bound to draw notice in Springfield, and while he did not see where it would do them any harm, he decided he would go along with what Draypool wanted.

This close to Springfield, homesteads were everywhere. Fargo lost count of the number of cabins and small houses they passed.

Then they topped a rise, and below stood a dwelling worthy of a king. Three stories high, it covered half an acre. The ground floor was composed of stone and mortar, the upper stories of hewn logs. A carriage shed and various other outbuildings were scattered about neatly maintained grounds, which were surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.

“Whoever lives there must have a lot of money,” Fargo remarked.

“That he does.” Arthur Draypool grinned. “Judge Oliver Harding is the gentleman’s name, and he is doing us the singular honor of allowing us to stay at his home for the night.”

“You don’t say.” Fargo wondered if Harding had a daughter. “He wouldn’t happen to be another vigilante, would he?”

“Must you use that term? I find it most vulgar.” Draypool sniffed. “But, yes, he is a member of our secret group. He also contributed a large amount to your fee.”

“A judge who breaks the law when it suits him,” Fargo commented. “What would folks say?”

Draypool frowned. “He does it for the common good, to save innocent lives.”

“That’s as good an excuse as any.” Fargo was not sure why he was baiting Draypool. Maybe he was sick and tired of the whole secrecy business. Maybe it was resentment at how they were treating him. Or maybe it was both.

A wide gate barred entrance to the judge’s estate. Stone columns supported the gate, and from behind the column on the left stepped a hawk-faced man holding a rifle. “That’s far enough,” he said. He was staring at Fargo, suspicion imprinted on his features. Then the guard noticed Draypool, and immediately his attitude changed. “Mr. Draypool! I didn’t realize it was you, sir.”

“A pleasure to see you again, Gerald.”

Gerald gestured, and from behind the other stone column hastened another man to help him swing the heavy gate open.

Fargo let Draypool go ahead of him. Other guards were posted about the grounds, four that Fargo counted, with more probably out of sight. He wondered why the judge had a private little army.

Servants hurried out of the house to take the reins of their mounts and escort them indoors. All four wore brown uniforms with silver buttons. All four were black.

“And how are you, Akuda?” Draypool asked a fifth manservant, who waited by the front door.

“I am fine, sir. The judge has been expecting you, and your usual room is ready, as are rooms for these other gentlemen.”

“You are an excellent butler, Akuda.” Draypool smiled. “Someday I might take you away from Oliver.”

“The judge would not permit that, sir. As he likes to say, we are his property now and forever.”

Fargo had yet to meet Oliver Harding and already he did not think much of the man.

Draypool broke stride, and his face hardened in anger, but it was fleeting. He noticed Fargo watching him, and smiled at the butler. “Judge Harding has a marvelous sense of humor, does he not?”

“Certainly, sir,” Akuda said politely.

The interior radiated wealth. The judge had a taste for luxury and bought only the best money could buy. Thick carpet cushioned Fargo’s boots. He passed a marvelous painting of a waterfall and said, “Judges in Illinois must make more money than judges elsewhere.”

Draypool did not take offense. “Oliver comes from a very old, very respected, and very rich family. I have known him for many years, and he is as fine a human being as you will ever meet.”

Praise from a milksop,
Fargo thought to himself,
is not much praise at all.
Aloud he said, “When do I get to meet him?”

“A good question,” Draypool said. “What say you, Akuda?”

“The judge will be home by seven, sir,” the butler answered. “Supper will be served promptly at seven thirty. If you require anything in the meantime, you have only to let me know.”

They came to stairs and climbed. The banister was mahogany, the steps polished to a sheen.

Draypool was admitted to the first bedroom they came to. Avril and Zeck had to share the next. That left the bedroom at the end of the hall for Fargo. It was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the house. He dropped his saddlebags and the Henry onto the four-poster bed as Akuda went to the window and opened the curtains.

“If there is anything you need, sir, anything at all, I am at your service.” He started for the doorway.

“I’d like to know a few things,” Fargo said.

Akuda stopped. “What would they be, sir?”

“How long have you been a slave?”

The butler blinked. “All my life, sir, as was my father before me. Why do you ask?”

“The other servants—are they slaves as well?”

“Of course, sir,” Akuda said in a tone that suggested it should be obvious. “The judge has many more at the family plantation in Alabama. He only moved here about five years ago.”

“Do you know a man named Mayfair? Clyde Mayfair?”

“Yes, sir. He has stayed in this very house many times. He is a close friend of the judge’s and Mr. Draypool’s.”

“The blacks who work in Mayfair’s fields,” Fargo said. “Are they slaves, too?”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you ask strange questions,” Akuda responded. “What else would they be? A lot of whites in Illinois own slaves, as do a lot of whites everywhere.”

“Don’t you want to be free?” Fargo asked. “To be your own man, and do as you please?”

Akuda let out a sigh. “Who would not? But I have learned not to yearn for that which we can never have. My dreams died when I was young.”

“What can you tell me about the vigilantes?”

“The what, sir? I am not sure I understand.”

“The group Draypool and the judge belong to,” Fargo said. “The people who have hired me.”

“The Secessionist League, sir? I know of no other group Judge Harding belongs to unless you count the club in Spring—” Akuda stopped. “Is something wrong, sir?”

The revelation had been like a slap to the face, causing Fargo to take an inadvertent step back. He remembered the so-called highwaymen, Frank Colter and Jim Sloane, and some of Sloane’s last words:
But the government is on to you and the rest of the League. We won’t let you light the fuse
.

“Sir?” Akuda said.

An awful feeling came over Fargo, a feeling that he had been played for a fool and had
been
one. “What can you tell me about the Sangamon River Monster?”

“The what, sir?”

“The killer who has been raiding homesteads for the past ten years. You must have heard of him.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I know of no such person. Springfield is a peaceful place. There has not been a killing in years.”

Fargo sat on the end of the bed and tucked his chin to his chest. He wished a tree were handy so he could beat his head against it.

“Is there anything else, sir?” Akuda inquired.

“No,” Fargo said. “You’ve been a great help.”

“I don’t rightly see how,” the butler said, and bowed as he backed out the door. He closed it after him.