The Trailsman #392

INTELLIGENCE TEST

The Trailsman

Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.

The Rocky Mountains, 1861—two towns wage
war and Fargo is caught in the middle.

1

Skye Fargo wasn’t expecting trouble. He was high in the Rocky Mountains, camped for the night in a small clearing. His fire had died low and the Ovaro was dozing. He lay on his back with his head propped in his hands and listened to the wavering howl of a far-off wolf.

A big man, broader at the shoulders than most, Fargo wore buckskins and a red bandanna and boots. Unlike some men, he never took his boots off when he turned in for the night. Not in the wilds. A man never knew but when danger might threaten.

Fargo was on the cusp of drifting off when the Ovaro raised its head and nickered. Instantly, he was alert. The stallion was staring toward the rutted road they had been following for the better part of three days. Its ears were pricked and its nostrils flared, and it stamped a front hoof.

Fargo rolled off his blankets and into a crouch, drawing his Colt as he rose. It was pushing midnight. No ordinary traveler would be abroad that late. Only those up to no good.

Working quickly, using his saddlebags and a branch he’d broken for firewood, Fargo rigged his blanket so at a glance it would appear he was asleep. As a last touch he placed his hat where his head would be.

Melting into the shadows, Fargo waited. It could have been hostiles. The Utes weren’t happy about having their territory overrun by the white man. Or it could have been highwaymen. Thanks to all the gold and silver strikes that lured pilgrims by the thousands to the mountains, outlaws were as thick as fleas on a hound dog.

Fargo heard footfalls and a whisper. They were clumsy about it. That told him they weren’t Utes. No self-respecting warrior would be so careless. By the sounds he counted three.

Fargo had crouched in front of a small pine so his silhouette would blend into the tree’s. They didn’t spot him. They were intent on his blankets. At the edge of the clearing they stopped, and to Fargo’s amusement, one of them was dumb enough to whisper to the others.

“Do you reckon it’s him?”

“Has to be. Look at that horse. If that ain’t a pinto, I’ll eat my spurs.”

Fargo’s amusement faded. The Ovaro wasn’t a pinto, but those who didn’t know horses often mistook it for one. Of more interest was the fact that the three lunkheads were after him, specifically. Few people knew he was in that part of the country at that particular time. His mind raced with what it might mean. He had questions, and he wanted answers.

The third man whispered something Fargo didn’t catch and the three spread out and converged. Their pistols were out and pointed but they weren’t very sure of themselves. They inched forward as if treading on eggshells.

Fargo’s natural inclination was to gun them then and there. Instead he said, “That’s far enough, gents.”

Two froze, but the third spun and raised his revolver. Fargo fanned his Colt and the slug caught the would-be assassin in the chest and smashed him onto his back.

The other two stared as their companion writhed and gurgled and died.

“Are you as stupid as your pard?” Fargo said. “Drop your hardware or the same happens to you.”

One man dropped his as if it were a hot coal. “Don’t shoot, mister. Please. I ain’t hankerin’ to die.”

The last outlaw hesitated. “You’ll kill us anyway.”

“Not if you shed that six-shooter,” Fargo said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Your choice.”

The man made up his mind. He dived and fired at where he thought Fargo must have been but he was wide by a yard. Fargo fanned the Colt twice and the body flopped a few times and was still.

“God Almighty!” the man who had dropped his revolver exclaimed, and jerked his arms at the stars. “Please, mister. I have a missus and five sprouts.”

Fargo unfurled and warily walked over.

The surviving specimen was in his twenties. He was cockeyed and had a nose that had been busted once and was bent at an odd angle. Tufts of hair grew from his cheeks and chin and his mouth was crooked. He was scrawny, besides, and by the look of things, hadn’t made the acquaintance of water and soap in years.

“You have a wife?” Fargo said.

“I sure do. Her name is”—he paused for almost five seconds—“Clementine. And don’t forget our five young’uns. There’s, uh, Sally and Chester and, uh, Penelope, and, uh, the other two.”

