Arkansas Assault (8 page)

One of Noah’s nephews had played twelve beery hours of poker one night and lost a lot more money than he could afford. The man he lost it to was a friend of his. Or had been until this game. The nephew got so angry that the friend even offered to return his winnings. He valued the friendship too much to lose. But the nephew only scoffed. He didn’t want money, he said. He just wanted a chance to win his money back. After half an hour of browbeating, the friend finally agreed to play double or nothing, though he accurately predicted what would happen.

The nephew would play double or nothing, highest card draw, and lose. Then he’d owe twice as much money. And demand that they play again. And all the friend wanted to do was quit and go home. He was tired. He had to work in the morning.

The nephew persisted. They went five times for double or nothing and the nephew lost every time. The entire saloon of early morning stragglers watched it all with grim humor. The barkeep tried to close up for the night but the nephew said he’d be sorry if he did. The barkeep didn’t want to take on a Tillman. That was for sure.

The upshot of all this was that the friend was found in the morning with the back of his head smashed in and his money gone.

Most folks assumed that the nephew had followed the friend home and killed him on a deserted, moonlit road.

Wrong, according to Sheriff Stan Tillman.

What happened, he insisted, was that the friend had been drunk and had fallen off his horse backwards, thus injuring the back of his head.

There were any number of things wrong with this claim. There was no rock or boulder on the roadside to cause such damage. Even if there were, to fall off the horse in the way the lawman claimed would have been a highly unlikely fluke. Men falling from horses tend to go head first or sideways, rarely backwards. And the crushed skull itself had been pretty obviously done with a weapon or tool of some kind. Accidental injuries wouldn’t have been as deftly and thoroughly placed. Or been inflicted several times.

All the good journalistic instincts of Liz and Richard Turner took over. They just couldn’t let this one go by. They began interviewing people who’d been at the saloon that night. They walked through the entire episode as laid out by Sheriff Stan. Then they hired an out of town doc with a degree from back east to come to Tillman to investigate the whole matter. It was his conclusion that it was very unlikely that the friend had died in the manner Sheriff Stan insisted he did.

The Turners published their story. What was said wasn’t as important as what
wasn’t
said. While the story didn’t come right out and say that the nephew, a notoriously sore loser, had killed his friend, you could certainly read the story that way.

And that was the way most
Clarion
readers chose to read it, too. For the first time the House of Tillman had been challenged. And everybody knew it.

The Turners had several great follow-up stories ready to go, each one more damning than the others about how Tillman law and order worked just fine for the Tillmans but not for anybody else.

But before they could go to press, the newspaper office was burned to the ground during the night.

And a night after that, their house was torched. They’d barely been able to escape.

Sheriff Stan was retired within two months. The Turners rebuilt their house and the newspaper office. And for a long time, clearly intimidated, they had nothing unfavorable to say about the Tillman empire. They were ashamed of themselves, but shame was better than death. And they had no doubt that old Noah would kill them if he saw a need to.

But when the story about the missing travelers came up—and they checked back through past newspapers—they became suspicious. Richard began investigating. And, not long after, was backshot and killed.

Liz finished her coffee and said, “And now there’s the girl you found dead. And her missing brother.”

“Sure fits in with the rest,” Fargo said. “I’m not a journalist, but I’ve looked into a few murders in my time. And I’m sure going to look into this one.”

“Any idea how you’ll start?”

“I need to find the white man who came up to my room with the Mexican. And that means starting with getting the body and bringing it back here for identification.”

She smiled. “I was going to say ‘be careful,’ the way women always do. But I have a feeling you’ll be able to handle yourself just fine. But he’s got a lot of rough men working for him, old Noah does. I’ll talk to Tom about this. He’ll be honest with me.”

Fargo picked up his hat. “Any easy way into that ranch of Noah’s?”

“Not unless you’re awful lucky. He has dogs and men riding shotgun and standing sentry all over the land that surrounds the house itself. You could get on the property with no problem—just wait until one of the shotgun riders is working a different part of the spread—but getting into the house would be next to impossible.”

