“I’ll wire you at the hotel in San Francisco when this thing is over and meet you here when you come back.”
She nodded. “Just be careful.”
“I always am,” he said. “Thanks for doing this for me.”
“It’s a lot to go through for one shirt,” she said, smiling up at him. Then she kissed him full on the lips, pulling him down against her. After a moment she let him go, turned, and without another word climbed on to the waiting train.
He stepped back, the feel of her kiss still on his lips. He was going to miss her, but he felt better with her out of the way. As dirty and nasty as this fight had gotten so far, he had no doubt it was about to get worse. And Anne didn’t deserve to be in the way of it all.
By that evening, he had checked out of the Wallace Hotel. Just in case anyone was looking or would come asking, he made a public show of telling people where he was going.
He moved into a guest room on the second floor of the big house at Sharon’s Dream. He figured there, anyone from the Brant ranch would have the most trouble getting close to him or his horse. And since he was going to make himself the target very soon in this fight, being as protected at night as possible was the best idea.
He had purposely missed Cain and Daniel’s funeral that morning. And neither Hank nor Jim nor Walt had asked him about it. Fargo had never been much for funerals.
No one had moved into the big house besides him. Fargo guessed that none of them felt right doing so, and that was just fine. He felt odd himself, to tell the truth, wandering around in all of Cain’s things, but right now this worked for a place to stay better than anywhere else he could think of.
He asked Hank, Jim, and Walt to join him for dinner to plan the next moves and to make sure the mine was set up with their security measures.
After an hour of talking over a rich beef stew, it was clear to Fargo that the new owners of Sharon’s Dream felt they were ready for just about anything anyone could throw at them. The problem was, they didn’t really understand what was headed their way. They were mostly miners, solid men who didn’t mind a fight, but who also weren’t trained day after day in the business of fighting.
Brant had hired a lot of professionals, and chances were he would be hiring even more before this started. One thing Fargo was convinced of, no matter how prepared they were, the miners of Sharon’s Dream were outmatched in a direct fight against professional trailsmen who were willing to kill to collect their day’s pay.
Fargo was going to try to make sure that fight never got to them.
“Now,” Fargo said, “I need to ask you one favor. I need a room in the stable secured on all sides and reinforced to hold someone. A prison cell. Can you do that? Make something easy to guard and escape proof?”
Jim looked at Hank, who was nodding. Finally Hank said, “Sure, when do you need it ready?”
“Tomorrow sometime, but it may not get used for a few days. It depends on how soon I can track down our future guest.”
“Can I ask who that might be?” Hank said.
“No,” Fargo replied. “I’ll make it a surprise.”
Fargo smiled. The stage was set. Now all he had to do was what he did best—track down his future prisoner, Sarah Brant.
Anne couldn’t enjoy the train trip. She was worried about Fargo. She knew that he was in a battle he might lose. And pay for with his life. Friendship mattered to Fargo. Nothing would stop him.
The train offered the convenience of speed and the inconvenience of noisy children and irritating drummers who thought that their dubious charms just might get them a little fun when nighttime came and trysts were possible in certain parts of the passenger cars.
A man with a ginger mustache that extended at least an inch from both sides of his upper lip abruptly sat down next to her without permission or warning. His checkered suit and cheap cigar marked him as one of the standard-issue peddlers who roamed the West in pursuit of modest fortunes and immodest moments with as many women as they could get their hands on.
He looked over at her and smiled his cold rattle-snake smile and said, “Mind if I sit down?”
“Looks like you already have.”
“Well, I guess I have at that.” He tipped his derby. “Gil Fairbain. At your service. Very nice to meet you.”
She stared at him a moment, not matching his greeting. “There are other seats you could be sitting in.”
His smile revealed cheap false teeth. “But none with a beautiful woman in the seat beside me, madam.”
Then she sat watching the foothills go by in the late afternoon.
Fairbain said, tapping his chest, “I’ve got some good rye here. A whole pint of it. If you’d care to have some.”
“No, thanks.” Still looking out the window.
“Well, then I guess I’ll just have to drink alone.” Silence between them for a time. Rattle and sway of train. Cry of babies. Foot slaps of older kids running up and down the aisle. She concentrated on the scenery. Shadows were forming now, lending the land a purple beauty. He concentrated on his bottle of rye. She could almost hear his mind working like a vast machine, trying to come up with some approach that would make her throw herself into his arms.
Finally, his brain seemed to have settled on a tack to take with this woman who was treating him so coldly. The rye likely helped to convince him that he was about to reap the rewards of his ingenuity.
Her neck stiff from looking out the window, she had to sit back and face forward. This was his call to action.
“You probably couldn’t guess what I am.”
She laughed. “A drummer who doesn’t have the horse sense to quit pestering women who find him obnoxious?”
His inebriated state allowed him to brush away her nasty remark. He even smiled. “That’s the disguise I use. Looking like a drummer. That’s how I can travel around without the law getting me.”
Out of boredom, she decided to tease him some more. “You’re a famous bank robber?”
“Guess again.”
“An Indian chief?”
“You’re not being serious, madam. So I’ll tell you and save you the trouble. I’m a gunfighter.”
Oh, Lord, she thought, he’s going to try and convince me that beneath his flabby self beats the heart of a dangerous gunny. She almost felt sorry for him. “You’ve killed a lot of men then?”
“That’s right,” he said, sitting up in his seat, stretching his shoulders as if his arms were massive and he needed more room. Pathetic. “A lot of men.”
“That must be a scary calling. Facing down killers that way.”
He touched the left side of his long mustache. “That’s one thing I gave up a long time ago.”
“Oh?”
“Being afraid. Nobody scares me now. Nobody.” She could have kissed him. Not because he was desirable but because he’d given her a way to get rid of him. “That’s quite a statement. Nobody scares you.”
“Well, you get that way after you’ve killed a lot of men.”
“It’s funny you’re a gunfighter.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“That’s what my lover is.”
Faint concern shone in his brown eyes. “Is that so?”
“You ever heard of the Trailsman?”
“Sure,” he said, “who hasn’t?” Then, realizing the name she’d just dropped: “You know the Trailsman?”