“As a liar, you’re downright pitiful.”

“What makes you think I ain’t tellin’ the truth?”

Fargo sniffed.

“Oh. Well, it could be my missus doesn’t mind stink. Some females don’t use their noses much.”

“Do you ever listen to yourself?”

“What?”

“How about if I shoot you in the leg?” Fargo said. “Will you still claim you’re married?”

“I’d get a divorce right quick.”

Fargo smothered a grin. This assassin was about as intimidating as a kitten. “What’s your handle?”

“Chester.”

“You just said that’s the name of your son.”

“It’s my name, too,” Chester said. “It was all I could come up with. I thought of sayin’ my son’s name was Socks. That’s what I call my horse on account of he has white on each leg down near his hoof. When I first got him I was goin’ to call him Floyd after my pa but then I figured Socks was fancier.”

Fargo stared.

“What?” Chester said.

“Who sent you to kill me?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Fargo raised the Colt. “Stretch your leg out so I can be sure to hit your knee. When you’re done rolling around, we’ll talk some more.”

“Hold on!” Chester bleated. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!”

“Before Christmas,” Fargo said.

“That ain’t for months yet. It’s only summer. You must have your months mixed up. The way to remember is that in the summer it’s hot, and Christmas is when it’s cold. That’s how I remember it.”

“Chester?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Who the hell hired you?”

“You won’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me and I was there. I thought maybe I was seein’ things since I was drunk at the time. But Hardy and Wilson saw whoever they were, too, so it wasn’t like that time I drank so much bug juice, I saw a little green feller with pointy shoes dancin’ in the middle of the street.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Doin’ what?”

“Get back to who hired you. What’re their names and where do I find them?”

“It was just one. I guess you could call him the Hood, which ain’t much of a name. I guess you could call him Shiny Boots since his were but I wasn’t lookin’ at his boots much with him in that hood.”

Fargo took a step back and studied him.

“What?” Chester said again.

“The man who hired you wore a hood?”

“Ain’t that what I just told you? He met us out back of the saloon and that’s what he was wearin’. Although now that I think about it, it might have been a burlap sack. So maybe we should call him the Sack.”

“And he hired you to kill me?”

“Well, it was Hardy the feller got word to.” Chester nodded at the first man Fargo had shot. “That’s Hardy, there. He was as bad as they come. He’d killed five or six folks. I can’t remember which. And there was nothin’ he liked more than robbin’ and stealin’.” He nodded at the other body. “Wilson, there, was a badman, too. But he liked puppies so I reckon he wasn’t as bad as Hardy.”

“How did you end up with two hard cases?”

“I sort of begged,” Chester said. “I told them how I’d always wanted to be a badman. And how I’d cook for them and take care of their horses and do anything if they’d teach me how to be bad like they were. They laughed and slapped me around some, and finally Hardy said it might be fun to have me around, sort of like a pet was how he put it.”

“Your dream in life is to be an outlaw?”

“Not that so much as to have folks be scared of me. Ever since I was little, people have picked on me because I’m, well, ugly. You know what it’s like to be teased all the time? Probably not, a handsome galoot like you. But me, I look in a mirror and the glass cracks.”

“Chester?”

“Sir?”

“The Hood. Or the Sack.”

“Oh. Well, like I said, he got word to Hardy, and we went and met out back of the saloon, and this Hood or Sack told Hardy we’d get a thousand dollars if we put windows in your noggin.”

Fargo was genuinely shocked. A thousand dollars was a lot of money. Who did he know with that much to throw around who might want him dead? “Did you recognize the voice?”

Chester shook his head. “It was muffled by the sack. And, too, I got the idea the feller wasn’t talkin’ as he normally would. It was sort of like he had rocks in his mouth, or maybe cotton, since rocks are hard and can hurt.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“The Sack said as how you were headin’ for Lodestone, and if we kept watch along the road from Denver, sooner or later we’d spot a gent on a pinto and it would be you. Sure enough, just before the sun went down, we spotted you comin’ up the mountain and Hardy said we’d wait until you were asleep and do you in. Only you weren’t asleep—you were playin’ possum. And now he’s dead and Wilson’s dead and I have no one to teach me how to make folks be scared of me.”

