Backwoods Bloodbath by Jon Sharpe Page A

a ten-year-old to hunt a bear, would you? By the same token, I would not hire just any simpleton off the street to hunt the Sangamon River Monster.” Draypool paused. “Taking him alive will not be easy. I hope you will reconsider your decision not to shoot him on sight.”
    “I’m not a hired killer.” Fargo thought he had made that plain.
    “Then you put yourself at a disadvantage, because I can assure you that he will have no compunction about killing you.”
    “I brought a Mimbres chief in alive once. I can do the same with your renegade,” Fargo predicted.
    Arthur Draypool frowned and fidgeted. “I appreciate your confidence. I truly do. What will it take to convince you it is misguided?”
    “That’s a polite way of calling me an idiot,” Fargo observed.
    “Not at all. I merely don’t care to be responsible for your death. It would weigh heavily on my conscience.”
    Fargo had seen enough buffalo droppings to know when he was hip-deep in the stuff. “We should play poker sometime.”
    Draypool could not hide his confusion. “I’m sorry. What does that have to do with anything?”
    Before Fargo could respond, Bryce Avril trotted up beside them. He was leading their packhorse. There was no sign of Vern Zeck. “We are being followed, sir,” he announced.
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes, sir.” Avril twisted and pointed.
    At the last bend they had passed, well back from the road and screened by trees so no one coming up the road could see him, sat Zeck astride a bay. Raising an arm, he held up two fingers.
    “Perhaps they are innocent travelers,” Draypool said.
    “Can we afford to take the chance, sir?”
    Fargo remembered the man who had followed Draypool the night before, but he did not share the information.
    “What would you recommend, Mr. Avril?”
    “Fargo and you ride on, sir. Vern and I will catch up after we deal with the two trailing us.”
    Fargo could have sworn that Draypool quickly glanced at him out of the corner of an eye, as if worried how he would react. But it happened so fast he could not be sure.
    “Perhaps we are being hasty, Mr. Avril. After all, this is a public road, open to everyone and sundry. I suggest that Mr. Zeck keep an eye on the two men but not take any action without my express approval.”
    “Certainly, sir,” Bryce Avril said, but he did not sound pleased. Wheeling his mount, he hauled on the lead rope and headed back to tell his partner.
    “Shall we?” Draypool showed his teeth. “Please excuse them. They tend to be overzealous on occasion.”
    Fargo rode on. He had made up his mind what he would do, but he would have to wait until nightfall.
    “You should send them after the Sangamon River Monster. They wouldn’t object to gunning him down.”
    “If they could track as well as they shoot and ride, I would.”
    After that Draypool fell silent, for which Fargo was grateful. He never had liked people who were not completely open and honest with him. Draypool was no worse than most, but there was something about him that did not ring true. Fargo could not quite make up his mind what it was.
    Fargo tried to tell himself that maybe he was being too mistrustful. He was a loner by nature, always wary of others. To most folks that was unthinkable. They were their own worst company, and were happy only when surrounded by other human beings. Fargo was the opposite. He was happiest when he was by his lonesome. When there were just him and the mountains or the prairie, and no one else. Which was peculiar, given his fondness for saloons and doves. But a man needed his pleasures.
    “I had a niece,” Arthur Draypool unexpectedly stated.
    When the Illinoisan did not go on, Fargo said, “I had a dog once.”
    “Please. I am baring my soul.” Draypool straightened. “Her name was Bethany and she was twelve years old. She was murdered by the Monster. It broke my sister’s heart, and she has never been the same.” Draypool looked at him. “It’s part of why I am so