Texas Timber War (10 page)

‘‘This is me telling you about it, not Mr. Kiley,'' Fargo pointed out.

‘‘Then you're nothing but a troublemaker, too, Fargo, and I don't have anything to say to you.''

‘‘Then you'll have something to say to the law,'' Kiley said as he shook a finger at Baxter. ‘‘Competition is one thing, but you've been paying off those river pirates to disrupt my timber shipments, and now you've resorted to attempted murder!''

‘‘That's insane! Prove it, damn you!'' Baxter leaned forward, resting the knuckles of his clenched fists on the desk. His face darkened with anger.

‘‘Now, Jonas,'' his wife said, ‘‘you know you shouldn't get so upset. The doctor told you it wasn't good for you.''

‘‘Not get upset?'' Baxter straightened and flung a hand at Kiley. ‘‘Blast it, Francine, this ape waltzes in here and accuses me of consorting with pirates and sanctioning cold-blooded murder! I ought to thrash him and throw him out!''

Kiley took a step back and lifted his own fists. ‘‘Try it,'' he challenged Baxter. ‘‘Go ahead, try it.''

Fargo moved so that he stood between the two men. ‘‘Settle down, both of you,'' he snapped.

‘‘I haven't forgotten about you, Fargo,'' Baxter said. ‘‘If I was ten years younger, I'd thrash you, too! By God, I might do it anyway!''

Francine Baxter went around the desk and gripped her husband's arm. ‘‘Jonas, please sit down. I insist.''

Baxter's furious glare didn't lessen any, but he allowed his wife to urge him back down into his chair. ‘‘Get out, or I'll have the sheriff on you,'' he told Fargo and Kiley.

‘‘Yes, I'm well aware that Sheriff Higgins is your lapdog,'' Kiley said. ‘‘But I'll soon have the proof I need to put a stop to your villainy, Baxter, and if Higgins won't enforce the law, I'll find someone who will. It may be time to get a U.S. marshal in here to straighten things out!''

‘‘Go right ahead,'' Baxter said with a sneer. ‘‘I've nothing to fear from the law.''

The two timber barons stared at each other with hate in their eyes for a moment before Fargo touched Kiley's shoulder and said, ‘‘We're not doing any good here. Might as well move along for now, until we've talked to those fellas who got bushwhacked.''

‘‘I suppose you're right,'' Kiley said. He shook a finger at Baxter again. ‘‘But we'll be back. You can count on it.''

‘‘I don't count on anything except the fact that you're a lunatic,'' Baxter shot back.

Fargo gripped Kiley's arm and steered him out of the library. Kiley was practically apoplectic, muttering angrily to himself as he and Fargo went toward the front door of the mansion. Francine Baxter followed them. When they reached the door, she said, ‘‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hate to be impolite, Mr. Kiley, but I wish you wouldn't come back here. Jonas gets so upset, and it's not good for him.''

Kiley just snorted, as if to ask why that should worry him, and stalked out the door, across the porch, and out the flagstone walk.

‘‘Mr. Fargo,'' Francine said, quiet enough so that Kiley didn't hear. Fargo stopped on the porch and looked back at her. Her smile was more genuine now as she went on, ‘‘Perhaps you
will
come back sometime.''

‘‘So I'd be welcome?'' Fargo said.

‘‘Yes. I believe you would be.''

Fargo studied her for a moment and then nodded. He went down the steps and out the walk. His long-legged strides caught up quickly with Kiley. He had to ask himself just what exactly that last exchange with Francine Baxter had meant.

Considering the bold look in her eyes, he thought he knew the answer.

‘‘What was that about?'' Kiley asked, proving that he hadn't missed the fact that Fargo lingered behind him after all.

‘‘Nothing,'' Fargo said, and meant it. Francine might be interested in him, but she was a married woman. Not only that, but she was married to a fellow who was the mortal enemy of the man Fargo was working for. That made her off-limits in more ways than one.

But he had to admit that Francine Baxter was a beautiful, intriguing woman. If things had been different . . .

Then those thoughts were pushed right out of his head by the sight of Isabel Sterling standing on the porch of the Excelsior House.

