“I suppose,” Fargo said.
That was when the man wearing the knee-high moccasins declared in a distinct Southern drawl, “It shouldn’t be Layton. It should be me.”
“We want Layton,” Draypool said.
“I’m better,” the man said. “Faster, stronger, the best damn shot you have. It’s a mistake to use him.”
“We have been all through this,” Judge Harding interjected. “We need you with us. Bill is perfectly capable of doing what we require. He knows our wishes.”
Layton nodded.
“Suit yourselves,” the man in the knee-high moccasins said. “But don’t blame me if it doesn’t go as you hope.”
Fargo noticed that Draypool was intimidated by the man, perhaps even a little afraid, and that Judge Harding, who kowtowed to no one, treated him with a degree of deference. There was more to this one than was apparent.
“Layton it is, then,” Draypool said. Then, to Fargo, “Is there anything you require before you head out? Food? Ammo? Anything at all?”
“I’m all set.” Fargo always lived off the land when he was on the go. His needs were few.
“And you?” Draypool said to Layton.
“I bought supplies just last week. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Excellent. Then off the two of you go. Remember, we want to catch the Monster before he strikes again. But you must not be so hasty that you lose him. There might not be another opportunity like this for many months.”
“I won’t lose him,” Fargo vowed. Once he was on a manhunt, he never let up. The only time two-legged quarry had ever eluded him had been in New Mexico, and the quarry had been a Mimbres Apache. In Fargo’s opinion, Apaches were the best trackers anywhere, and were equally adept at shaking whoever attempted to track them.
“We are counting on you,” Judge Harding said. “More than you can ever know.” In a rare display of emotion, he put a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “A lot is riding on you, but I am confident you won’t disappoint us.”
Fargo was glad to get out of there. He held the Ovaro to a walk in order to read the sign. He assumed the killer had a mount hidden in the woods, but after half a mile he came to the conclusion the man had been afoot. Exactly what Arthur Draypool had said the Monster would do.
Except for slight deviations to avoid obstacles like logs and boulders, the killer’s course was a beeline toward some unknown destination. And from his stride, the Monster was in a hurry to get there, moving at a steady, tireless jog.
Layton hung back, presumably in the belief that Fargo wanted nothing to do with him. But Fargo could talk and track at the same time, and there were questions that begged answers. “How long have you worked for Harding?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Seven years this—”
Layton stopped, and Fargo could guess why. They wanted him to think Layton had just happened upon the massacre and rushed to inform the judge.
“Did you ask how long have I known him?”
“Worked for,” Fargo said.
“Oh. I didn’t quite hear you. I’m not in the judge’s employ. I have a homestead near Carne, with a wife and five kids.”
If Layton was married, Fargo was the queen of England. “Doesn’t it worry you, them alone with the killer on the loose?”
“My wife has a good head on her shoulders, and can shoot the bull’s-eye out of a target at a hundred paces.”
“You must want the killer caught as much as the judge and the rest of his vigilantes do,” Fargo remarked.
“Don’t call them that. They are patriots. They do what is best for the common good with no thought of reward for themselves.”
Once again, Fargo had the feeling Layton was repeating someone else’s comments. “You think highly of them.”
“I think highly of the cause. I was born in these parts, but that doesn’t mean I can’t share their beliefs.”
The undergrowth grew thicker. Fargo had to thread the Ovaro through it like a giant black-and-white needle through a green tapestry. Locusts droned in the trees. A pair of young squirrels scampered about in the leafy boughs. A blue jay shrieked and took swift wing.
To Fargo, the sights and sounds of the wild were always a tonic. They filled him to overflowing with a sense of being alive. Some men were so soured on life they could not get the acid out of their system, but not Fargo. To him each day was a feast of new experiences waiting over the next horizon.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Layton broke a long silence.
“Depends on what it is,” Fargo said, suddenly wary. He must not do or say anything that would give away the fact that he suspected he was being used as a tool by the Secessionist League.
“Folks say you have killed more men than Samson. Is that true?”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” Fargo reined to the left to go around blackberry bushes, with their sharp thorns.
“I don’t mind that you’re a killer,” Layton said. “Hell, a lot of people have blood on their hands but keep it secret. I’ve killed once or twice myself.”
“And here we are, tracking another killer,” Fargo said.
“You can’t hardly compare him to us. He’s a butcher. He murders people for the fun of it. You and me, we only kill when we have to.”
For Fargo that was true. He was not so sure about Layton. “Killing is killing, some would say, and accuse us of being no better than the Monster.”
“Nonsense!” Layton spat. “Anyone too stupid to see the difference deserves to have their throat slit.”
Fargo could not help but grin.
“It depends on why people kill,” Layton went on. “Their motive, as the judge calls it. He says that some motives are higher than others, and the highest of all is to kill for an honorable cause.”
“Interesting notion,” Fargo said.
“The judge is a great man. He has a vision for the future. One day soon that vision will come true and this country will be a better place.”
“What kind of vision?”
Perhaps aware he had said too much, Layton hesitated, then answered, “You should ask him. He’s a better talker than me.”
“You admire him a lot, I gather?” Fargo trolled for information.
“I admire the cause,” Layton said, and quickly amended, “That is, I believe in bringing murderers to justice.”
Fargo thought of the Sweeney family, and the young girl crumpled in a corner of their cabin, her white dress stained scarlet from multiple stab wounds. “That makes two of us.”
14
The killer’s endurance was worthy of an Apache’s. Mile after mile through some of the heaviest vegetation Fargo had ever encountered, the man held to a remarkable pace. Many times Fargo had to dismount and lead the Ovaro by the reins. The press of growth demanded it.
Layton did not say much. He always hung back and let Fargo lead, which was to be expected. But Fargo did not like having the man behind him. Now and again the skin on his back itched, and he would tell himself that he was being silly. Layton wouldn’t shoot him or do whatever the judge and Draypool had ordered him to do until they caught up to the Sangamon River Monster.
Night found them no closer to their quarry. Fargo made camp in a small clearing. He kindled a fire and put coffee on to brew. Their meal consisted of pemmican on his part and jerky on Layton’s.
They were sipping their first steaming cup when Layton cleared his throat and asked, “What’s it like out there?”
Fargo knew what he meant but asked, “Out where?”
“Out west. We hear so many stories. Are the Indians as fierce and bloodthirsty as everyone says?”
“Some Indians,” Fargo said, “but no more so than some whites.”
“They say you’ve lived with Indians.”
“Who does?”
Layton shrugged. “Oh, people I’ve talked to in taverns and the like.”