The nephew would play double or nothing, highest card draw, and lose. Then he’d owe twice as much money. And demand that they play again. And all the friend wanted to do was quit and go home. He was tired. He had to work in the morning.
The nephew persisted. They went five times for double or nothing and the nephew lost every time. The entire saloon of early morning stragglers watched it all with grim humor. The barkeep tried to close up for the night but the nephew said he’d be sorry if he did. The barkeep didn’t want to take on a Tillman. That was for sure.
The upshot of all this was that the friend was found in the morning with the back of his head smashed in and his money gone.
Most folks assumed that the nephew had followed the friend home and killed him on a deserted, moonlit road.
Wrong, according to Sheriff Stan Tillman.
What happened, he insisted, was that the friend had been drunk and had fallen off his horse backwards, thus injuring the back of his head.
There were any number of things wrong with this claim. There was no rock or boulder on the roadside to cause such damage. Even if there were, to fall off the horse in the way the lawman claimed would have been a highly unlikely fluke. Men falling from horses tend to go head first or sideways, rarely backwards. And the crushed skull itself had been pretty obviously done with a weapon or tool of some kind. Accidental injuries wouldn’t have been as deftly and thoroughly placed. Or been inflicted several times.
All the good journalistic instincts of Liz and Richard Turner took over. They just couldn’t let this one go by. They began interviewing people who’d been at the saloon that night. They walked through the entire episode as laid out by Sheriff Stan. Then they hired an out of town doc with a degree from back east to come to Tillman to investigate the whole matter. It was his conclusion that it was very unlikely that the friend had died in the manner Sheriff Stan insisted he did.
The Turners published their story. What was said wasn’t as important as what wasn’t said. While the story didn’t come right out and say that the nephew, a notoriously sore loser, had killed his friend, you could certainly read the story that way.
And that was the way most Clarion readers chose to read it, too. For the first time the House of Tillman had been challenged. And everybody knew it.
The Turners had several great follow-up stories ready to go, each one more damning than the others about how Tillman law and order worked just fine for the Tillmans but not for anybody else.
But before they could go to press, the newspaper office was burned to the ground during the night.
And a night after that, their house was torched. They’d barely been able to escape.
Sheriff Stan was retired within two months. The Turners rebuilt their house and the newspaper office. And for a long time, clearly intimidated, they had nothing unfavorable to say about the Tillman empire. They were ashamed of themselves, but shame was better than death. And they had no doubt that old Noah would kill them if he saw a need to.
But when the story about the missing travelers came up—and they checked back through past newspapers—they became suspicious. Richard began investigating. And, not long after, was backshot and killed.
Liz finished her coffee and said, “And now there’s the girl you found dead. And her missing brother.”
“Sure fits in with the rest,” Fargo said. “I’m not a journalist, but I’ve looked into a few murders in my time. And I’m sure going to look into this one.”
“Any idea how you’ll start?”
“I need to find the white man who came up to my room with the Mexican. And that means starting with getting the body and bringing it back here for identification.”
She smiled. “I was going to say ‘be careful,’ the way women always do. But I have a feeling you’ll be able to handle yourself just fine. But he’s got a lot of rough men working for him, old Noah does. I’ll talk to Tom about this. He’ll be honest with me.”
Fargo picked up his hat. “Any easy way into that ranch of Noah’s?”
“Not unless you’re awful lucky. He has dogs and men riding shotgun and standing sentry all over the land that surrounds the house itself. You could get on the property with no problem—just wait until one of the shotgun riders is working a different part of the spread—but getting into the house would be next to impossible.”
“Maybe I’ll try the easy way.”
“I’m not sure there is an easy way, Fargo.”
Fargo laughed. “It’s called walking up to the front door and knocking and asking to see old Noah.”
“I guess I never thought of that,” she smiled. “That might just work. But even if they let you in, what would you say?”
Fargo said, “That’s the part I haven’t come up with yet.”
“So,” Noah Tillman said, returning to sit behind his desk and sip his brandy. “Have you figured out the part you left unfinished, Mr. Ekert?”
Tillman could imagine what was going through Ekert’s mind. This was the ultimate final exam. Ekert had to know that if he failed to answer correctly, there would be hell to pay. And it would be a hell much more fiery than getting a simple “F” on a progress report. He had to know that Tillman would have two or three of his men take Ekert somewhere out of the county and kill him. He’d be buried so deep that he’d never be found. And everybody involved would proclaim with great dramatic innocence that they had no idea where Mr. Ekert had gone to.
Ekert smiled anxiously. “I’m almost afraid to answer, Mr. Tillman. If I said the wrong thing—”
“But you have to answer, Mr. Ekert.”
“It’s just so hot in here—” Ekert’s face gleamed with sweat. Even his neck glistened with moisture. You could almost feel sorry for him.
“It’ll be worse for you if you don’t answer at all, Mr. Ekert. Let me assure you of that.”
Ekert, obviously unable to deal with the tension anymore, blurted out, “Is it that I didn’t kill Fargo?”
The silence was thunderous. It squeezed even more sweat out of Ekert. And it made his entire head twitch, as if it might just rip free of his neck.
For a ham like old Noah, this was a moment to enjoy and extend. Maybe he could get Ekert to twitching like a chicken that had just been beheaded. Maybe Ekert would start running around the study, stumbling blindly into things and finally falling on the floor and going into spasms so severe, his spine would snap. Now that—for a man like Noah who wanted to amuse himself with new and novel situations—that would be something to see.
Ekert said, “Would you just please tell me if I answered right, Mr. Tillman?”
“Well, before I tell you, let me ask you if you want to change your answer.”
Ah, genius. Another way of prolonging Ekert’s suffering.
“You’d let me change it?”
“Yes, I would, Mr. Ekert.”
“Does that mean that my answer was wrong, Mr. Tillman?”
“Not at all. It just means I’m in a generous mood and I’m willing to give you another try.”
“If my answer was right, would you tell me now?”
“I will if you’d like me, too, Mr. Ekert. But if it’s wrong, I wouldn’t be able to give you that extra chance.”
“Oh, God.”
More brandy. “It’s all up to you. I can tell you if your answer is right—or I can give you a second guess.”