Holding his nose with one hand, the man was raising his gun with the other.
Once again, Fargo’s Colt barked and the man was shoved back into the wall, leaving a bloody red trail down the plaster. The bullet had passed through his chest and he was dead before he hit the floor, his eyes full of surprise.
Fargo paused to listen, trying to determine where the others might be. This floor sounded quiet, but above his head, floorboards creaked softly. He moved for the stairs, reloading the Colt as he did so.
At the top of the stairs, a hallway split left and right. Another flight of stairs continued up to the third floor, but he was fairly certain that those rooms would be for Parker’s men and staff. He stopped once more to listen, then moved down the hall to the right. Four doors, two on each side of the hallway, and an open door at the end which showed a washroom that was empty.
To the left, there were only two doors, one on each side of the hall, and a larger set of double doors at the end of the hall. Parker’s room, no doubt. From above, he could hear the sound of booted steps. The man on the roof had decided to come inside.
Fargo didn’t want anyone sneaking up behind him, so he changed direction, and quietly positioned himself on the stairs. He pushed his hat down over his face and left his right arm outstretched, fingers loosely clasped around the butt of his Colt. His legs he left at awkward angles.
The man, who was now coming down the stairs, would hopefully think that he was dead, shot by the inside guard while he was going up the stairs. A moment of confusion would be all that was needed. Several more steps and Fargo could hear the man’s rapid breath. He was nervous and scared, then he saw Fargo’s body and let out a sigh of relief.
“Zeke!” he hissed. “Zeke, you got him!”
He took another few steps and now Fargo could see the tips of his boots on the same step where his head rested.
“Zeke, where the hell are you?” the man called. “You got him.”
He bent down to remove Fargo’s hat, and Fargo sprang like a coiled rattlesnake.
“Oh, shit,” the man had time to say. He saw Fargo’s mortuary smile, and then nothing as the Colt did its work. The shot was somewhat muffled in the man’s coat, but the echo was still explosively loud in the close confines of the stairwell.
The guard grunted as the bullet hit his stomach and exited through his back, shattering his spine. For a long moment, he simply stood there, gasping, his eyes wide and his hands clutching at the lapels of Fargo’s coat, then he toppled sideways, rolling down the stairs.
Moving quickly, Fargo returned to the second-floor hallway, and went left. He paused at the first door and listened. Hushed voices could be heard through the wood.
“Maybe he got him,” Fargo heard Parker say. “Go take a look, H.D.”
“Don’t be a fool,” H.D. replied. “If you’re so certain, you go take a look.”
“Both of you shut up,” Hattie snapped.
Fargo considered the situation. There were at least two, probably three or more guns in there. He couldn’t exclude Hattie by reason of her being a woman. Especially considering that it was more than likely that she had killed Beares.
And that still left Horn or McKenna unaccounted for.
Still, Fargo guessed that fear and optimism were his best allies. He knocked lightly on the door. “He’s dead, boss,” he said, trying to keep his voice gruff.
“Oh, thank God,” Parker exclaimed, his voice much louder. “I told you my men could handle him.”
Fargo stepped away from the door and to one side. He heard the footsteps coming, then the door opened and Parker stepped out. “Where the hell—”
Fargo put the Colt against the back of his head and cocked it.
“Hell just about sums it up, doesn’t it, Senator?” Fargo said from behind him. “In fact, that’s probably where you’re headed next.”
Parker’s hands shot into the air. “Don’t shoot me, Fargo, please.”
Fargo was about to say more when a shot rang out from inside the room. The bullet caught Parker directly in the temple, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter across the narrow hallway. He dropped dead.
Knowing that hesitation would be just as likely to get him killed, Fargo tore open the door and lunged into the room, falling into a roll, but keeping a firm grip on his Colt.
Hattie held a Colt .45 in her hands, the barrel still smoking.
“Hattie, what the hell did you do!” H.D. exclaimed.
“Solved a problem,” she said, her voice ice-cold.
Fargo came to his feet, keeping his gun trained on them. “Nobody moves,” he said.
“You truly are dumb, Fargo,” Hattie snapped. “If you shoot me, H.D. will gun you down. If you shoot him, I’ll gun you down. You’re not that fast.”
Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed slightly and he grinned. “Are you willing to bet your life on it?” he asked.
Suddenly, H.D. pulled his own piece and put it to Hattie’s head. “Hattie Hamilton,” he said, his voice shaking. “You’re under arrest.”
“What?” she screeched, turning away from Fargo, turning the gun toward H.D.
“Ah, damn,” Fargo muttered, then shot her in the arm.
She screamed and dropped the gun, which H.D. quickly picked up.
“You sonsabitches,” she moaned, holding her arm. “You goddamn sonsabitches.”
Fargo looked at H.D. “What’s it going to be, old friend?” he asked. “Do I have to kill you?”
H.D. slowly lowered his own gun, putting it back in the holster, and tossed Hattie’s across the room. “I wish you wouldn’t, Fargo. At least not until I can explain.”
A voice from the doorway said, “I may be able to help with that.”
Fargo turned to see Horn standing in the doorway, a grin on his face. “The least you can do, Fargo, is say you’re sorry for hitting me in the head.”
“Who are you really?” Fargo snapped.
“I tried to tell you,” the man said. “I’m James McKenna, of the Pinkerton Agency.”
“So what’s your role in this, H.D.?” Fargo asked. “I thought you were in it with Hattie and the others.”
H.D. nodded, then knelt down and tore a strip of sheet off the bed, using it to bind the still-cursing woman’s bleeding arm.
“I’ve been working with the Pinkertons,” H.D. said. “It’s a long story, but I had to make everyone think that I was on the take. It was the only way to get close enough to find out what Parker and Beares were really up to.”
Fargo looked at the two men, then nodded and holstered his Colt. “What now?” he asked. “Aside from needing a drink and an explanation, I’ve had about all of New Orleans I can stand.”
“Let’s get Miss Hamilton here to the sawbones,” H.D. replied. “Then we’ll explain everything.”
“Do I have your word on that?” Fargo asked.
His old friend nodded. “This time, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. You have my word.”
“Then let’s go,” Fargo said. “I just have one more thing to do.”
“What’s that?” McKenna asked.
Fargo stepped into the hall and rolled Parker’s body over. Inside his suit coat, he found the man’s wallet and pulled a stack of bills from it. “Just collecting my paycheck,” he said. “After all, no one cheated at the poker game and that’s what he paid me for.”
McKenna laughed. “You’re something of a mercenary, aren’t you, Fargo?”
Fargo gave McKenna a warning glance. “I wouldn’t push that if I were you. Now, where’s Mary?” he asked. “I thought for sure you’d killed her or something.”
“Not at all,” McKenna said. “She’s safely tucked away over by the sheriff’s office. We’ve got two deputies keeping an eye on her.”