Her hidden meaning brought a grin to Fargo’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
Arthur raised an arm as if it were a lance and exclaimed, “Onward with our quest, gentlemen!”
All that day they traveled hard. Draypool had a new urgency about him, which was puzzling to Fargo in light of their leisurely stay at the Mayfair farm. They left the main road and traveled to the northeast along byways and back ways that only someone completely familiar with the region would know. Zeck was that someone; he assumed the lead about noon. Toward evening, when Fargo asked how it was that Zeck knew every rutted track and path, the small man in black mentioned that he had grown up in the area.
And what an area it was! Fargo had seldom seen such lush woodland, verdant forest abundant with vegetation and wildlife, not at all like the arid timberland of the Rockies. For one thing, there were more leafy trees than pines, more maples and elms and willows and oaks than firs or spruces. For another, the undergrowth was a jungle compared to the sparse brush of the mountains. Green, green, everywhere, a profusion born of rich soil and that most precious of all nature’s gifts, water. The annual rainfall was many times that received by the land west of the Mississippi, creating countless waterways.
One of the largest in central Illinois was the Sangamon River. Draypool remarked to Fargo that the river flowed over two hundred and fifty miles. Rising in Champaign County, it eventually merged with the Illinois River, which, in turn, fed into the mighty Mississippi.
Draypool had been right about the extent of Illinois wilderness. Somehow Fargo had gotten it into his head that the state was all farmland and towns and cities, but such was not the case. The southern third was largely settled, and more and more people flocked to the north end of the state, and Chicago, every year. But the rest was pristine woodland, as wild and untamed as anything on the frontier.
Wildlife was everywhere. All kinds of birds, from tiny wrens and chickadees to catbirds and red-breasted robins to hungry hawks and turkey vultures. All kinds of small animals, from squirrels and raccoons and opossums to muskrats and even beavers. Predators, too, in the form of foxes and cougars and black bears.
That night they camped in the woods by a small stream. Avril shot a rabbit for supper and roasted it on a spit.
Draypool had been edgy all day, and now, as they were eating, he glanced at Fargo and said, “From here on out we must exercise extreme care. No one must learn what we are up to.”
Biting into a rabbit leg, Fargo chewed the juicy meat with relish.
“Did you hear me?”
“I’m sitting three feet from you,” Fargo said with his mouth full.
“Secrecy is of the utmost importance. We don’t want word to get back to the devil we are after.”
“Who in their right mind would warn him?” Fargo asked. “After all he’s done?”
“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.”
10
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.