“What happened to your hand?”
“My hand?”
“It was shaking like hell when I came in.”
“Oh, this?” He held up his hand and after a moment made it start shaking. “Pretty good, huh? I needed to look a little helpless.” The laugh again. “It’s just in my nature, Skye. Guess I’m a frustrated thespian.”
“You’re a frustrated something all right,” Fargo said, resenting that he’d allowed himself to be trapped into this. Hell, he wanted to be on his way to Denver. And he never wanted to see Tom Cain or whatever he was calling himself ever again.
Fargo could still see the shape of Clete Byrnes’ body where it had lain in the grass next to the tree. He hadn’t taken the time yesterday to really scout the place the way the Pinkertons usually did. Now he was combing the area for signs of anything that might indicate who had killed him. His Pinkerton friends had told him that if you looked over a crime area carefully you’d be surprised what you’d find. And the silver button had proved the Pinkertons correct. But where did the button come from? What did it have to do with the death of young Byrnes? Or did it have anything to do with it at all?
There were traces of blood in the grass leading from a narrow dusty trail to the beginning of the front yard of the soddie he had seen yesterday. So: shot in the road, dragged to the tree. The person who lived there might have seen something if she’d been in the yard.
The soddie he approached had been upgraded from the usual soddie you found on the frontier. A shingle roof had been built to save the place from leaking rain for one thing and an actual wooden door had been installed. No doubt the place was still home to vermin of every kind—not to mention snakes—but at least the top wouldn’t collapse every time the weather turned bad.
A dozen chickens ran frantically around to the left of the place and a wolfhound stood alert watching him. A good time to stop. Fargo made sure his hand was nowhere near his Colt. He raised his voice and spoke to the closed door. “My name’s Fargo. I’m working with Sheriff Cain. I’d like to talk to you.”
Yesterday he’d walked up to the door. But the wolfhound hadn’t been here. And today he sensed that somebody was inside.
“I’ll have to keep coming back unless you come out and talk to me. You could save both of us a lot of trouble.”
At first the only sound was the wind soughing through the huge pines nearby. He took two steps forward. Another sound—the wolfhound growling, the mouth opening to reveal gleaming white teeth.
The door opened and a tiny woman who was probably in her sixties came out toting a Winchester that was aimed right at Fargo’s chest. She wore a flat-crowned black hat, a buckskin shirt, black butternuts and buckskin boots that came up to her knees. She might have been pretty once but years out here had scrubbed most of the prettiness away. She had hard, harsh green eyes. She might have weighed one hundred on a good day.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“Don’t start none of that ‘morning, ma’am’ bilge with me. My name’s Helen Hardesty and I ain’t no ma’am.”
“I’m working with Sheriff—”
“What the hell you think I got here? Brick walls? In case you didn’t notice, this is a soddie. Meaning I can hear everything you said. And don’t try and make me cooperate because you’re working with that show-off sheriff. He’s nothing to me.”
One hundred pounds of pure prairie grit, Fargo thought.
“I found a dead man here yesterday.”
“Good for you. I don’t know anything about it.”
“He was laying right back there. He was probably shot on the trail and dragged by that tree.” Fargo turned and pointed. “Seems like you might’ve heard or seen something.”
“Guess you didn’t hear me, mister. I don’t know anything about it.” She waggled the Winchester at him. The wolfhound growled. “You simmer, Samson. I can handle this tinhorn.”
Fargo thought, you had to like her. The Eastern papers always talked about “the pioneer spirit” and this was surely it. A slight woman defending herself from a stranger at gun-point. It was too bad she was lying. She needed some real practice when she decided not to tell the truth.
“Is your husband around?”
“Yep. Back of the soddie. I buried him there three years ago.”
“You like living alone?”
“What the hell’re these questions about? I already told you I don’t know nothing about no killing and I mean exactly what I say.”
Maybe if she could look at him when she lied he’d be more likely to believe her. Also, the way she kept gnawing on her lower lip when it was his turn to talk told him that she was nervous about something. He also suspected—brazen as she was with him—that she might be afraid. She put on a hell of a good show. But what if she’d seen the killer and he’d threatened her?
“I’d like to help you, Helen.”
“You would, huh? Then you git on that horse of yours and ride out. That’d help me a lot.”
“I think you’re afraid. I think you saw something and somebody threatened you.”
She lost her grit just for a moment. “Who told you that?” But the tone was plaintive. Then: “It’s a lie. I didn’t see nothing and nobody threatened me, either.”
“Whoever threatened you, he’s killed one man, maybe more. And maybe he’ll decide to kill you.”
“I’m tough. I’ve got this.” The barrel of the Winchester gleamed in the sun. “And I’ve got Samson. Show him, Samson.”
The wolfhound stood up abruptly and growled. On cue. As in a circus act.
“I know you’re tough. I’ll bet you’re tough enough to tell the truth.”
“And tough enough to get you off my property. Go, Samson!”
The wolfhound leapt directly at Fargo. Teeth bared. Growl deep in its chest and belly. It landed just a few feet in front of Fargo and went into attack formation. But then it stopped.
Fargo felt sweat slick his face. He couldn’t think of a single man he was afraid of. He could think of a whole list of animals who gave him nightmares.
Helen Hardesty cackled. “That’s my warning shot. You should see your face, mister. You don’t look so strong now. I taught Samson to leap like that but then stop short. Scares the hell out of intruders. The next time I give him an order, though, he don’t stop short. He goes right for your throat.”
“You’ve got it all figured out.”
“I sure do.”
“Except for the killer. You’re worried he’ll come back on you and you don’t know what to do about it.”
“We’re done here, mister. Now I’m goin’ back inside and Samson’s gonna sit right where he is. I give him the order, he’ll tear you apart. You understand?”
She was true to her word. She did an about-face and stalked back to her soddie. Samson stayed in place.
She was right, Fargo thought. They were done here.
Less than a minute later he was in his saddle and headed out.
5
Karen Byrnes came home to the small frame house on the edge of the creek and put herself to work. Her mother had not been able to sleep all night. She’d sat in her rocker crying endlessly about her dead son. Now, exhausted, she slept.
Karen wanted to find the killer. She knew that Skye Fargo was working with Tom Cain but she assumed that she could help Fargo by talking to some of her friends. Her grief would come later.
Once home, she changed from her gingham dress into her Levi’s and green woolen sweater. She needed to start making candles today, not her favorite task but they were running low. She wanted to work in the large garden she’d planted. She’d been putting up vegetables for the coming winter for three months. But right now candles had to come first.