Fargo was curious. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Me? I ain’t ever even beat anyone up. This would have been my first time, but between you and me, I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. My stomach was flippin’ up and down the whole time we snuck up on you. I figured I’d let Hardy and Wilson do the shootin’ and I’d pretend I did.”

“How would you pretend to kill me?”

“By pointin’ my pistol at the ground and shootin’ the dirt. It don’t hurt anybody when you shoot dirt.”

“Just when you think you’ve heard it all,” Fargo said.

“I ain’t hardly started,” Chester said. “Do you want to hear about the time my pa whaled on me with a switch because I used his razor to shave the dog? He about took all my skin off, he was so mad. Drug me out of the house by the scruff of my neck and . . .”

Fargo held up his other hand.

“You don’t want to hear my story?”

“Not this side of hell, no.”

“Well, that’s rude.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Leghorny.”

“Your real last name.”

“As God is my witness,” Chester said. “I didn’t like it much growin’ up. It wasn’t bad enough bein’ teased about how I look. I got teased about my name a lot, too. I wanted to change it but Pa said if it was good enough for him and his pa, then it was good enough for me and if I changed it he’d take his switch to me. He was awful fond of usin’ that thing and I didn’t want to give him an excuse so I kept my name Leghorny and here I am.”

Fargo had a sense he had learned all he was going to, and then some, about the man who’d hired the assassins. But he tried anyway. “Did the Sack say why he wants me dead?”

“He might have told Hardy, but he didn’t tell me. Fact is, when we met him out back of the saloon, he looked at me with those eyes-in-a-sack and asked what I was doin’ there. Wilson stood up for me and said I was part of the deal and take it or leave it and the Sack took it.”

Fargo had a lot to ponder but first things first. “Drag your friends off into the trees yonder.”

Chester stepped to Hardy and bent and gripped his wrists, then looked up. “You’re not goin’ to help?”

“Drag,” Fargo said.

Grumbling, Chester Leghorny hauled both badmen into the woods. He was still grumbling when Fargo marched him at gunpoint to the fire and made him sit with his hands behind his back.

“You’re fixin’ to tie me? Why not let me go?”

“I’m turning you over to the law in Lodestone,” Fargo revealed.

“What for?” Chester asked, incredulous.

“For hiring out to kill me.”

“But I didn’t go through with it. It’s not against the law to say you’ll do somethin’. It’s only against the law when you do it.”

“I’m turning you over to the law anyway.”

“Well, hell,” Chester said. “What’s this country comin’ to when a man doesn’t do somethin’ and he still gets thrown in jail? You’ve ruined my day. I could use a drink right about now.”

“Makes two of us,” Fargo said.

2

Lodestone had sprung up barely a year and a half ago. A prospector had found some color in a creek and traced it to a vein. He filed a claim, then made the mistake of going to Denver to treat himself to a painted lady and crowed about how rich he was going to be. He downed so much booze, it took him three days to recover. When he finally made it back into the mountains, he discovered a tent city had sprung up.

Lodestone was born.

Like other boomtowns, it thrived. The gold practically jumped out of the ground. Log and frame buildings replaced the tents. Bustling saloons and businesses lined the streets.

Or so Fargo had heard. But now, as he wound down the last stretch of road leading Chester’s horse and the two that belonged to Hardy and Wilson, he saw streets that were almost empty. Instead of the hubbub of voices, he heard only the bark of a dog.

Chester Leghorny noticed, too. “Why, look at that. There’s hardly anybody around. How can that be?”

“You don’t know?”

“How would I? I’ve never been to Lodestone before.”

“Isn’t that where the man who wore the sack hired you?”

Chester shook his head. “It was over to Silver Creek. Didn’t I mention that? If I didn’t, it was because I was flustered, what with you killin’ my pards and all.”

