“What can you tell me about the vigilantes?”
“The what, sir? I am not sure I understand.”
“The group Draypool and the judge belong to,” Fargo said. “The people who have hired me.”
“The Secessionist League, sir? I know of no other group Judge Harding belongs to unless you count the club in Spring—” Akuda stopped. “Is something wrong, sir?”
The revelation had been like a slap to the face, causing Fargo to take an inadvertent step back. He remembered the so-called highwaymen, Frank Colter and Jim Sloane, and some of Sloane’s last words: But the government is on to you and the rest of the League. We won’t let you light the fuse.
“Sir?” Akuda said.
An awful feeling came over Fargo, a feeling that he had been played for a fool and had been one. “What can you tell me about the Sangamon River Monster?”
“The what, sir?”
“The killer who has been raiding homesteads for the past ten years. You must have heard of him.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I know of no such person. Springfield is a peaceful place. There has not been a killing in years.”
Fargo sat on the end of the bed and tucked his chin to his chest. He wished a tree were handy so he could beat his head against it.
“Is there anything else, sir?” Akuda inquired.
“No,” Fargo said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“I don’t rightly see how,” the butler said, and bowed as he backed out the door. He closed it after him.
Fargo’s mind was in a whirl. He had heard of the Secessionist League but did not know a lot about it. Still, he could guess at its purpose. A lot of Southern states were unhappy with the federal government and there was talk on everyone’s lips about the Southern states breaking away from the Union to form their own government. But what did the League want with him? Why had it gone to so much trouble to lure him to Illinois?
The longer Fargo pondered, the madder he became. He had been used, manipulated, led around like a bull with a ring in its nose. Fed lies and more lies. And all the while Arthur Draypool must have been chuckling as how easy he had been to dupe.
“The bastards,” Fargo said aloud. He thought again of Colter and Sloane and came to the conclusion that they must have been government men assigned to keep an eye on the League. He hoped Colter had gotten away.
Fargo leaned back. A grim smile touched his lips. He would play along and see what happened. It was the only way to learn what the League was up to. Whatever it was, they would soon discover that baiting a wolf was dangerous.
A knock sounded. Standing, Fargo said gruffly, “Come in.” He was expecting Draypool, but it was a petite young woman in a maid’s outfit, a towel over her left arm.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Akuda says you need one of these.” She moved toward a washbasin on a stand in the corner.
Fargo’s interest perked. Her uniform hid a shapely body, evinced by the swell of her bosom and the sway of her hips. Her skin was a light coppery hue, her hair a velveteen black. Full lips in a perpetual pout complemented high cheekbones and alluring dark eyes. “Well, now,” Fargo said. “Do you have a name or should I just call you Miss Beautiful?”
The maid grinned. “I am called Belda, sir. I will keep your room clean during your stay and make your bed in the morning.” She placed the towel next to the basin and made to leave.
“I’ll make my own,” Fargo said, blocking her way. She stopped and looked up at him in frank appraisal.
“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
“Stop calling me that,” Fargo replied. “I’m not like the rest of the men here.”
“If you say so, sir,” Belda said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have other work to attend to.” She moved to go around him.
“Wait,” Fargo requested, taking hold of her arm. “I’d like to get together later, the two of us, somewhere private.”
“I am not that kind of woman, sir,” Belda said severely, prying his fingers off. “Please excuse me.”
Fargo slid in front of her again. “It’s not what you think. I need someone who can keep their ears open for me.”
“I don’t see what use I can be.”
“Please,” Fargo said, clasping her hand in appeal. “Where and when can I meet you?”
Half a minute went by. Then Belda said quietly, “They will punish me if I am caught, but I will meet you here at eleven tonight. Leave the door open slightly so I can slip inside.”
“Thank you,” Fargo said as she hustled to the hall. He smiled and walked to the washbasin. The Secessionist League had a lot to answer for and he was just the gent to see that it did.
11
The dining room was as luxurious as the rest of the house. A long table able to seat two dozen guests filled the center. Globe lamps at regular intervals provided brilliant illumination. The night was warm, and several windows were open to admit air.
The butler came for Fargo at seven fifteen. Fargo had availed himself of the washbasin, rummaged in his saddlebags for a clean bandanna, and wiped the dust from his boots. He wore his gun belt.
Akuda arched an eyebrow as Fargo stepped from the room, and said respectfully, “If you will forgive my presumption, sir, you will not require your firearm at the dinner table.”
Fargo patted his holster. “I never go anywhere without it.”
“The judge might take offense,” Akuda said.
“You must have me confused with someone who gives a damn.” Fargo smiled to lessen the sting.
“The judge likes to have his way,” Akuda warned. “Trust me when I say he makes for a powerful enemy.”
“I bet a lot of his enemies are against slavery.” Fargo fished for information.
The butler broke stride, but only slightly. “The judge and his friends are very set in their beliefs.”
“A Yankee hater, is he?”
Akuda glanced the length of the hall, then said softly, “I should not discuss this with you, sir. The judge would be mad.”
“What is the worst he can do to you?” Fargo asked half jokingly. He figured it would be a harsh lecture and extra work.
“He can have me whipped, sir,” Akuda said, “and I would rather not go through that again, if you don’t mind. I still have the scars from the other times.”
Fargo envisioned the butler stripped to the waist, a whip biting into the flesh of his back. “Did the judge whip you himself?”
“Oh, no, sir, he would never sully his hands with someone else’s blood. Mr. Garvey, the overseer from the judge’s plantation, does the punishing.” Akuda’s frame seemed to tremble slightly. “You will meet him tonight.”
“The overseer is here?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Garvey comes up from Alabama every two or three months, sir, to consult with the judge. Sometimes he brings new staff for the house.”
“New slaves, you mean,” Fargo said.
Akuda nodded. “Or he takes those who have not been doing their jobs well enough to suit the judge back to Alabama to work in the fields.”
“He’s not the forgiving type, is he?”
Akuda uttered a laugh that was more like a bark. “Not at all, sir. The judge has a saying he is fond of.” He paused. “Spare the rod, spoil the black.”
Fargo tried to imagine what it must be like for the slaves, living in a constant state of fear, terrified to make a single mistake. “It’s not right,” he remarked, more to himself than the butler.
“There are a lot of things in this world that aren’t right, sir,” Akuda responded. “Things people shouldn’t do to one another but do.” They came to the stairs and he started down. “It makes me mad to this day that an accident of birth has made me what I am.”
“That’s natural.”