Fargo called out to Samantha to wait for him but she didn’t listen. He ran to catch up and did so only after she stopped to get her bearings. “You’re fast on your feet,” he complimented her.
“I was a bit of a tomboy when I was little.” Sam cast about, her face twisted in puzzlement. “Which way, do you think?”
Fargo shrugged. “One is as good as another.”
“You’re a big help.” Samantha walked in a small circle, scratching her head. “There’s so much ground to cover, I don’t know where to begin.”
“I didn’t know your father. You did. Try to think like him,” Fargo suggested. “Where would you bury the chest if you had done it?”
“Impossible to say,” Samantha said. “No one thought like he did. That’s why I sent for you. You’re supposed to be the great frontiersman. How would you go about finding something if this were the mountains or the prairie?”
Fargo pondered. To the east the ground was mostly flat woodland. To the north and west were hills. To the south a creek ran close to the hunting lodge. Landmarks were few. The terrain was essentially the same—forest and more forest.
Sam impatiently tapped her foot. “I’m waiting for an idea.”
“I don’t have one.”
Shaking her head in annoyance, Sam said, “I repeat. You’re a big help. There must be something we can look for.”
“A mound of dirt where your father buried it,” was the only thing Fargo could come up with at the moment.
“All the chest contains is a page from the will so it need not be that big. Still, a pile of dirt should stand out.”
“Unless it’s under a bush.”
They began the search in earnest. Samantha suggested they separate to cover more ground and Fargo reminded her of the assassins.
“Damn them to hell, anyway. Whoever hired them should be hung.”
Fargo put his hand on his hip where his Colt would ordinarily be, and frowned. He didn’t like not having a gun. He didn’t like it at all. He was about to bend and draw the toothpick from the ankle sheath and slide it under his belt when the undergrowth behind them crackled. He whirled just as the last person he expected stepped toward them.
“Theodore!” Sam exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
The attorney had a canteen slung over his arm and was carrying a valise.
“Didn’t I mention I am the official judge? I must make sure everyone abides by the rules. I’ll be roving about constantly the entire twenty-four hours.”
“You’ll be as worn out as the rest of us by the time this is done.”
Pickleman set down the valise. “Not that I want to, mind you. It’s yet another of your father’s stipulations.” He mopped his brow. “I suspect it’s your father’s way of needling me. He knew I am not much for physical exercise.”
“It sounds like something Father would do, yes,” Sam agreed.
“How big is the chest?” Fargo asked.
“I couldn’t say,” the attorney said. “I never saw it. He buried it before he came to me about revising the will.”
“I wish he provided clues,” Sam said wistfully.
“I would imagine,” the lawyer said. “I tried to get more information out of him but all he did was smile and make that silly remark about whoever found it not having cause to weep.”
“An understatement,” Sam said.
“Yes, well.” Pickleman picked up the valise. “I’m sorry but I must keep on the move. Good luck to you, Samantha. I have always liked you and I know you will treat your brothers and your sister more fairly than some of them would treat you.”
“Thank you, Theodore.”
Pickleman smiled and nodded and the vegetation swallowed him.
“A dedicated little man,” Sam said. “He takes his responsibilities seriously and always performs them to the best of his ability.”
Father was thinking about the chest. “Did your father get out in these woods much?”
“Hardly ever. He was too busy conducting business day in and day out. He brought a few clients out to the lodge from time to time and once and once only he went hunting with Roland, but that was about the extent of it.” Sam paused. “Why did you ask?”
“If he didn’t know these woods well,” Fargo mused, “then odds are he didn’t have a spot picked out ahead of time.”
“So?”
“So he probably buried the chest at the first likely spot he came to.”
“Likely how? Clear? Soft? Easy to remember?” Sam shook her head. “That’s not much help.”
Fargo was tired of being criticized. He felt he was onto something but exactly how it could help them eluded him. “Let’s keep looking.”
“Didn’t I hear that you guide wagon trains from time to time? They must be in awe of your wood lore.”
“Keep it up.”
“I’m counting on you,” Sam said with passion. “More than you can ever possibly realize.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“Do better.”
They resumed the hunt, Sam quiet and tense. As the minutes crawled into an hour and the hour into an hour and a half it became obvious, as Sam put it, that, “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“We have twenty-four hours.”
“For once my father was being generous. Or was he? He would like for us to experience twenty-four hours of sheer torture.”
“Nice gent, your pa.”
“No,” Sam said sadly. “He was mean and cruel. To us, at any rate. I never did understand how he could blame us for Mother’s death. It was an act of God.”
“God does that a lot,” Fargo said.
“Does what?”
“Kills people.”
Sam chuckled. “What a strange thing to say. I doubt Father even believed. Mother died in a lot of pain, and I remember Father saying that any God who would let her suffer was either a lunatic or make-believe.”
They poked into thickets. They checked behind boulders and around logs. They searched every shadowed nook. All with the same result.
They came to a rise and Samantha plopped down, her chin sinking to her chest. “I’m tired already. How about you?”
Fargo could go all day if he had to but he sat beside her and said, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“So much is at stake.” Sam plucked at the grass. “I’ll never forgive Father for this. He couldn’t divide up the inheritance and leave it at that. He had to turn it into a circus.”
“Enough about the bastard.”
Sam stopped plucking and leaned back. “I guess I do tend to go on about him. But you can’t blame me under the circumstances.”
Fargo scanned the forest: a mix of maple, oak and hickory. He was about to suggest they push on when he heard a faint cry to the south.
“Did you hear that?”
Nodding, Fargo stood. He listened but the seconds crawled by and the cry wasn’t repeated.
“Did it sound like a call for help?”
Fargo couldn’t say. It might have been. It might not. “Who else uses these woods besides your family?”
“Hardly a soul. Most people know this is private property.” Sam moved to the end of the rise. “We should go have a look.”
Fargo led. In over a hundred yards came out of the vegetation on the grassy bank of the creek. Here and there cottonwoods sprinkled the waterway, along with a few willows. “This have a name?”
“Clyborn Creek. My father named it after our family. It’s a tributary of Bear Creek.”
Fargo followed the bank west. The going was easier and they covered a lot of distance without seeing or hearing anyone.
“That water sure looks inviting.”
Fargo agreed. He stepped to the edge of a knee-deep pool, cupped his hand, and dipped it in.
“I used to play in this creek when I was a girl.” Samantha knelt beside him. “At least we don’t have to worry about going thirsty.”