Fargo’s puzzlement grew. He knew no one in Silver Creek. He’d never even been there. As best he recollected, it came into being a couple of years ago, thanks to a silver strike, and was about fifty miles from Lodestone, over the Divide.

“I wanted to stop here on the way to find you, but Hardy refused,” Chester was saying. “He said the job came first. That after we killed you, we could spend a couple of days in Lodestone.” Chester sighed. “So much for havin’ fun.”

“Maybe the marshal will let you have a night on the town before he throws you behind bars.”

Chester brightened. “Do you really reckon he would? Not that I could have much of a night, me bein’ broke and all.” He paused. “Wait. You were joshin’, weren’t you?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t, mostly. It tires my brain too much. The best way to go through life is not to think at all.”

“You seem to have the hang of it.”

“Why, thank you. I’ve tried hard not to let my brain get in the way of me havin’ a good time.”

They reached the end of the main street. Some of the businesses were boarded over and many of the homes had an air of neglect.

The marshal’s office was smack in the middle of town.

Fargo dismounted at the hitch rail, stepped to the door, and worked the latch. The door wouldn’t open. He stepped to the dusty window and peered in. No one was there. Figuring the lawman was off on his rounds, he leaned against the overhang post and said, “We’ll wait a spell.”

“Mind helpin’ me down? Folks are starin’.”

“You’re not helpless.”

“But my hands are tied. How am I supposed to climb off without hands?”

“Use your head.”

“That won’t do any good. I can’t take hold of the saddle horn with my ear, now, can I?”

Fargo walked around the rail. Reaching up, he grabbed Chester by the shirt and pulled.

Chester squawked as he left the saddle. He landed on his side, and puffs of dust rose. Coughing and swearing, he rose onto an elbow and glared. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“You wanted off.”

A pair of townsmen bustled up. One was heavyset with wide side-whiskers and wore a bowler. The other was skinny and favored a derby. Both wore waistcoats and had diamond stickpins in their cravats.

The one with the whiskers asked, “What’s going on here?”

“I’m bein’ abused,” Chester said. “There I was, mindin’ my own business at my campfire, when this hombre popped out of nowhere and conked me over the head and . . .”

With a flick of his wrist, Fargo had the Colt out. He pressed the muzzle to Chester’s temple.

“Here now,” said the skinny man in the derby. “We’ll have none of that.”

“Not one more word,” Fargo said to Chester.

“Nary any?”

“That was two.” Fargo thumbed back the hammer.

Chester blanched and opened his mouth but closed it again and gave a slight shake of his head.

Fargo faced the townsmen. “This gent and two others were hired to kill me. I want him behind bars.”

“Hold on,” said the man with whiskers. “Why should we believe you and not him? Who are you, anyhow, to wave guns at people?”

Fargo told them.

The townsmen looked at each other, and the man with whiskers grinned and thrust out a hand. “Why, you’re the very one we sent for. I’m Mayor Quilby, by the way, and this is Arthur Thomas, the town treasurer.”

“Quilby?” Fargo repeated, and fished a folded envelope from his pocket. “It was you who wrote me.”

“Indeed, I did,” Mayor Quilby said. He seemed to remember that Chester was there. “You say this shifty-looking person tried to kill you?”

“How come you’ll take his word and not mine?” Chester demanded. “Who is he, anyhow, that you sent for him?”

It was Arthur Thomas who answered. “Mr. Fargo, for your information, is considered one of the best scouts alive, if not the best. The army calls on his services all the time, and he’s guided wagon trains and whatnot on occasion. Or so the newspapers say.”

Mayor Quilby threw in, “He also has a reputation for being a man of his word. Which is why we’ll believe him before we’ll believe someone like you.”

“Like me how?” Chester said. “Because I’m ugly as sin?”

“You do look like a weasel,” Arthur Thomas said.

“It’s those shifty eyes,” Mayor Quilby said. “They’re never still.”

“It’s a fine how-do-you-do when ugly gets a man thrown in jail,” Chester said indignantly.