‘‘Hello, Skye,'' Isabel said as Fargo and Kiley came up to the hotel porch. ‘‘I was hoping you'd be back in time so we could have supper together.''

Fargo had already begun to think about the same thing. His belly told him it was growing late and reminded him that he hadn't stopped to eat anything in the middle of the day.

‘‘Let me clean up a mite first, and then I'd be happy to join you,'' he told her.

Isabel leaned closer, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. ‘‘What
is
that smell?''

Fargo grinned. ‘‘I went for a swim in Alligator Slough.''

Isabel's eyes widened, and she asked, ‘‘Why in the world did you do
that
?''

Fargo nodded toward his companion. ‘‘Mr. Kiley here can tell you all about it while I'm washing up and changing clothes.''

‘‘I'd be glad to,'' Kiley said. ‘‘Let's go inside, my dear.''

Kiley was still angry at Baxter, but he had recovered his usual charm and politeness. He linked arms with Isabel and they went into the lobby to sit down in armchairs flanking one of the potted plants. Fargo crossed to the stairs, ignoring the supercilious expression on the face of the desk clerk, and went up to his room.

As he washed up and pulled on his last set of clean buckskins, he hoped that he wouldn't be rolling around in a slimy, gator-infested slough again anytime soon. By the time he got downstairs and rejoined Isabel and Kiley, Isabel had a worried look on her face. Fargo knew Kiley had filled her in on the day's events.

‘‘Skye, you nearly got killed!'' she said as she stood up and grasped his hands.

‘‘Nearly doesn't count,'' Fargo said with a smile. ‘‘I'm fine.'' He turned to Kiley. ‘‘You want to join us for dinner?''

Kiley shook his head. ‘‘No, I'm going to go look for those three men who were ambushed. They should have been back by now. You said one of them was wounded, so they might be down at Doc Fearn's place.''

After Kiley left the hotel, Fargo and Isabel walked into the dining room and sat down at one of the empty tables. After the waitress had brought coffee and they had ordered their meals, Isabel reached across the table to grasp one of Fargo's hands again and said, ‘‘I hate to think about you out there putting your life in danger, Skye.''

‘‘Folks put their lives in danger every time they get out of bed in the morning,'' Fargo pointed out. ‘‘There's no guarantee that anybody will live to see the sun set.''

‘‘No, but some people go out of their way to take chances.'' She sighed. ‘‘I know you're just trying to help Mr. Kiley, and Captain Russell, too. I'm grateful for that, because Cap'n Andy has been almost like a father to me for the past year, ever since . . .''

Fargo frowned as her voice trailed off. ‘‘Ever since what, if you don't mind my asking?''

Isabel shook her head. Obviously, she did mind.

‘‘It's nothing important,'' she said. ‘‘I had some trouble, and Captain Russell was there to help me. That's all. I feel like I'm in his debt, though, and I'll do anything I can to help him in return.''

‘‘That's a good attitude to have,'' Fargo said. He didn't press Isabel for answers about her past. That was her business, unless she chose to make it otherwise.

When the food came, it was good, and Fargo ate with a hearty appetite, replenishing his strength after the long day. As they lingered over coffee, he smiled across the table at Isabel and asked, ‘‘Do you have any plans for the evening?''

‘‘As a matter of fact, I do,'' she said. Before Fargo's smile could widen into a grin, she went on. ‘‘I'd like to hunt up a good poker game.'' She flexed her long, slender fingers. ‘‘I need to stay in practice.''

Fargo chuckled. Although he'd had something else in mind when he asked the question, the thought of a few hands of cards sounded pretty good to him, too. And he found himself curious as to what sort of poker player Isabel was. There was one good way to find out.

‘‘I'll join you, if that's all right.''

She returned his smile. ‘‘I was hoping you would.''

As they left the dining room and entered the lobby, Fargo inclined his head toward the clerk and said in a low voice, ‘‘Should I ask him where we can find a game?''

‘‘And have him make that face like a prune again?'' Isabel shook her head. ‘‘Don't worry, Skye. I've been traveling on the
Bayou Princess
for a while now, and staying over on these stops in Jefferson. I know where to find a good game.''

