The Trailsman #285 by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House LLC
Published: 2010-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

As a member in good standing of the church (to all appearances), newspaperman Cecil McGinnis owned a house on Poplar Street near the college. He, Frederic Childress, and Dill Stover met there at the same time Fargo was talking to the mysterious Lily Snyder.

“All your feeble excuses won’t feed the bulldog, Dill,” Childress said with cold, angry precision. “This is multiple failures now. Once or twice, all right, that could be chance events. But what we have now is a clear pattern of bungling.”

The three men had retreated into a private den where the servants couldn’t eavesdrop.

“Well, your precious goddamn Indians ain’t done no better,” Stover reminded his employer.

“Never mind the Utes. You presented yourself to us, Dill, as a fearless and rugged man of action, a former army scout and combat veteran. In fact, however, all Cecil and I see is a calamity howler who spends his time finding reasons for not acting.”

“Aw, horseshit. It’s just—”

Childress waved him quiet. “Horseshit is precisely the word. All you’ve been doing, this past week, is washing bricks. If Fargo frightens you, just say so, man! We’ll send you packing and hire a man that owns a pair.”

“You’re way off the trail now,” Stover protested, unable to take his eyes off a decanter of liquor on a nearby table. “Fargo’s just damn good at staying above the ground, is all.”

“That’s all?” Childress swore quietly, rose from his chair, paced the room. His pale-agate eyes were reptilian in the afternoon light slanting through the curtains.

His continued silence made Stover nervous. He feared being fired, but also figured Childress wouldn’t give him the boot now, with so much money bet on him for the race. And if Stover won, he’d be on good terms again with his employers.

“It’s those damned red Arabs, I’m telling you,” he carped again. “They don’t care a hoot in hell about killing Fargo. All they could think about, on the trip down, was snatching them women and kids and selling them to the slave traders in New Mex.”

“They’re ignorant savages, Dill. The hell’s your excuse?” Childress snapped.

“Perhaps Dill does have something of a point,” McGinnis interceded smoothly, his specialty. “They say an empty hand is no lure for a hawk, Frederic. True, we give them rifles and liquor. But maybe the other gimcracks and gewgaws we offer the Indians are not enough incentive. All those ribbons and medals and bright baubles.”

Childress considered that. “Well, a few glass beads bought Manhattan. But I’ll talk to them later about it. They’re standing by west of the city. He Bear was winged by Fargo this morning, but it’s not serious enough to put him out of action. They’re both waiting for later, when they’ll join Dill for tonight’s attack that will kill Fargo.”

Stover’s blunt jaw dropped open. “Right in town?”

“Of course, it’s ideal. Look at the potential suspects what with all these visitors in town for the race. Including outlanders, whom Mormons suspect on principle. The taverns are even open later, putting crowds and noise in the streets.

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