Fargo went to the window. The Worthington family came out of the general store and moved down the street. Three riders came up it from the other direction and dismounted in front of the Leaky Bucket. They tied their horses to the hitch rail and filed in.
“Well now,” Fargo said. He went out. Staying close to the buildings he came to the saloon and peered in the front window. The three were at the bar.
The only other customer was an older man at a table by himself. Fargo pushed on the batwings. They didn’t squeak and no one heard him until he was close enough for his spurs to give him away. Two of the three glanced over their shoulders to see who it was.
“You!” Dugan blurted.
“What are you doing here?” McNee asked.
Harvey Stansfield heard them and put down his glass and turned—straight into Fargo’s uppercut.
5
The blow smashed Harvey against the bar. Even as it landed Fargo was turning. He punched Dugan on the jaw and sent him stumbling, spun, and unleashed a flurry of jabs and a right cross that McNee tried to counter but couldn’t. McNee tottered. Again Fargo whirled. Harvey was clinging to the bar and shaking his head, trying to recover. Fargo rammed a fist into his jaw and Harvey’s knees folded. Pain in his side let him know that Dugan had jumped into the fray and he retaliated with a swift straight right to the jaw that rocked Dugan onto his bootheels and then with a looping left. Dugan dropped.
More pain, this time in the small of Fargo’s back. Wincing, he turned just as McNee drew back a fist to hit him again. Fargo blocked, sidestepped, planted a solid swing to the face, sidestepped again and planted another. McNee fell against the bar.
Harvey Stansfield was on his knees, still shaking his head. He had yet to land a blow. Fargo struck once, twice, and Harvey sprawled onto his belly, out to the world. Fargo pivoted. Dugan was still down but conscious and struggling to rise to his hands and knees. Fargo kicked him in the head. That left McNee, who thrust out a palm and bleated, “No! Don’t!”
Fargo hit him so hard it nearly broke his hand. McNee’s eyelids fluttered and he oozed to the floor and was still.
“God in heaven,” the bartender said.
Fargo stepped back and surveyed the three limp forms. “When they come to, tell them something for me.”
“Anything you want, mister.”
“Tell them I went easy on them.”
“Jesus.”
“Tell them they better have gotten it through their thick heads that they can’t go around stringing up whoever they please.”
“Oh,” the bartender said. “You’re him. The one they were bragging about right before you came in.”
“They bragged about trying to lynch me?”
The bartender’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “They were joking and laughing about it and Harvey, there, was saying as how it was a shame the marshal stopped them.”
Fargo swore. “Then tell them something else for me. Tell them that the next time I see them I’m going to do this again.”
“They won’t like that.”
“Tell them I’m going to keep on doing it until they leave town, or I do.”
“You sure hold a grudge.”
“If you had a noose around your neck you would too.” Fargo wheeled and stalked toward the batwings, and stopped.
Marshal Tibbit was holding them open, his face more pasty than usual. “I told you to drop it.”
“Wishful thinking.”
Tibbit nodded at the unconscious forms. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that. But I heard what you said. You can’t keep beating them up whenever you like.”
“You’re going to have to pretend a lot more,” Fargo said.
“Can’t you be reasonable?”
“Were they reasonable last night?”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
Fargo wanted to grab him by the shirt and shake him until his teeth rattled but instead he said, “Stepping on someone’s foot in a crowded room is a mistake. Hanging someone by the neck until they are dead is worse.”
“I can see it’s pointless to try and reason with you.” Tibbit stepped back and held a batwing open. “Let’s drop it for now and we’ll go visit the Spencers. We won’t need horses. They live right at the edge of town.”
That was fine by Fargo. He could use some air. His blood still roared in his veins.
The house was one of those with a white fence and green grass. It sat farther back than most and was bigger than most, too. It had been painted a shade of yellow.
“Must be hard on the eyes on a bright day.”
“What?” Tibbit said. “Oh. Yes. It’s my understanding that Francis—that’s the wife—is fond of lemons. She has them brought in special at the general store and eats them all the time and always drinks lemon tea. So she had Joseph paint the house so it resembled a lemon.” He chuckled. “Don’t people do the strangest things?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Fargo said.
“What’s another?”
“People are damn stupid.”
The gate didn’t creak and there was a stone path to the porch. Marshal Tibbit knocked and took off his hat. In a minute the door opened. A mouse of a woman in a yellow dress, her eyes bloodshot from crying and her face haggard from lack of sleep, exclaimed, “Marshal!” She grabbed his jacket and asked, “Have you found her? Have you found my Myrtle?”
“No, ma’am, not yet I haven’t,” Tibbit said, and gently pried her fingers off. “I need to look around again, if you don’t mind.”
“What good will that do?” Francis Spencer demanded. “She’s not here.”
“I know that. But I didn’t have much of a chance last night and I have a man with me who might be able to help us.”
Francis fixed her bloodshot eyes on Fargo. “Him? What good can he do?”
“He’s a tracker.”
“Tracker?”
“He reads sign as good as an Indian can.”
“He almost looks like one, as dark as he is. If it wasn’t for that beard ...” Francis stopped and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, mister. I don’t mean to compare you to a redskin. I’m not myself at the moment.”
“I’ve been called a lot worse,” Fargo said.
Francis moved aside. “Come in, please, both of you.”
“Where’s your husband?” Tibbit asked.
“Joseph isn’t here. He went off at first light with several men to search for Myrtle. He plans to stay out all day if need be.”
“He should have told me.”
“Why? Would you have tried to stop him?”
“Of course not.”
“He wouldn’t let you anyway,” Francis said. “It’s our daughter we’re talking about. You know how devoted he is to her. So am I.” Francis’s eyes misted and she dabbed at them with her sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I can’t seem to keep from crying.”
“It’s to be expected,” Tibbit said, kindly. “Why don’t you show us out back and we will take it from there?”
The backyard had an outhouse, a small pen for horses, and a chicken coop. The ground was mostly grass. To one side a stake and a rope showed where the dog had been tied. A mound of fresh earth showed where the dog was now.
“Tell me again how it happened,” Fargo requested.
“There’s very little to go on. The family was in the parlor and heard their dog bark. When it didn’t stop, Myrtle came out to shush it. That was the last they saw of her.”
“Why didn’t the father or mother come out?”
Tibbit shrugged. “Why should they? The dog was Myrtle’s. She’d raised it from a pup and it went with her everywhere.”
“The parents didn’t hear anything? No shouts or screams or a scuffle?”