“About that,” Mayor Quilby said, and turned to Fargo. “I’m afraid if you want him behind bars, you’ll have to put him there yourself.”

“Where’s your marshal?”

“We don’t have one,” Arthur Thomas replied. “He quit on account of we couldn’t afford to pay him.”

“Not with the town going bust,” the mayor said. “I had to cut my own pay by half, if you can believe it.”

“Your letter said something about five hundred dollars,” Fargo reminded them. “How do you aim to pay me?”

“Don’t worry in that regard,” Mayor Quilby said. “The town council set aside the funds. I’ll call a meeting in, say, twenty minutes, and we’ll explain why we sent for you. How would that be?”

“It wouldn’t,” Fargo said. “I want to wash up and have something to eat and a drink or three. Make it two hours.”

“That long?” Arthur Thomas said.

“Now, now,” Mayor Quilby said. “Mr. Fargo has ridden a long way to get here. He must be tired and hungry.”

“It’s just that so much depends on this,” Arthur Thomas said. “The longer we wait, the more time it gives them.”

“Gives who?” Fargo asked.

“We’ll discuss all that at the meeting. In the meantime . . .” The mayor fished in a pocket and produced a ring of keys. He jangled them, then went from one to the next, saying to himself, “Is this it? Is this it? Is this it?” Finally he let out an “Ah. Here’s the one to the marshal’s office.” He walked over, unlocked the door, and pushed. The door creaked open, spilling dust motes into the air.

“I’d just as soon you didn’t lock me up,” Chester Leghorny said. “How about if I give you my word I’ll behave and treat you to a drink?”

Taking hold of his arm, Fargo shoved Chester at the doorway. “Inside.” In his estimation, the would-be tough man had no more gumption than a puppy. But a thousand dollars might make Chester rustle some up, and he didn’t want to be looking over his shoulder every minute.

“You have a lot of bark on you,” Chester complained.

The marshal had been a tidy cuss. Papers were neatly stacked on the desk, and everything was in its place.

“It’s a shame Marshal Hadrock refused to stay on,” Mayor Quilby remarked. “We assured him that he would receive his pay as soon as we were back on our financial feet, but he left anyway.”

“A real shame,” the treasurer echoed.

The single cell had a bunk that had been made up. Fargo took Chester over, untied him, and gave him a light push.

Chester stumbled and shammed nearly falling to his knees. “Did you see what he did to me?” he said to the townsmen. “There’s no need to be so rough, is there?”

“You are a faker, sir,” Mayor Quilby said. “I saw with my own eyes that he barely touched you.”

“You need spectacles,” Chester said.

Fargo slammed the door, and at the clang, Chester jumped. “I’ll check in on you later.”

Chester came to the bars. “You’re goin’ to leave me here all by my lonesome? There’s nothin’ to do. I’ll die of boredom.”

“One can only hope,” Fargo said. He hung the key on a peg and went out with His Honor and the treasurer at his heels. About a dozen people had gathered and were watching with interest. One of them, a huge woman in a green bonnet and dress, wagged a pudgy finger.

“Is this him, Mayor? The one we sent for?”

“The very one, Gladiola,” Mayor Quilby said. “We’re holding a town meeting in two hours, and I expect you to be there.”

“Don’t worry on that score.” Gladiola came up to Fargo and raked him from head to toe with eyes that made him think of a ferret’s. “I hope you’re all it’s claimed you are, mister.”

“Ma’am?” Fargo said.

“Are you hard of hearing?” Gladiola said. “You’d better be as good as everyone says. If you don’t get us there, I will take it personal and by-God trounce you.”

“Ma’am?” Fargo said again. “Did you just threaten me?”

Gladiola shook a fist in his face. “I’ll do more than threaten. Ask anyone. I’ve whipped men bigger than you.” She tapped him on the jaw with her knuckles.

Fargo’s temper flared. “Now listen, lady . . .” he began.

“Here now,” Mayor Quilby said, stepping between them and putting his hands on Gladiola’s shoulders. “Is that any way to greet him? We haven’t even told him what we want yet.”

