“People talk too damn much.” Fargo was in an irritable mood. It rankled him, being used.
“Do they ever. But don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t hold it against you. I know another man who has lived with Indians. Some tribe down in Florida. He dresses like an Indian and acts half Indian all the time.”
“This man have a name?” Fargo asked without really caring.
“Hiram Trask. I doubt you have ever heard of him. He’s not anywhere near as famous as you are.”
Fargo’s gut tightened. Could it be? he asked himself. “I have heard of him. He’s supposed to be a damn good tracker.”
“One of the best,” Layton said. “Folks say he can track an ant across solid rock, but folks exaggerate.”
“That they do,” Fargo agreed amiably. Then, as casually as possible, he blew on the coffee and said, “I’ve heard Trask is partial to knee-high moccasins.”
Layton chuckled and said, “He wears the silly things all the time. Once in Georgia we went into a fancy restaurant with him wearing them and everyone stared—” Layton froze, his cup halfway to his mouth.
“So that was Hiram Trask,” Fargo said. “Strange he didn’t introduce himself. Or that Draypool or Harding didn’t mention him.”
“Hiram’s not much of a talker.” Layton tried to undo the damage. “And Mr. Draypool and the judge probably figured you wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand what?” Fargo shammed. “That two trackers working together are better than one? Trask should be with us.”
Beads of sweat had broken out on Layton’s brow. “Maybe the judge wants Hiram handy in case something happens to you.”
“That could be.” Fargo enjoyed making him squirm. “Or it could be Trask is part of the League, like you and Draypool and the judge.”
Layton paled and nearly dropped his tin cup. “The what?”
“The Secessionist League. Why you went to all the trouble to hire me when you have Trask puzzles me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” Fargo said. “Just like you don’t know that there is no Sangamon River Monster and never has been. Just like you don’t know that it was you and your friends who murdered the Sweeney family.”
Layton sat stock-still. “You’re ranting nonsense.”
“And you’re a terrible liar.” Fargo made a mental stab in the dark. “When are you supposed to kill me? Or is Draypool leaving that up to Hiram Trask?”
“You must be drunk.”
“Have you seen me take a drink all day?” Fargo countered, watching the backwoodsman’s hands.
“What in God’s name makes you think there’s no Sangamon River Monster?”
“I’ve talked to people who have never heard of him.”
“What’s so peculiar about that?” Layton asked.
“Draypool claimed the killings have been going on for ten years,” Fargo said. “Everyone in Illinois would know about them by now.”
“Not necessarily.” Layton pushed his raccoon hat back on his head. He seemed to be thinking furiously. His face lit, as if at inspiration, and he asked, “If the Sangamon River Monster doesn’t exist, then whose tracks are we following?”
“I was hoping you would tell me,” Fargo said. “Then you can go back and tell your bosses that whatever they are up to didn’t work.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Tell them, too, that I’ll be coming for them. They must pay for the Sweeneys. Why that family, anyway? Did Draypool and the judge pick them out of thin air? Or were they Northern sympathizers?”
Layton’s eyes darted right and left, like those of an animal caught in a cage. “Sheer nonsense, I tell you.”
“Keep it to yourself, then,” Fargo said. “But now that things are out in the open, I’d like for you to hand me your revolver.”
“What?”
“I don’t keep rattlesnakes in my pocket, and I don’t let men out to kill me keep the guns to do it with.”
“Crazy as a loon,” Layton declared.
Fargo extended his left hand, palm up. “Your revolver.”
“Like hell! You have no right!” Layton started to stand but sat back down again. He was a study in nervousness. His jaw muscles twitched. He shifted his legs one way and then another.
“We don’t have all night,” Fargo said.
Like a punctured bladder deflating, Layton’s body sagged and he said resignedly, “I’ll give it to you. But once you realize the mistake you’ve made, I want it back. Understood?”
“You’re stalling.”
“All right, all right. Hold your horses.” Layton set down his cup and lowered his right arm toward his Remington.
Fargo’s gaze was glued to the other arm, to the hand that brushed Layton’s hip. Cold steel flashed and lanced at his throat. With a deft twist of his wrist he threw his coffee into Layton’s face even as he skipped to one side to evade the blade. He thought it would buy him the split second he needed to draw, but Layton was on him before his fingers could close on the Colt’s grip. Again the knife speared at his jugular. He had to throw himself backward to save himself, and in doing so he tripped over his saddle.
Layton was a woodsman. His reflexes were as keen as his knife. He sprang as Fargo fell, shearing the razor’s edge at Fargo’s chest, and it was only by a fluke that the blow missed by the barest fraction.
Fargo got his hand on his Colt and the Colt clear of his holster. A foot caught him on the wrist, numbing it, and the Colt went flying. Inwardly cursing his clumsiness and sluggishness, Fargo rolled to the right and came up in a crouch, his hand sliding into his right boot and groping for the Arkansas toothpick he always carried strapped to his ankle.
Layton did not allow an instant’s respite. He thrust his blade at Fargo’s chest, then sprang back in surprise when Fargo swept the toothpick up and deflected the stab with a metallic ching. Eyes narrowing in wary calculation, Layton bent at the waist in a knife fighter’s posture and circled.
Fargo did likewise. It was rash to talk in a fight, any fight, but he did so now. “If you kill me, the judge and Draypool might be upset. It will spoil their plans.” He did not add “whatever those plans were.”
“I have no choice. You know too much,” Layton responded. “We’ll still have your body, and that’s the important thing.”
“My body?” Fargo wondered what in hell that meant.
“You’re not as clever as you think,” Layton said. “You have no idea what we need you for. It’s sure not to track, not when we have Hiram Trask.” Layton snickered. “The only thing you’re good for is being a convenient scapegoat, as the judge calls it. When your body is found near his, everyone will jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“That’s why I was hired? To take the blame for killing someone I don’t even know?” To Fargo it still made no sense.
“You don’t know who the man is or you would understand,” Layton said. “Everyone will be so busy trying to figure out why you would do such a thing, they won’t suspect the League.”
“Who are you after?”
“That would be telling.”
Without warning, Layton attacked, wielding his knife in a flurry, seeking to overwhelm Fargo quickly. But Fargo was expecting it, and he met the whirlwind with all the considerable skill he had acquired, the clang of steel on steel ringing loud and sharp. He was forced to give way, but only for a few yards. Then he planted himself and would not be moved. He countered or evaded every stroke, every feint. Fury crept into Layton’s countenance and he redoubled his effort, but now it was Fargo who forced him back, step by step, until they stood where they had started, both of them swearing and Layton panting as if he had just run ten miles.