“Maybe I’ll try the easy way.”

“I’m not sure there
is
an easy way, Fargo.”

Fargo laughed. “It’s called walking up to the front door and knocking and asking to see old Noah.”

“I guess I never thought of that,” she smiled. “That might just work. But even if they let you in, what would you say?”

Fargo said, “That’s the part I haven’t come up with yet.”

 

“So,” Noah Tillman said, returning to sit behind his desk and sip his brandy. “Have you figured out the part you left unfinished, Mr. Ekert?”

Tillman could imagine what was going through Ekert’s mind. This was the ultimate final exam. Ekert had to know that if he failed to answer correctly, there would be hell to pay. And it would be a hell much more fiery than getting a simple “F” on a progress report. He had to know that Tillman would have two or three of his men take Ekert somewhere out of the county and kill him. He’d be buried so deep that he’d never be found. And everybody involved would proclaim with great dramatic innocence that they had no idea where Mr. Ekert had gone to.

Ekert smiled anxiously. “I’m almost afraid to answer, Mr. Tillman. If I said the wrong thing—”

“But you have to answer, Mr. Ekert.”

“It’s just so hot in here—” Ekert’s face gleamed with sweat. Even his neck glistened with moisture. You could almost feel sorry for him.

“It’ll be worse for you if you don’t answer at all, Mr. Ekert. Let me assure you of that.”

Ekert, obviously unable to deal with the tension anymore, blurted out, “Is it that I didn’t kill Fargo?”

The silence was thunderous. It squeezed even more sweat out of Ekert. And it made his entire head twitch, as if it might just rip free of his neck.

For a ham like old Noah, this was a moment to enjoy and extend. Maybe he could get Ekert to twitching like a chicken that had just been beheaded. Maybe Ekert would start running around the study, stumbling blindly into things and finally falling on the floor and going into spasms so severe, his spine would snap. Now that—for a man like Noah who wanted to amuse himself with new and novel situations—that would be something to see.

Ekert said, “Would you just please tell me if I answered right, Mr. Tillman?”

“Well, before I tell you, let me ask you if you want to change your answer.”

Ah, genius. Another way of prolonging Ekert’s suffering.

“You’d let me change it?”

“Yes, I would, Mr. Ekert.”

“Does that mean that my answer was wrong, Mr. Tillman?”

“Not at all. It just means I’m in a generous mood and I’m willing to give you another try.”

“If my answer was right, would you tell me now?”

“I will if you’d like me, too, Mr. Ekert. But if it’s wrong, I wouldn’t be able to give you that extra chance.”

“Oh, God.”

More brandy. “It’s all up to you. I can tell you if your answer is right—or I can give you a second guess.”

“I’ll take a second guess.” Ekert glanced around the study, as if the answer might be hidden somewhere in its appointments and furnishings.

“I’ll give you two minutes.”

Tillman took his watch from his vest pocket. “Ready, Mr. Ekert?”

“Ready.”

The sweat glazed Ekert now. And the shaking and the twitching—spasms, real spasms now. Except for a man who was about to hang, Tillman had rarely seen anybody look so forlorn.

Ekert licked dry lips. Smiled anxiously up at Tillman. “I’m real nervous.”

“You’re wasting your time and mine, Mr. Ekert.”

Once again, Ekert blurted his answer. “It’s because I didn’t kill Fargo.”

“You’re sure of that, Mr. Ekert? You’re sure that’s the answer I’m looking for?”

But Ekert didn’t look sure at all. And he didn’t need to tell this to Tillman, either.

Noah Tillman smiled. “You managed to give me the right answer, Mr. Ekert.”

“I did?” He sounded shocked.

“Yes, now go clean yourself up, Mr. Ekert.”

From the stain on the front of his pants, it was clear that Ekert had wet himself.

“And now that you know what I want you to do, I want it done right away.”

“I understand that, Mr. Tillman. I’m sorry I didn’t kill him this morning.”

He walked bow-legged from the study. Tillman went over and opened a window. Some fresh air, even if the day was hot, torpid. Fresh air was what he needed.