“He needs to understand,” Gladiola declared. “I don’t suffer incompetents.” She wheeled, and holding her handbag delicately in her left hand, swayed off like a schooner in a strong wind.

“Sorry about that,” Quilby said to Fargo. “Miss Gladiola Thimblebottom is one of the town’s leading citizens.”

“Thimblebottom?” Fargo said, and snorted. First Leghorny, now this.

“Gladiola tends to overstep herself,” Arthur Thomas said.

“Just tread easy around her like everyone else does,” the mayor advised. “She wasn’t joshing about beating the tar out of you.”

Arthur Thomas said. “She will fight any man at the drop of a feather.”

“And she’ll drop the feather herself,” Mayor Quilby said. He stared after the departing tent and gave a slight tremble.

“Are there any men in this town?” Fargo asked. He didn’t wait for them to answer. Wheeling, he strode down the street to a saloon and shouldered through the batwings.

The place was dead. A scruffy bartender was dozing with his chin in his hand, and a fly buzzed at the front window.

Spurs jingling, Fargo went over and pounded the bar.

The barkeep jumped and looked around in confusion and then blurted, “My God. A customer.”

“Monongahela,” Fargo said. “And leave the bottle.”

“Sure thing.” Grinning happily, the bartender snatched a bottle from a shelf and eagerly filled a glass to the brim. “How do you do? I’m called Olives.”

About to raise the glass, Fargo shook his head and said, “You have got to be joshing me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What kind of name is Olives?”

“What’s wrong with it? I like them more than anything. It beats being called Outhouse or Horse Poop.”

Fargo polished off the glass at a gulp.

“Lord Almighty, mister,” Olives said. “You take your drinking serious.”

Fargo refilled the glass, chugged, and smacked the empty glass down.

“I wish I could drink like you,” Olives said. “But if I have half a glass, I’m tipsy. The only one I know who can hold a candle to you is her.”

“Her who?” Fargo asked while pouring.

Olives nodded toward the back of the saloon.

Fargo turned and whistled. “Well, now,” he said.

Lodestone had just become a whole lot more interesting.

3

She wore a red dress cut low to show off her ample cleavage. As she sashayed toward the bar, the dress clung to her willowy thighs, leaving little to the imagination. Her hair was as red as the dress, her lips full rubies, her dancing eyes as blue as a mountain lake. Her nails were painted, and she had rouge on her cheeks and had done something to her long eyelashes so that they curled upward. She came to a stop and looked Fargo up and down and said in a husky voice, “My, oh my. What do we have here?”

“He just showed up,” Olives said. “I ain’t had a chance to holler for you yet.”

“When someone as handsome as this galoot strolls in, you holler right away.” The redhead placed her hand on her hips and posed seductively. “You sure are easy on the eyes, mister.”

“Works both ways,” Fargo said. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to find a dove of quality. Not that long ago, Lodestone had been a top-class proposition.

“Any objections to buying a girl a drink?”

“A glass for the lady,” Fargo said.

Olives scrambled to produce one.

The redhead leaned her elbow on the counter and rimmed her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I hope you plan to stick around a while.”

“I’m to meet with the mayor in a couple of hours,” Fargo said. “Plenty of time for us to become acquainted.”

“Quilby?” The redhead blinked. “Say, you must be the gent he sent for. The one he said would lead us to our new home.”

“Your what?”

“I’ll let him explain.” She smiled and touched his cheek. “We have other things to occupy us. What’s your handle, anyhow?”

“For you, I answer to Skye.”

“Most hereabouts call me Horace.”

About to fill her glass, Fargo said, “Horace? I must not have heard right.”

“You did.”

“This is some town.”

“My real name is Hortense, but I’ve never liked it much. One day some of the gents were joshing me and said as how I should call myself Horace instead. Pretty soon everybody was calling me that.”

“I’ll stick with Hortense,” Fargo said.

“I sort of like Horace myself,” Olives interjected. “It’s funny, her having a gent’s name.”

