Fargo sipped some of his brandy. Excellent. But then would you expect less from a man like Noah Tillman? “Has there ever been a serious investigation into these disappearances?”
“Several, by the man who was sheriff before my son.”
“He was also a relative of yours, I believe,” Fargo said.
“That doesn’t discredit him.”
“You said there were several investigations.”
“That’s right,” Noah said, brushing some ash from his smoking jacket. “Including one by the local newspaperman.”
“He was killed if I’m not mistaken,” Fargo said. “Back-shot, I believe.”
“That’s true. But it didn’t have anything to do with the so-called disappearances.”
“That isn’t what the man’s widow told me.”
“Ah, Liz,” Noah said grandly. “Quite a figure on that lady, isn’t there?”
Fargo said nothing.
“And she’s quite a newspaperwoman, too. Good editor, I mean. Knows what sells and what doesn’t sell. Knows that if you want to keep your readers happy, you have to give them raw red meat. And what’s the best way to do that? Why, attack powerful people. Your everyday, average person resents powerful people. And loves to hear hints that powerful people are untrustworthy and corrupt. You can’t go wrong with stories like that and Liz knows it. So she’s always coming after me. And with anything she can get her hands on. She still tells anybody who’ll listen that I had her husband shot. And the same with how I run my various businesses. That I bribe legislators whenever I want to get a right-of-way or want to get some kind of edge on my competition. She’s even implied in a couple of stories that I was behind several fires my competitors suffered.”
“And you weren’t?”
Noah paused and looked solemnly at Fargo. “Do you hear how I speak? I have a second grade education, Mr. Fargo. But when I got wealthy, I hired a tutor. I even learned a little about art and serious music. We have musicals out here sometimes. My late wife, God love her, wanted me to become a civilized man and by God I did it.
“And the same with business, Mr. Fargo. Everything I’ve got, I got for myself. Of course I’ve cut a few legal corners here and there—when all else fails, I’m perfectly willing to bribe a few state legislators, that’s just part of the business—but I don’t do anything that my competitors don’t do. And I sure as hell don’t spirit visitors away when they come to town. Think about it, Mr. Fargo. Why would I do something like that? What would I do with these people? And what would I get out of it?”
He was pretty damned convincing. He’d be tough in a court of law. He would overpower all but the most clever of prosecuting attorneys. And he’d do it all with reason, a rich and deep voice, and absolute charm.
“So there’s nothing to it.”
“If there was, do you think I’d invite you in to have a drink and explain myself? I’d have you arrested. Discredited. So that nobody would listen to what you have to say.” He rose, ending the meeting. “I invited you because I have nothing to hide.” The smile. “And because I knew that a man of your reputation would probably enjoy a rest and a little expensive brandy. You’ve had an awful lot of adventures in your life, Mr. Fargo.”
Fargo finished his brandy, stood up, accepted the hand this splendid, domineering actor offered him. He hadn’t believed a word of it—was convinced now that Noah Tillman did indeed have something to hide—but decided to pretend that he’d been taken in. “Appreciate the brandy.” He picked up his hat.
The servant appeared in the doorway.
“Manuel will show you out, Mr. Fargo. I enjoyed meeting you.”
Manuel walked him to the front door. His steps were loud, especially on the long stretch of parquet flooring.
“You’re a pretty lousy shot, Manuel.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“But even lousy shots get lucky once in a while.”
“Please. We should not be having this conversation.”
“The thing is, I kind of resent being shot at. I’d guess that’s a pretty normal reaction, wouldn’t you? Man’s walking down an alley to save some time and there’s this shooter up on a roof trying to kill him.”
They reached the door. Manuel opened it for him.
Fargo caught him just below the sternum. Manuel might be a slick, tricky protector of the old man’s but he couldn’t take a punch worth a damn. He bent in half, staggered out onto the porch, and promptly threw up.
“I’d say we’re about even now,” Fargo said as he prepared himself for the lengthy walk back to his horse.
Ten minutes later, Fargo was on his stallion and headed back to the main road when he saw another horse and rider leaving the estate and heading toward town. From a distance, traced by moonlight, the rider resembled Noah Tillman. White hair, wide shoulders, imposing stature.
But where would Noah Tillman be headed at this time and at this speed? Wasn’t he the kind of man who did all his work through his hired gunnies?
Fargo reached the road and started toward town. The rider was still behind him but closing fast. Fargo’s Ovaro stallion loped along.
When the rider was still some distance back, Fargo’s hand slid to his Colt. Since he didn’t know what the hell was going on here, he wanted to be ready for whatever happened.
The rider did some talking to his horse. The timber of his voice was much like Noah Tillman’s. The rider’s horse slowed so that it could match the lope of Fargo’s stallion.
“Evening, Mr. Fargo.”
His first impression was that he was looking at Noah Tillman. Only after staring at the rider did he see the difference. The nose straighter. The eyes slightly larger. The subtle air of menace not present in the gaze nor the way the rider held himself. Otherwise, he could have been Noah himself with the expensive suit and the pure-bred horse.
“The name’s Aaron. Noah’s brother.” A crooked and somewhat sad smile further set him apart from his sibling. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me. When the town isn’t talking about what a ruthless bastard my brother is, they’re talking about what a drunken, gambling, womanizer I am.”
“Sounds like you’re having a good time, anyway.”
“I am, as a matter of fact. Except when my brother puts me in one of those special hospitals they have for the insane. He dries me out and I stay clean for a while and then go back to my old ways.”
The sadness that had been in his smile was now in his voice. He’d made a pass at sounding like a merry drunkard and degenerate but you could tell he didn’t have any more respect for himself than Noah did. Noah wouldn’t be forgiving of weakness.
Fargo let him do the talking—or not talking. They rode in silence for some time, the hooves of their horses loud in the humid air and the half-moon world of this night.
“I was hoping to catch up with you, Mr. Fargo.”
“Oh? And why would that be?”
Aaron had inherited the family penchant for drama. He let a long moment go by and then said, “I thought I’d tell you what happened to all those missing people.”
13
Fifteen minutes after the Trailsman left, Noah Tillman heard a knock on his study door and said, “Enter.”
Manuel came in the room briskly. He belonged to another era. He would have been home in medieval Europe when each castle required more than its share of spies and courtesans.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“What is it, Manuel?” Noah sounded irritable and with good reason. He’d been looking over some construction bills that made him suspicious. He wondered if the man he’d put in charge of this particular job had made some kind of arrangement with the man building a new warehouse in the southern part of the state. The bill seemed twice as high as necessary. Hadn’t his man gotten bids? It was so easy to lard construction contracts. The builder padded the bill and then gave a good percentage of the extra money to Noah’s man. Noah would tend to this first thing in the morning.