It took a few minutes before he could stand up without wanting to fall down. Once he was able to maintain his balance, he dressed quickly, dried off his hair, shaved, and left his room.
Queeg was sitting at the front desk working on some forms when Fargo walked in. He put his pencil down. “Back so soon, Mr. Fargo? Hope everything is all right.”
“Was looking for the sheriff.”
“I’m afraid he’s in a town council meeting.”
Fargo snapped, “Why’d you have me followed?”
Queeg seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t. A beanpole of a fella. Blond hair, long face. Dark suit.”
“Damn,” Queeg said. He sounded upset.
“You saying he’s not one of your men?”
“Oh, he’s one of ‘our’ men all right. At least he pretends to be. His name is Buck Larson. He’s Noah Tillman’s spy in town here. He must’ve recognized Adams when you brought him in. I’m ashamed to say he’s a deputy here. He had an excellent record as a lawman, so Tom hired him. What he didn’t know at the time was that Noah’d get him. Noah uses him as his spy here. He reports everything that goes on in this office back to Noah.”
“Why don’t you fire him?”
“Tom’s about ready to. Larson’s worked in a couple of big cities so he’s valuable to Tom. Knows a lot about modern police techniques and things like that. But Tom’s getting tired of Noah knowing everything that’s going on down here.”
Fargo said, “I just had some trouble in my hotel room.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Fargo told him.
Queeg listened, shaking his head every few minutes. When Fargo was finished, Queeg said, “Another name for the ‘mystery list.’ ”
“What’s the ‘mystery list?’ ”
“The people who’ve been reported missing over the years. Always around the Fourth of July.”
“This have anything to do with Skeleton Key?”
“Tom and I are pretty sure it does.”
“You’ve looked into it?”
Queeg shrugged wide shoulders. “As I said earlier, there are a couple of things Tom doesn’t want to know about. One of them’s Skeleton Key.”
“Maybe he’ll have to now, with two new kidnappings on his hands.”
“Yeah,” Queeg said thoughtfully, “maybe it’s time now to really find out what the hell’s going on.”
The door opened and Buck Larson came in. Shock showed on his face when he saw the Trailsman. But only for a moment. He was enough of a professional to hide his feelings promptly and well.
“Say, I hope you didn’t think I was following you this afternoon,” Larson said.
“Perish the thought,” Fargo said.
Larson caught the sarcasm and smiled. “I mean, I could see where you might think I was following you. But actually—”
“—actually, you were just making sure that I was having a good time and that the citizens of this fair burg were showing me the proper respect.”
“Why, damned if that’s not exactly, right, Mr. Fargo. Exactly. I just wanted to make sure that everybody here was friendly to you.”
“They were very friendly,” Fargo said, “except for the two men who came to my room and kidnapped the girl I happened to be with.”
Queeg said, “You know anything about that, Buck?”
Larson looked trapped. “Why, uh, no. Why would I know something about a thing like that? If I’d known about it, Queeg, I’d be trying to find the girl right now.”
The door burst open and Larson was spared from saying anything more for the moment. A youngster, sheathed in sweat and out of breath rushed in and asked, “Is it true?”
He’d barely finished getting the words out before the office was filled with more kids.
“Is what true?” Queeg said, amused with the kids.
“Is the Trailsman really in town?”
Queeg laughed. “Well, Tommy, he’s not only in town. He’s right in this very office.”
And it was then that Tommy’s gaze roved over to the big man with the lake-blue eyes.
“Holy horses,” Tommy said. He looked at his friends. “This here man is the Trailsman. Is that true, mister?”
While Fargo was busy meeting his public—if only half the stories of his derring-do were true—Larson used the time to slip out of the office behind the boys.
Neither Fargo nor Queeg tried to stop him. By that time, Fargo had decided to do his own investigating. Friendly as Queeg seemed to be, Fargo was no longer sure if there was anybody in this whole town he could trust.
“Maybe I’ll go talk to Noah Tillman sometime,” Fargo said.
“If you do,” Queeg smiled, “talk loud. He hates to admit it but he’s real hard of hearing.”
The slender black man in the work shirt and overalls took the feed bag off of Fargo’s stallion and said, “You’re in kind of a hurry.” It was a statement, not a question.
The interior of the livery was three or four degrees cooler than outside. The lumber of the place—like the earthen floor and timber—were saturated with the sweet-sour odors of road apples and horse urine. Blue-tail flies gorged themselves on the freshest of the road apples.
“That I am.” Fargo described the two men who’d kidnapped Daisy. “You seen anybody like that around?”
For an instant there was recognition in his eyes, but the man said, “Hard to say. Could be a lot of folks. So many here for the celebration tomorrow, I mean.”
“You sure about that?”
After setting the feed bag on a hook and leading the stallion out of the stall, the livery man said, “There’re three colored folks they let live right here in town, mister. The rest live up around the river bend. I’m one of the three they let have a nice little house right on the edge of town. They do right by me and my whole family. And I appreciate that.”
Fargo heard what was being said. “Appreciate it enough to stay out of trouble is what you’re saying.”
“That’s right, mister. And trouble means never getting involved with anybody who’s got it in for old Noah.”
“This involve Noah, does it?”
“I didn’t say that, mister.”
“All right, you didn’t say it.”
“What I did say is that you owe me for another day and night if you’re comin’ back here.”
Fargo paid him.
As he was saddling his horse, Fargo heard several light steps behind him. The liveryman. “For the most part, this is a nice town. They say down South the colored aren’t treated so well. But I went up North for a couple of weeks to visit my cousin and I’ll tell you somethin’. I’m treated a lot better down here than he is up there. And that’s the truth.”
Fargo sensed that the man had something more to say but he stopped speaking and turned and walked away. “I wish you luck, mister.”
“Thanks.”
The liveryman grinned. “You understand why I can’t tell you that I saw a wagon like the one you described headed north out of town?”
Fargo grinned back. “Yeah, I understand.”
5
Having served as a scout for the U.S. Cavalry from time to time, Fargo could read trail with the best of them. In this case, he was following buckboard wheels, which was less difficult. Every wheel had a peculiarity to it. Some sort of mark that made it distinctive.
The alley behind a hotel is generally a busy place. There were a number of wagon wheel markings to read. Fargo took the one that had left the clearest impression and started following it. He tracked it out of the alley and into the street, where it remained the clearest impression. Meaning that this was the wagon that had been parked most recently behind the hotel most likely belonging to the kidnappers.