“Dear God,” Charlotte said. “Emmett could easily have won.”
“Except he didn’t know what it was at the time,” Charles said, “and he couldn’t remember where he saw father bury the thing. He didn’t pay much attention and got out of there quickly, afraid Father would spot him.”
“Who else did Emmett tell?” Tom asked.
“No one, so far as I know.”
“Someone must have overheard,” Roland speculated. “But if that was the case, they had to know how important the chest is. And none of us knew that until this evening.”
Tom was glaring at Charles. “It took you long enough to enlighten us.”
“What are you implying?” Charles responded.
“Only that it’s strange you didn’t mention this earlier when Pickleman told us about the will.”
Charles came out of his chair. “I don’t like what you are implying. I loved Emmett as much as any of you. I would never harm him. As for wanting the inheritance, which of us doesn’t?”
Fargo had heard enough bickering to last a lifetime. Pushing his chair back, he made for the door. Samantha called to him but he shook his head. He didn’t stop until he was outside.
The sun was about to relinguish its reign. Vivid streaks of red, orange, and yellow splashed the western sky. Songbirds were in full throat and somewhere off in the trees a dove cooed.
Fargo strolled over to the stable. He checked on the Ovaro and was coming back out when a shadow fell across the center aisle, and him. Instinctively, he swooped his hand to his Colt.
“Hold on there, hoss. I’m friendly. Don’t shoot.”
“Show yourself.”
Cletus Brun stepped into view. He was cradling his rifle, and nodded in a friendly fashion.
“What the hell do you want?”
The big Missourian frowned. “I can’t say I care to be talked to that way.”
“I can’t say I care.”
“You don’t want to rile me. The last gent who did is crippled.”
“Who hired Anders and you?”
“I told you before I didn’t know Anders,” Brun said. “What will it take to get that though your head?”
“Bucklin Anders and you were working together. He shot Emmett. Someone else hired two other killers and they killed Bucklin Anders.” Fargo lowered his hand close to his Colt.
“Who hired you?”
“Where do you get these harebrained notions?”
“I figured out most of it,” Fargo said. It wasn’t hard. Anders had mentioned having a partner and Anders was a local. It stood to reason his partner was the same.
“You figured wrong. I wasn’t in cahoots with him.”
“Who hired you?”
“Are your ears plugged with wax?” Brun growled. “I’ve warned you and you refuse to listen. Don’t ask me that again, you hear?”
“Who hired you?”
“You are a hardheaded son of a bitch.” Brun started to turn and suddenly whipped around, swinging his rifle like a club.
Fargo was ready. He ducked and drew but as he cleared leather Brun’s foot slammed his wrist and the Colt was jarred from his grasp. He lunged for it but Brun’s rifle caught him on the shoulder, spinning him half around. He expected Brun to swing again and sidestepped, only to have a pair of arms twice the size of his own encircle his chest from behind.
“I’ve got you now, little man.”
Fargo struggled mightily as Brun lifted him off the ground and shook him as a bear might shake a hound. Fargo’s hat fell off. He tried to surge free but Brun’s arms were bands of iron.
“I warned you not to rile me.”
The pressure on Fargo’s chest grew worse. The stable swam. He’d swear his ribs were about to stave in. In desperation he drove the back of his head against the Missourian’s face. There was a crunch and a spurt of wet on his neck.
“Damn your hide!” Brun roared. “You’ve done busted my nose!”
Fargo rammed his head back again. Brun howled and spun and Fargo was sent stumbling. He smashed against a stall and sprawled onto his side, dazed. A black boot hooked down and agony lanced his ribs. Another blow flipped him onto his back. Struggling to stay conscious, he saw the boot rise over his face.
“I’m goin’ to stomp you to a pulp.”
Fargo drove his own boot up and in and caught Brun where it would hurt a man the most. The hulking slab of gristle and sinew cried out and stumbled, his hands over his groin.
Fargo made it to his hands and knees. He shook his head to clear it, saw Brun’s legs, and slammed into them. His intent was to bowl Brun over and in that he succeeded. What he hadn’t counted on was Brun falling on top of him.
Fargo was pinned. He sought to heave Brun off but it was like trying to heave an anvil. Brun growled and raised his big hands and wrapped them around Fargo’s throat.
“If I can’t stomp you I’ll strangle you.”
Fargo gripped Brun’s wrists and pushed but couldn’t budge them. He butted Brun in the face but all Brun did was grin and keep squeezing. Fargo’s breath was cut off. He sucked air into his nose but it did no good. He was on the verge of plunging into a black well when he did the only thing he could think of to do: he dug his thumbs into Brun’s eyes.
The Missourian howled. The pressure on Fargo’s throat slackened but not enough; Fargo gouged his thumbs deeper. Suddenly Brun had hold of his wrists and Fargo was jerked to his feet. He could breathe and he could see again. Blood was trickling from both of Brun’s eyes. Pits of hell, those eyes—filled with unbridled rage and undiluted hate.
“God damnyou!”
A knee as big as a sledge smashed Fargo in the sternum. He was hurled against the wall and fell into some straw. Groping to get his hands under him, he felt something hard under his right hand. The shape took a few seconds to register. He gripped it just as Brun gripped him by the shoulders and spun him around. Brun cocked a huge fist. “It ends now.”
“You’ve got that right.” Fargo swung the horseshoe. Metal thwucked on flesh and Brun staggered. Fargo hit him again, and a third time.
“Don’t,” Brun said. He was swaying. Scarlet oozed from his split temple as he held out a hand. “I’ve had enough.”
“You started it.” Fargo hit him so hard it hurt his own hand. The crash of Brun striking the ground sent a tingle down Fargo’s spine. He raised the horseshoe to strike once more but lowered his arm. He never could beat on someone once they were down.
Fargo cast the horseshoe aside and wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow. He shuffled from the stable. Every muscle was sore. He was battered and bruised but he would live.
He hadn’t learned much. He still didn’t know which of the Clyborns had hired Brun and Anders. He still didn’t know which of them had hired the brother and sister. He suspected Tom guilty of the former, possibly Charlotte of the latter. But it could be any of them.
A pair of servants in purple walked by and gave him odd looks. One of them asked, “Are you all right, sir? If you don’t mind my saying, you look positively dreadful”
Fargo supposed he did. “Fine, thanks,” he said, and shuffled on, gaining strength as he went. When he reached the lodge he went straight to his room. He made sure to throw the bolt and as an added precaution propped the chair against the door.
Fargo stood in front of the mirror. He did look awful. He threw his hat on the bed and stripped off his buckskin shirt. His chest and arms were a welter of black-and-blue marks. He filled the basin with water from the pitcher and washed the grime from his face and the dirt from his hair.
Weariness seeped in. It had been a long, eventful day. It was early yet but he stretched out on the bed on his back with the Colt in his hand, and closed his eyes. He tried to sleep but his mind wouldn’t shut down. He reviewed all that had happened since he arrived. One fact was plainer than ever. He couldn’t trust any of them. The Clyborns, Cletus Brun, the brother and sister assassins—any of them might try to do him in.