That turned out to be a saloon called Skinner's, which was located in a brick building on Lafayette Street. The main room looked more like somebody's parlor than a barroom, with polished hardwood floors, nice rugs, and crystal chandeliers. Felt-covered gaming tables took up some of the space. Instead of booths, there were more tables and armchairs. A long mahogany bar with a well-stocked back bar and a large gilt-framed mirror behind it were the only saloonlike touches. The hostesses wore long, rather demure dresses instead of gaudy, spangled outfits, and the bartenders sported nice jackets, vests, and bow ties. Most of the customers were well-dressed, soft-spoken men.

Fargo looked around and said to Isabel, ‘‘You sure we didn't fall in a hole somewhere and come out in Philadelphia or Boston?''

‘‘You wouldn't expect to find a place like this in the piney woods of East Texas, would you?'' she asked with a smile.

‘‘Not hardly.''

‘‘Between the cotton and timber industries, Jefferson is a wealthy town, Skye. It's almost like a much smaller version of New Orleans.''

The way she spoke about that Louisiana city made Fargo think that she knew it well, and he wondered if that was where she was from. He wondered, too, if that was where the incident occurred that had caused Isabel to seek help from Captain Andy Russell.

He didn't ask, though, still willing to give Isabel her privacy. Instead he went with her to one of the tables where a poker game was in progress. Four men were playing in a rather desultory manner, but they perked up when Isabel arrived. That would be a natural reaction for most men, but evidently these gents were acquainted with her.

‘‘Good to see you again, Miss Sterling,'' one of them greeted her. ‘‘Would you care to join the game once this hand is over?''

‘‘I would,'' Isabel said, ‘‘and so would my friend here.''

The man who had spoken extended a hand to Fargo. ‘‘Edgar Price,'' he introduced himself. ‘‘I own a cotton plantation west of here.''

Fargo shook hands and supplied his name.

‘‘I'd heard you were in town, Mr. Fargo,'' Price said. ‘‘These other gentlemen are Hal Olmsted, Howard Phillips, and Patrick Walser.''

Fargo greeted the others, who all had the look of confident, successful businessmen. He held one of the empty chairs for Isabel and then sat down himself as the men concluded the hand they were playing, with big, bluff Patrick Walser winning the pot. Everyone threw in their antes again, including Fargo and Isabel this time.

Out of habit, Fargo was sitting where he could keep an eye on the door. That was why he saw the man with the eye patch come in. Fargo recognized him right away as the man he had thought might be following him the day before. This time, though, the man didn't even glance in Fargo's direction with his one good eye. He just went straight to the bar and ordered a drink.

In his rough clothes, he was a little out of place in Skinner's, but no more so than Fargo in his buckskins. Nor were they the only patrons who weren't wearing suits. There were a few others. Evidently anyone was welcome in the place as long as he behaved himself and had money to pay for the drinks he ordered.

Despite the fact that the one-eyed man had ignored him, Fargo watched the hombre from the corner of his own eye. That didn't interfere with his poker playing. He was still able to keep his mind on the game.

That was fortunate, because Isabel and the four men from Jefferson proved to be good players. They weren't afraid to take a chance when they thought their cards justified it, but neither were they reckless, foolish plungers. They were just the sort of canny opponents who could give Fargo a good game. And Isabel was perhaps the shrewdest one of all, with an almost infallible instinct for when to push her luck. Fargo might have thought that she was cheating, if not for the fact that his keen eyes watched her with close scrutiny. He was able to spot any trick that a card-sharp might try, and Isabel indulged in none of them.

Convivial talk flowed freely around the table. Fargo enjoyed himself a great deal and wasn't really aware of how much time was passing, although he did notice when the one-eyed man left the saloon after a couple of drinks, still without paying any attention to the Trailsman. Fargo was down a few dollars, as were the other male players, which made Isabel the big winner. None of the men appeared to mind, though, proof of Fargo's theory that most men were more willing to lose at poker to a beautiful woman than they were to another man.

Finally, at the end of a hand when Isabel raked in another sizable pot, she smiled and said, ‘‘I believe that will do it for me, gentlemen.''