“What have you done to her?”
“Not a damn thing. Why? What did she say?”
“She confided in me that she thinks you are just about the most interesting man she ever met.”
“Are you sure she was talking about me?”
“Yes, indeed.” Charlotte bobbed her chin and her lustrous hair bobbed with it. She put her hands on her slim waist and squared her shoulders, which had the effect of thrusting her bosom against her dress. “I’ve never heard her say the flattering things about any man that she does about you.”
“You must have heard wrong.”
“No, I did not. It only came up because I happened to mention I think you are uncommonly handsome and she—”
“You do?” Fargo interrupted, and smiled. “I happen to think that you’re uncommonly handsome, too.”
“Honestly, Mr. Fargo,” Charlotte said in mild exasperation. “Women aren’t handsome. They’re beautiful or lovely or pretty.”
“You’re all of that, too.” Fargo bent close to her ear. “You remind me of a ripe cherry in a cherry tree.”
“I do?”
“I want to pluck you and eat you.”
Charlotte gasped and put a hand to her throat. “Mr. Fargo! The things that come out of your mouth.”
Fargo stared at her bosom. “It’s the things that go into my mouth that I’m fond of.”
“Surely you can’t mean—” Charlotte stopped and flushed a vivid scarlet. “You are scandalous, sir. How can you talk about me this way when I’ve just told you that my sister thinks so highly of you?”
“I like greener pastures as much as the next hombre.”
Charlotte’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite frankly, I don’t think I want to.” She peered at his face as if trying to see through him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you are undressing me with your eyes.”
“I am,” Fargo said with a grin, “and I like what I see.”
“Well, I never.” Charlotte turned and said over her shoulder. “I will keep this between us to spare Sam. But if you ever talk to me like this again, I’ll slap your face.”
“That’s fine by me.”
“It is?”
“I like it rough.” Fargo smothered a laugh at her shock and hasty departure.
Two seeds planted, he thought to himself. He gazed at the ring of trees and noticed the glint of the sun off of metal a score of yards into the undergrowth. One of their servants, he reckoned. But glancing about, he realized that everyone was accounted for.
The next instant a shot blasted.
7
After the two attempts on his life Fargo took it for granted this was the third. As the shot shattered the muggy Missouri air, he dived flat. He didn’t feel the searing pain of lead ripping through him and thought the shooter had missed. Then he glanced up.
Emmett Clyborn had a hole in the center of his forehead and an even bigger hole on the back of his head where the slug had burst out. He was swaying, his eyes wide with shock. Many of the others were gaping at him in stunned disbelief.
“Get down!” Fargo bellowed.
A second shot cracked.
Charles Clyborn had started to duck and his hat went flying. He dropped flat just as a third shot rang out but the third one didn’t come from the woods; Roland Clyborn was shooting back.
Fargo whipped out his Colt and added to the hail. He fired at where he had seen the gleam of metal, two swift shots, and then he was up and running toward the woods, zigzagging to make it harder for the shooter to hit him. Roland ran with him and together they charged toward where tendrils of gun smoke hung in the air.
“Where?” Roland roared, turning right and left.
Fargo spied movement off through the trees. “There!” He pointed and weaved among the boles on the fly. All he wanted was one clear shot. Just one. The crash of the undergrowth and the hammer of hooves told him he wasn’t going to get it. In anger he snapped off a shot in the direction of the sounds and came to a stop. The hoofbeats rapidly faded.
“We should go after him!” Roland fumed.
“And leave the others?” Fargo shook his head. Especially since in both previous tries on his life there had been two would-be assassins, not one. Which begged the question: Where was the other one?
Roland jerked his Spencer rifle to his shoulder but he didn’t fire. With an oath he jerked it down again, then said in horror, “Emmett!” Wheeling, he raced for the clearing.
Fargo followed, watching both their backs.
Everyone was gathered around the body. Charlotte was on her knees, clutching Emmett’s limp hand and bawling hysterically. Samantha was seeking to comfort her. Charles and Tom appeared to be in shock. Pickleman was as pale as a bed-sheet. The servants were staying respectfully back and whispering among themselves.
Out of all of them only one person didn’t appear the least bit upset—the backwoodsman Tom had picked as his partner. The man was picking at his teeth with a fingernail.
“Who would do this?” Charles said, aghast. “Why kill poor Emmett?”
Fargo was scanning the woods. That the second assassin hadn’t opened up on them didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. Or did it? A disturbing thought struck him, a thought he kept to himself. He did say, “We can’t stand around in the open like this. We’re sitting ducks.”
Some of the others gave him angry looks.
“He’s right,” Roland said. “We should make haste to the lodge. We don’t know but whoever did this might come back.”
Samantha had an arm around Charlotte and was saying, “There, there. You need to calm down. You need to control yourself.”
The younger woman’s face contorted in disbelief. “Calm? How can any of us be calm at a time like this? Emmett is dead.”
“I know that, dear,” Samantha responded, “and I don’t want any of the rest of us to share his fate. Please. We must collect our wits and get out of here.”
It was done quickly. Servants were directed to wrap Emmett in a blanket and drape him over his horse. Fargo was going to take hold of the reins but Tom snatched them before anyone else could.
They pushed hard. Every moment was an eternity of suspense. They never knew but when another shot might thunder and another of them might wind up wrapped in a blanket.
Fargo had time to think and came to several conclusions. Again, he kept them to himself. They had gone about a mile when he slowed and let some of the others pass him so he could rein alongside Tom. On the other side of him was the hulking backwoodsman. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
Tom glanced at the horse he was leading, and the body. “Whoever killed him will pay. Mark my words.”
“Any idea who it could be?”
“How would I know?” Tom snapped. “It’s not as if we haven’t made enemies. When you’re rich and powerful you can’t help stepping on toes.”
“So you think it’s someone with a grudge against your family?”
“What else?”
Fargo didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Your friend, there, didn’t seem bothered.”
The backwoodsman had been gazing into the forest but now he turned his craggy face and gave Fargo a withering look. “You talkin’ about me, mister? ’Cause if you are, I ain’t Mr. Tom’s friend. I hardly know him. I hardly know any of them.” He motioned at the family members up ahead. “So no, it doesn’t bother me a lick that one of them was shot.”
“Must you be so cold about it?” Tom demanded. To Fargo he said, “This is Cletus Brun. He’s about the best hunter in Hannibal, next to Roland. I’m paying him for his services this weekend just as my sister is paying you.”