28

Fargo had to hand it to her. Amanda Brenner was good at hugging the shadows and melting into doorways whenever anyone came anywhere near her. She slowed as she came abreast of the saloon and moved with extra caution until she was past it.

Another block and she reached her destination.

The marshal’s office? To say Fargo was puzzled was putting it mildly. He saw her peek in the front window, rap on the glass, then turn and dart around to the side and on to the rear.

Fargo had stayed half a block back. Now he closed the gap, paused long enough to be sure the space between the marshal’s office and the butcher’s was empty, and went down it. A tapping sound warned him to be careful.

Amanda was at the back door to the jail, her arms folded, impatiently tapping her foot on the steps. The door opened, flooding her with light, and she lowered her arms and said, “About time.”

Marshal Coltraine had his hat off and a newspaper in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

Fargo ducked back as Coltraine started to lean out and look both ways.

“You shouldn’t be sneakin’ around at this time of night,” the lawman said. “What if your folks find you missin’?”

“It’s important, damn it,” Amanda said.

“Don’t use that kind of language,” Coltraine said. “You know I don’t like it when a lady cusses.”

“I’m no lady and you know it.”

“Miss Brenner, please.”

“Cut it out, Luther. No one is around. Don’t be so formal.”

Fargo deemed it safe to peek out again. Coltraine was staring at the girl as if he couldn’t make up his mind what to do about her.

“You know the rules,” the lawman said.

“Your rules, not mine,” Amanda said. “Are you going to let me in or not? And if not, you can go to hell and take your badge with you.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Coltraine said. “You know how it is.”

“Oh, I know, all right,” Amanda said harshly. “Perish forbid that the great Luther Coltraine should turn out to be as ordinary as everyone else.”

“Now you’re insultin’ me. What’s so important, anyhow, that it couldn’t wait until mornin’?”

“Not two minutes after you left, I heard stones hit my window and looked out thinking it was you but it was that scout.”

“Fargo?”

Amanda nodded. “He asked me was I sweet on Hoby and made it plain he’s out to do Hoby in.”

“Damn him, anyhow.” Coltraine took her by the arm. “You’d better come in and we’ll hash this over.”

“Gladly.”

Fargo waited about a minute after the door closed to go over and try the latch. It barely scraped and the hinges didn’t creak. He pushed the door open just enough to peer in.

Marshal Coltraine and Amanda Brenner were kissing.

As Fargo watched, Amanda melted into Coltraine and he wrapped his arms around her and cupped her bottom and pulled her hard against him. She let out a tiny moan.

Backing away, Fargo returned to Main Street. He went around to the Ovaro at the hitch rail and coughed and took his time climbing on so that Coltraine would look out and see him leaving town.

He rode east, mulling this latest development.

How could he have been so wrong? he asked himself. He was sure that Amanda and Hoby Cotton were fond of each other. But Amanda and the marshal? Coltraine had to be twice her age. He recollected her saying that she liked older men. And why would a straitlaced lawman like Coltraine risk his job and his reputation by diddling the daughter of the town’s leading citizen?

Just when Fargo thought he had it figured out, the situation became more confusing than ever.

One thing he did know. He wasn’t slinking off with his tail tucked between his legs. He would see this through, come what may.

To that end, once he was clear of town, he circled and approached from the south. By way of side streets and alleys, he reached the empty lot near the Brenner house without being seen. Climbing down, he led the Ovaro into the stand of oaks and settled down for the night. He was tired and sore and hurting, and he fell asleep almost as soon as he curled on the ground. Some folks found sleeping on the ground hard to do but not him. He’d done it so many times, it seemed more natural than a bed.

He couldn’t say how long he had been out when something roused him. A sense of movement. It wasn’t enough to wake him entirely and he had almost drifted under again when he was poked in the shoulder and an all-too-familiar voice growled his name.

“Wake up, mister. We have unfinished business.”

Fargo opened his eyes. Just out of his reach stood a dark figure holding not one but two revolvers. He stabbed a hand to his holster and found it empty.

“Lookin’ for this?” Timbre Wilson said, and wagged Fargo’s Colt. “I snatched it while you were sleepin’.”

Fargo lay still and tried to collect his wits.

“Hoby sent me in to keep an eye on that damn nuisance of a girl,” Timbre said. “Can’t tell you how surprised I was to see you come ridin’ up.” He laughed. “Wishes do come true. I’ve been hopin’ to run into you again.”

“Tell me something,” Fargo said. “Are Hoby Cotton and the Brenner girl fond of each other?”

“What a stupid thing to ask,” Timbre said. “By fond do you mean is he stickin’ his tongue down her throat?”

Fargo grunted.

“You’re a jackass. You don’t know the kid like I do. He wouldn’t try to poke her in a million years.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not here to talk about him,” Timbre said. “I’m here to do what I should have done out on the prairie but Hoby wouldn’t let me. What happened to Abe, by the way? When he never showed up, we figured you had somehow gotten free and done him in.”

“He’s done in, all right,” Fargo said. Secretly he was moving his left hand under him to prop his arm for the lunge he was about to make.

“Hoby and his damn games. When someone needs killin’ you kill them. You don’t tie them to trees and smear them with honey.”

Fargo didn’t say anything.

“He’s always doin’ stuff like that. One time he staked a fella out near some red ants and put butter on him so the ants would think the fella was a picnic.”

Fargo was calculating. If he moved fast enough, if he threw himself at Wilson’s legs and could upend him before Wilson got off a shot, he might turn the tables.

“You’re not sayin’ much,” Timbre said. He trained both revolvers on Fargo’s head. “No last words before I put windows in your skull?”