“What exactly are you implying, anyhow?” Draypool demanded. “That there is no killer? That I went to considerable effort to find you, that I’m paying you a small fortune when you complete your task, as a lark?”
Fargo had to admit the notion was preposterous.
“Make no mistake,” Draypool said earnestly. “I have never been more serious about anything in my life. I have pledged my heart, body, and soul to bringing the man we are after to bay. Whether you help us or not, I won’t rest until I have accomplished what I have set out to do.”
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. They passed several cabins, and Fargo resisted an impulse to ask the occupants if they had ever heard of the killer. Draypool would not take it kindly.
Another night under the stars.
Fargo grew inwardly restive to find the Monster and get it over with. He reminded himself that for ten thousand dollars he could afford to be patient.
The next couple of days were spent wending to the northeast through a backwoodsman’s paradise. A sign appeared, letting them know Springfield was ten miles ahead. Fargo was looking forward to a bath, a whiskey, and a woman, not necessarily in that order, and he was not happy when Arthur Draypool announced, “We will take the north fork when we come to it and go around Springfield, if you please, Mr. Zeck.”
Fargo gigged the Ovaro up next to Draypool’s animal. “Give me one good reason why we’re not stopping.”
“The fewer people who see us, the less likely that word will reach our quarry.”
“No one knows who we are or what we are up to,” Fargo said, more harshly than he intended. Being cautious was one thing. Draypool was taking it to an extreme.
“And I want to keep it that way. We are now in the heart of the killer’s territory. We must not leave anything to chance.”
Fargo had seen few men in buckskins since crossing into Illinois. His attire was bound to draw notice in Springfield, and while he did not see where it would do them any harm, he decided he would go along with what Draypool wanted.
This close to Springfield, homesteads were everywhere. Fargo lost count of the number of cabins and small houses they passed.
Then they topped a rise, and below stood a dwelling worthy of a king. Three stories high, it covered half an acre. The ground floor was composed of stone and mortar, the upper stories of hewn logs. A carriage shed and various other outbuildings were scattered about neatly maintained grounds, which were surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.
“Whoever lives there must have a lot of money,” Fargo remarked.
“That he does.” Arthur Draypool grinned. “Judge Oliver Harding is the gentleman’s name, and he is doing us the singular honor of allowing us to stay at his home for the night.”
“You don’t say.” Fargo wondered if Harding had a daughter. “He wouldn’t happen to be another vigilante, would he?”
“Must you use that term? I find it most vulgar.” Draypool sniffed. “But, yes, he is a member of our secret group. He also contributed a large amount to your fee.”
“A judge who breaks the law when it suits him,” Fargo commented. “What would folks say?”
Draypool frowned. “He does it for the common good, to save innocent lives.”
“That’s as good an excuse as any.” Fargo was not sure why he was baiting Draypool. Maybe he was sick and tired of the whole secrecy business. Maybe it was resentment at how they were treating him. Or maybe it was both.
A wide gate barred entrance to the judge’s estate. Stone columns supported the gate, and from behind the column on the left stepped a hawk-faced man holding a rifle. “That’s far enough,” he said. He was staring at Fargo, suspicion imprinted on his features. Then the guard noticed Draypool, and immediately his attitude changed. “Mr. Draypool! I didn’t realize it was you, sir.”
“A pleasure to see you again, Gerald.”
Gerald gestured, and from behind the other stone column hastened another man to help him swing the heavy gate open.
Fargo let Draypool go ahead of him. Other guards were posted about the grounds, four that Fargo counted, with more probably out of sight. He wondered why the judge had a private little army.
Servants hurried out of the house to take the reins of their mounts and escort them indoors. All four wore brown uniforms with silver buttons. All four were black.
“And how are you, Akuda?” Draypool asked a fifth manservant, who waited by the front door.
“I am fine, sir. The judge has been expecting you, and your usual room is ready, as are rooms for these other gentlemen.”
“You are an excellent butler, Akuda.” Draypool smiled. “Someday I might take you away from Oliver.”
“The judge would not permit that, sir. As he likes to say, we are his property now and forever.”
Fargo had yet to meet Oliver Harding and already he did not think much of the man.
Draypool broke stride, and his face hardened in anger, but it was fleeting. He noticed Fargo watching him, and smiled at the butler. “Judge Harding has a marvelous sense of humor, does he not?”
“Certainly, sir,” Akuda said politely.
The interior radiated wealth. The judge had a taste for luxury and bought only the best money could buy. Thick carpet cushioned Fargo’s boots. He passed a marvelous painting of a waterfall and said, “Judges in Illinois must make more money than judges elsewhere.”
Draypool did not take offense. “Oliver comes from a very old, very respected, and very rich family. I have known him for many years, and he is as fine a human being as you will ever meet.”
Praise from a milksop, Fargo thought to himself, is not much praise at all. Aloud he said, “When do I get to meet him?”
“A good question,” Draypool said. “What say you, Akuda?”
“The judge will be home by seven, sir,” the butler answered. “Supper will be served promptly at seven thirty. If you require anything in the meantime, you have only to let me know.”
They came to stairs and climbed. The banister was mahogany, the steps polished to a sheen.
Draypool was admitted to the first bedroom they came to. Avril and Zeck had to share the next. That left the bedroom at the end of the hall for Fargo. It was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the house. He dropped his saddlebags and the Henry onto the four-poster bed as Akuda went to the window and opened the curtains.
“If there is anything you need, sir, anything at all, I am at your service.” He started for the doorway.
“I’d like to know a few things,” Fargo said.
Akuda stopped. “What would they be, sir?”
“How long have you been a slave?”
The butler blinked. “All my life, sir, as was my father before me. Why do you ask?”
“The other servants—are they slaves as well?”
“Of course, sir,” Akuda said in a tone that suggested it should be obvious. “The judge has many more at the family plantation in Alabama. He only moved here about five years ago.”
“Do you know a man named Mayfair? Clyde Mayfair?”
“Yes, sir. He has stayed in this very house many times. He is a close friend of the judge’s and Mr. Draypool’s.”
“The blacks who work in Mayfair’s fields,” Fargo said. “Are they slaves, too?”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you ask strange questions,” Akuda responded. “What else would they be? A lot of whites in Illinois own slaves, as do a lot of whites everywhere.”
“Don’t you want to be free?” Fargo asked. “To be your own man, and do as you please?”
Akuda let out a sigh. “Who would not? But I have learned not to yearn for that which we can never have. My dreams died when I was young.”