Anderson sighed heavily. “Fargo, I know he was a friend of yours, but H.D. Timmons is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. He’s been on Parker’s payroll for at least two years.”
Fargo absorbed this information in silence, his worst fears about his old friend confirmed. The lure of money had taken him from the side of right and justice. “Are you sure?” he asked. “He’s got a wife.”
Anderson burst out laughing. “Oh, wow, Fargo, you missed that trail, anyway. H.D. doesn’t have a wife.”
“He doesn’t?” Fargo heard himself ask, while his mind raced in another direction. Where was Mary?
“No way,” the younger Anderson said. “He gets his down at the Blue Emporium, like everyone else on the take around here.”
“Ah, shit,” Fargo said. “Things just got more complicated. ”
“What do you mean?” Anderson asked.
Fargo shook his head. “It’s not important right now. Can you get that money into a safe and hold it until all this is straightened out?”
The mayor of Storyville nodded. “Sure. You mind if I take out my investment?”
“Go right ahead,” he said. “But let’s make sure the rest of it stays there. I think we’re going to need it later, to square the accounts.”
Anderson agreed and gave the saddlebags to his son. “Take this to the vault,” he told him. “Count out fifty thousand and set it in my personal drawer. Leave the rest alone.”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, scurrying away.
“Anything else I can do for you, Fargo?” Anderson asked. “It’s been a long night and right now, I just want to get some sleep.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll be back later today, hopefully to settle all this once and for all.”
“Where are you going now?”
“It’s time I had a talk with Senator Parker,” Fargo said. “Do you know where his mansion is?”
Anderson gave him the directions and told him the fastest way to get there. “Just watch yourself out there,” he added. “Parker’s men play for keeps.”
“So do I,” Fargo replied, getting to his feet.
“You don’t lay down very often, do you?” the man asked.
“Not if I can help it,” he said.
“You’ve got sand, anyway,” Anderson said. “Stay safe, and when you get back, I’ll buy you a drink or four.”
“Sounds good,” Fargo said, heading for the door. Anderson’s voice stopped him.
“How come you brought the money to me?” he asked. “Why did you trust me over your friend H.D., or why not just hold on to the money yourself?”
The Trailsman chuckled quietly. “You were the only one at the table tonight playing for stakes that mattered to you,” he said. “Despite your reputation, you actually care what happens to Basin Street and the people who live here. The others just want money and power.”
“Thanks,” Anderson replied. “Thanks, Fargo.”
“Thank me if I live,” he said, then unlocked the door and slipped back out into the night once more.
The livery stable was dark, and Fargo didn’t bother waking the man on night duty, who was curled up on the hay, hands wrapped around a cheap bottle of rot-gut and snoring like a hibernating grizzly. In point of fact, Fargo didn’t think the end of the world would wake him up.
He found his saddle and tack on a rack outside the Ovaro’s stall, and when he opened the gate to let the horse out, it nickered in recognition.
“Been cooped up for too long, haven’t you?” Fargo asked the black-and-white horse quietly. He ran a comforting hand down the horse’s neck. “You’ll get plenty of exercise tonight.”
The horse didn’t say much, just laid his ears back and swiveled an eye at him. The Ovaro had never let him down, and tonight wouldn’t be the exception, despite a couple of days in a stall.
Fargo got him saddled and bridled, then led him by the reins out into the street. Sunrise was maybe an hour away at most. Already the sky to the east was more gray than black. He climbed into the saddle and put his spurs to the Ovaro, who broke into a fast trot, anxious to be moving again.
Everything was coming to a head now, and the trail that had originally led to the Blue Emporium and Hattie Hamilton had changed course. Fargo expected to find Hattie, Parker and his men, H.D., Horn or McKenna or whatever his name was, and, with any luck, Mary, all holed up at Parker’s mansion. They would be expecting him, but probably not this morning. It had been a long night and he had considered getting some rest first, but the element of surprise would be a powerful ally.
Clattering over the cobblestones, the rough outlines of a plan began to fall into place. It was early and whatever guards Parker had in place would be tired, maybe even dozing at their posts, waiting for the sun to rise and their chance to bunk down.
The cobblestones gave way to hard-packed dirt, and when Parker’s mansion came into view in the distance, Fargo pulled up the Ovaro. The sun was just beginning to rise, silhouetting the main house, and leaving him safely in the shadows.
It was a big place, three stories, with a large wrought-iron fence surrounding it. He couldn’t make out the gate—it was still in shadows—but it was a safe bet that it was shut and probably locked. On the roof-top, two men leaned against chimneys, looking like statues. It was another good bet that there were at least a couple of men on the ground as well.
Since surprise was all he had, Fargo decided to use it. “Let’s go,” he whispered to the Ovaro, who tossed his head in agreement. It occurred to him that if half the men he’d known were as game as his horse, a lot of the fights in his life would have gone differently.
He touched his spurs behind the girth strap, asking the horse for more speed. Little by little, he encouraged the Ovaro to go faster, so that by the time they were twenty yards from the front gate, they were moving at almost a full gallop.
Trusting the horse to know its job, Fargo looped the reins loosely over the saddle horn, and pulled his Henry from the saddle boot. He didn’t waste time, but simply sighted on the gate’s lock and fired. The sound was horrendously loud in the early-morning quiet, but he saw the metal splinter under the impact. The two statues on the roof jolted to life, looking around in a panic for the source of the gunfire.
Fargo didn’t give them time to think too hard on it. As they ran to the edge of the roof and looked down, he signaled the Ovaro to stop, raised the Henry once more, and fired twice. One man clutched at his chest and fell from the roof with a wordless cry.
He missed the second, but the shot was enough to drive him back from the edge of the roof and take cover, which was all Fargo needed. He nudged the horse once more and pushed through the front gate. Two more men were running toward the front of the house, darker shadows on the ground. Fargo slid the Henry back into the boot and pulled his Colt.
He sighted on the closer of the two and fired twice. The man pitched over backward, screaming in pain. By then, the second man had closed the distance and he reached up to grab the Ovaro’s reins. Why he didn’t pull his gun, Fargo would never know, because two things happened at once: the horse whipped his head around and bit the man in the fleshy part of his arm, and Fargo used the butt end of the Colt to split his skull.
The man slumped to the ground, unconscious or dead. Fargo didn’t care which, so long as he was out of the action.
He spurred the Ovaro forward, heading for the front door. The man on the roof took a couple of wild shots, but he’d misjudged Fargo’s position and they missed by a good ways. He reached the front door, then jumped out of the saddle.
“No use knocking,” he said, and lashed out with one strong kick. The door flew open, hitting the man standing behind it in the nose and breaking it with a faint crunching sound. The man let out a yell and Fargo stepped through, whipping his body around the door.