 

 

Fargo had spent time on waters of various kinds. On wide creeks with Indian friends, on rivers working as a hand, even on the Pacific Ocean, though never far from the coast.

Cap’n Billy’s tugboat brought back a lot of memories. It was a flat craft with the sheer—the top of the tug’s sides—running only a foot high. The bow was open for loading and off-loading whatever Cap’n Billy was hiding. On a hot night like this, a myriad of acrid odors—the remnants of various things the Cap’n had hauled—kept the air sour. The sentimental sound of the squeezebox playing an old forlorn Irish sea ballad brought back Fargo’s time on the water.

Fargo ground-hitched his stallion and walked down the hill leading to the riverside where a heavy rope lashed the tug to a large steel spike driven deep into an oak tree.

No cargo onboard tonight. Just an old man sitting on the empty deck with a dog lying next to his chair and a cat on his lap.

Cap’n Billy didn’t stop playing but he did look up and say, “Sara Jane told me I was gonna have a visitor tonight.”

Fargo boarded the craft and walked its length to where Cap’n Billy sat.

“Sara Jane is your daughter?”

“Nope. She’s a witch.”

“I see.”

“I can tell by your tone you’re not a believer.”

“Not a believer, not an unbeliever. I could be convinced either way.”

“Have a seat, stranger.”

Fargo smiled. “I guess she didn’t tell you my name, huh?”

The Captain quit playing. “See, there’s that skeptic tone again. She ain’t that advanced in her witchery yet.”

“I see.”

“She’s my niece and she ain’t but ten years old.”

“Oh.” Fargo knew that this wasn’t going to be fun or fast. Here was an old man who loved to talk and ramble while he talked. And getting him to focus would take some work.

“Most witches don’t get good ’til they get their menses.”

“I guess I hadn’t heard that one.”

“That’s ’cause you’re like most people. You don’t
want
to hear it. It scares ya to think about, that there’s a whole world all around us—this invisible world—that really controls everything we do. But you’d rather not know about it because then you’d have to
do
somethin’ about it. You’d have to start wearin’ garlic to keep the vampires away, and keep a silver bullet to fend off the werewolves, and wear special amulets and crystals at special times of the year so the demons don’t get you.”

It crossed Fargo’s mind that sitting out here with this old fart could get downright spooky if he let it. Just the river and the wild woods on both banks and a span of sky that seemed eerily alive with glowing stars. He half expected to see some lizard-like monster come up from the water.

“I actually came here to ask you about Skeleton Key.”

“You stay away from Skeleton Key.”

“How come?”

He was dressed in a soiled captain’s hat and a ragged red shirt that had once had longer sleeves. Apparently he’d torn them off when the weather had turned hot. He had one glass eye, an earring dangling from his left lobe, and several holes where teeth had once resided. He set his squeezebox down and picked up a violently hairy gray cat and began to stroke her.

“The screams.”

“The screams?” Fargo said.

“I’ve heard ’em.”

“On Skeleton Key?”

“You bet on Skeleton Key.”

“Anybody else hear these screams?”

“You don’t take my word for it?”

“It’s always better when you have two or three other witnesses.”

“Well, for one, Queenie here heard ’em.”

“The cat?”

“You damn betcha the cat. You got somethin’ against cats?”

“No, nothing at all. It’s just that Queenie might have a hard time
telling
me about the screams. If you see what I mean.”

“Well, I can hear her just fine and dandy. She talks to me all the time. Don’t you, Queenie?” At which point the cat looked up and lapped his chin with a long pink tongue. Hell, maybe they
did
communicate with each other.

“And she wasn’t the only one who heard them screams.” He nodded down to the sad-eyed beagle lying beside him. “Pirate Jack heard ’em, too. You said you wanted two or three witnesses. Well, you’re lookin’ at ’em, son. Me, Queenie, and Pirate Jack.”

Fargo hesitated, taking in the soft aromas of weeping willows. Life on this tug boat—at least at night—could be comfortable and relaxing. As long as Cap’n Billy and his talking pets were far, far away.