“Well, it looked to me like they was takin’ bodies off and puttin’ them on the key. The funny thing was, the little look I got at them, the bodies didn’t seem dead. Their arms was flailin’ around too much. They looked like they might justa been knocked out or somethin’, you know what I mean? Kinda flounderin’ around. But you’d never see a dead person flounder like that. I had a lotta experience with dead people, believe me.”
He obviously wanted Fargo to ask him about all the experiences he’d had with dead people, but Fargo knew that he might be here for hours if he let the Cap’n start slinging the shit.
“You ever think of any way you could sneak on that island, Cap’n?”
The old fart laughed. “Sure. There’s an easy way.”
“There is?”
“Get yourself captured and let them take you there.”
11
A few minutes later, Fargo was on the road to the Noah Tillman ranch. Given all the turbulence around him, Fargo realized that the deep shadows on either side of the road could hold people who wanted to get rid of him. The animals in the surrounding woods sounded lonely and desolate in the transition from day to night.
Soon enough, Fargo passed the spot on the stage road where Daisy had been buried. Her only sin had been being the missing man’s sister. No matter where you went, there were predators like the Tillman family. And no matter where you went, there were innocent victims like Daisy. The primitive law of the jungle also applied to the affairs of human beings. He was most interested in meeting Noah Tillman. He just hoped he could hold his temper in check.
As he approached the Tillman ranch twenty minutes later, he noticed that a pine tree shook slightly, even though there was no wind at all. Man with a rifle, for sure, monitoring Fargo. And if there was one, then there’d be two.
The second one appeared moments later, stepping out from behind a pile of boulders off to the side road.
Even in the dusk, which tended to soften things, the gunny looked formidable. Short, wide, and looking very comfortable with the carbine he’d pointed right at Fargo.
“Private property here, mister.”
“I was hoping to see Noah Tillman. Name’s Fargo.”
“Mr. Tillman only sees people by appointment. You got an appointment, mister?”
Fargo smiled. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
“Then head back to town.”
“Which one of you’s the better shot?”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“You or your friend in the tree?”
In answer to his question, the man in the tree fired three quick shots close enough to the big Ovaro stallion to make it mighty nervous.
“I’m sure neither you nor your horse really wants to find out which of us is the better shot, mister. Now head back to town.”
With two Winchesters trained on him, Fargo knew there was no point in playing hero. He had no doubt that they were working up to killing him. Trespassing, they’d say. Tried to reason with him, they’d say. Then he went for his gun, they’d say. He didn’t give us no choice, they’d say.
“And here I was hoping for a nice, friendly visit,” Fargo said.
“You haul your ass back to town and right now, trouble-maker,” said the man in the tree, a disembodied voice in the gathering gloom.
“Guess I don’t have much choice, do I?” Fargo said to the gunny in front of him.
“You ain’t got no choice at all, mister.”
The best way to make sure they’d think he was heading back to town was to make one more try to see Noah Tillman.
“Would you at least tell him a Mr. Fargo is here?”
“We got a list, mister. The people who get in to see Mr. Tillman every day. And you ain’t on that list.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive. Now you get outta here.”
So Fargo did the only thing he could. Turned his stallion around and rode slowly away. A long, glum ride back to town. At least that’s what he wanted them to think.
By the time Fargo had found a place to sneak on to the ranch, a half-moon hung in the sky like a tilted gold teardrop. There were enough stars to give you a jolt, a sense of the whole vast universe that nobody could comprehend.
Fargo hid behind a copse of cottonwoods for two passes of the sentry. He timed them out. He would have approximately ten minutes to get on to the property and into the house.
The dog was also a problem, a handsome German shepherd that also walked the rough mile-long tract of this particular sentry section. The dog would be more of a threat because of its bark. Even if he eluded the handsome creature, the dog would alert both the sentry and the people in the house. Another sentry, maybe two, would join the dog.
He could shoot the dog but that, too, would attract attention. What he had to do was distract the dog’s attention.
He ground-hitched his stallion and walked a quarter-mile to a wood as dark, yet moon-splashed, as any in a midnight ghost story. He spent only minutes before luckily finding a dying deer. He never killed needlessly. This animal was diseased, crying deep in its long, elegant throat, eyes rimed shut with crust.
He took out his knife and attempted to end its life quickly and painlessly. The elderly deer spasmed, made a faint noise, trembled for only a few seconds, and then sank into death. He slung it over his shoulder and walked back to his place in the cottonwoods.
He waited for the sentry to pass by again. He ran up an eighth of a mile with the deer, ducked beneath the barbed wire and pushed the body into plain sight.
He quickly vanished back into the shadows and ran back to the cottonwoods.
The dog picked up the scent almost immediately, running toward it with curiosity and clear joy.
Fargo dove for the barbed wire, belly-crawled beneath the fence, and jumped to his feet once he’d cleared the way.
He didn’t even pause to see what the dog was doing. No time. He broke into a sprint that within a few minutes brought him to the grand mansion itself. The place resembled one of the English manor houses you always saw in pictures of the British countryside where the gentry lazed away their days fox hunting and having sex with the maids.
He knelt behind a large well. A guard with a shotgun stood in front of the side entrance, silhouetted against lamplight from inside.
One more obstacle to remove before he got inside and confronted Noah Tillman.
He fell back, rooting around on the shadowy earth until he found a rock of sufficient weight. Fargo had played in his share of throwing games, even pitched a little baseball in his time—strictly amateur stuff but a hell of a lot of fun—and he hoped his arm was up to the task tonight. There was no other way he could take the guard out. Rushing him would cost Fargo his life. And trying to sneak up on him would probably mean the same thing.
There was a large cottonwood just to the east of the side entrance, one that overlooked two picnic tables. It would be a long throw but this was the only cover he could find. As with the German shepherd, he’d have only one chance.
He hoped he knew what the hell he was doing.
On the ride back from what he hoped would be his last appointment of the day, Sheriff Tom Tillman thought about how tired he got of doing his stepfather’s bidding.
It was now a few minutes after seven and he was just now getting back to his office from an incident he’d been forced to oversee. He wouldn’t have dared sent a deputy because the incident had involved one of the local grandees who, if Tom had not shown up, would have complained to old Noah about how Tom should have handled this himself.
And then old Noah would rag on Tom’s ass for an hour or two. Noah was just like Tom. He believed in strict control of his life. No surprises. The thing was, Noah had all of the money and most of the power and so when it came to a showdown between the two, Noah always won.