“Just as funny as you having a gal’s name,” Fargo said.

“Olives ain’t female. Everybody eats olives.”

“Why are you standing there?”

“Eh?”

“Don’t you have something to do?”

Olives grew red in the face. He went to say something, thought better of it, and moved off muttering.

“You shouldn’t ought to be mean to him,” Hortense said. “He’s a nice guy.”

Eyeing her hungrily, Fargo said, “So are you.”

Hortense laughed. “I knew we’d hit it off. How about if we mosey over to my room? I have cookies if you’re hungry. I like to treat my customers to a little extra so they’ll come back for more.”

Fargo admired the sweep of her bosom and imagined holding her jugs in his hands. “Who needs cookies with tits as big as yours?”

This time Hortense cackled. “What a sweet thing to say.” She hooked her arm in his. “Bring the bottle and we’ll be on our way.”

Fargo remembered to slap down a coin to pay for the Monongahela. He didn’t ask for change, although he had some coming. He thought that would mollify Olives, but the barkeep frowned at him as he walked out.

No sooner had the batwings swung behind them than Fargo had to draw up short to keep from colliding with someone about to enter. The newcomer was as tall as he was and outweighed him by a good forty pounds. Dressed in ill-fitting store-bought clothes that were speckled with bits of straw and brown smudges, the man smelled of horse manure.

“Horace!” he exclaimed. “I was coming to see you.” He pulled a poke from his pocket and jiggled it. “I’ve got the money for another turn.”

Hortense smiled and patted his arm. “I’m afraid I’m busy at the moment, Mouse. Come back later.”

“Mouse?” Fargo said.

“What’s the matter with my name?” the slab of muscle asked. “I’ve been called that since I was little.”

“You’re not little now,” Fargo said. “A better name would be Moose.”

“What’s a ‘moose’?”

“Mouse,” Hortense said to Fargo, “runs the stable. He pays me a visit every chance he gets.”

“What’s a ‘moose’?” Mouse asked again.

“They’re like an elk,” Fargo explained, “only with a bigger nose and different antlers.”

Mouse put a hand to his face. “What’s wrong with my nose?”

“Nothing.”

“You just said I’m a moose and then you said moose have big noses. That must mean you think I have a big nose. I sure don’t have antlers.”

“This is some town,” Fargo said again.

“Calm down, Mouse,” Hortense said. “He didn’t mean anything. Skye, here, is the gentleman the mayor sent for.”

“I don’t care,” Mouse said. “I don’t like people poking fun at me.”

“All I was saying,” Fargo tried again, “is that you’re awful big to be named after a damn rodent.”

“What’s a ‘rodent’?”

“Oh, hell,” Fargo said.

“Tell me what a rodent is.”

“Rats and such,” Fargo said.

“Now I’m a rat?”

“Mouse, please,” Hortense said. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“First he calls me a moose, and then he calls me a rat. If that’s not poking fun I don’t know what is.”

“There’s one thing I haven’t called you yet,” Fargo said.

“What would that be?”

Fargo knew better. He knew that if he said what he was about to say, there would be hell to pay. But he’d reached the limits of his patience. “A jackass.”

“Oh, no,” Hortense said, and took a quick step back.

Mouse turned as red as her hair, and his jaw twitched. “I knew it. I knew you were poking fun.” He stuffed the poke in his pocket. “You might want to put down that bottle unless you’re fixing to conk me over the head with it.”

Fargo handed the Monongahela to Hortense.

“Mayor Quilby won’t like this,” she appealed to the stableman. “This man is to be our guide, remember?”

“I won’t break anything,” Mouse said. “All I’ll do is learn him not to go around calling folks Moose.”

“When they passed out brains,” Fargo said, “where were you?”

Mouse rumbled deep in his wide chest. Flinging his arms wide, he drove at Fargo like a mad bull. Fargo tried to sidestep, but Mouse rammed him off his feet and smashed him against the wall. He felt the air whoosh out of his lungs even as Mouse drove a fist into his gut.