Hannibal Rising by Jon Sharpe Page A

Fargo,” Charlotte said in mild exasperation. “Women aren’t handsome. They’re beautiful or lovely or pretty.”
    “You’re all of that, too.” Fargo bent close to her ear. “You remind me of a ripe cherry in a cherry tree.”
    “I do?”
    “I want to pluck you and eat you.”
    Charlotte gasped and put a hand to her throat. “Mr. Fargo! The things that come out of your mouth.”
    Fargo stared at her bosom. “It’s the things that go into my mouth that I’m fond of.”
    “Surely you can’t mean—” Charlotte stopped and flushed a vivid scarlet. “You are scandalous, sir. How can you talk about me this way when I’ve just told you that my sister thinks so highly of you?”
    “I like greener pastures as much as the next hombre.”
    Charlotte’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite frankly, I don’t think I want to.” She peered at his face as if trying to see through him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you are undressing me with your eyes.”
    “I am,” Fargo said with a grin, “and I like what I see.”
    “Well, I never.” Charlotte turned and said over her shoulder. “I will keep this between us to spare Sam. But if you ever talk to me like this again, I’ll slap your face.”
    “That’s fine by me.”
    “It is?”
    “I like it rough.” Fargo smothered a laugh at her shock and hasty departure.
    Two seeds planted, he thought to himself. He gazed at the ring of trees and noticed the glint of the sun off of metal a score of yards into the undergrowth. One of their servants, he reckoned. But glancing about, he realized that everyone was accounted for.
    The next instant a shot blasted.

7
    After the two attempts on his life Fargo took it for granted this was the third. As the shot shattered the muggy Missouri air, he dived flat. He didn’t feel the searing pain of lead ripping through him and thought the shooter had missed. Then he glanced up.
    Emmett Clyborn had a hole in the center of his forehead and an even bigger hole on the back of his head where the slug had burst out. He was swaying, his eyes wide with shock. Many of the others were gaping at him in stunned disbelief.
    “Get down!” Fargo bellowed.
    A second shot cracked.
    Charles Clyborn had started to duck and his hat went flying. He dropped flat just as a third shot rang out but the third one didn’t come from the woods; Roland Clyborn was shooting back.
    Fargo whipped out his Colt and added to the hail. He fired at where he had seen the gleam of metal, two swift shots, and then he was up and running toward the woods, zigzagging to make it harder for the shooter to hit him. Roland ran with him and together they charged toward where tendrils of gun smoke hung in the air.
    “Where?” Roland roared, turning right and left.
    Fargo spied movement off through the trees. “There!” He pointed and weaved among the boles on the fly. All he wanted was one clear shot. Just one. The crash of the undergrowth and the hammer of hooves told him he wasn’t going to get it. In anger he snapped off a shot in the direction of the sounds and came to a stop. The hoofbeats rapidly faded.
    “We should go after him!” Roland fumed.
    “And leave the others?” Fargo shook his head. Especially since in both previous tries on his life there had been two would-be assassins, not one. Which begged the question: Where was the other one?
    Roland jerked his Spencer rifle to his shoulder but he didn’t fire. With an oath he jerked it down again, then said in horror, “Emmett!” Wheeling, he raced for the clearing.
    Fargo followed, watching both their backs.
    Everyone was gathered around the body. Charlotte was on her knees, clutching Emmett’s limp hand and bawling hysterically. Samantha was seeking to comfort her. Charles and Tom appeared to be in shock. Pickleman was as pale as a bed-sheet. The servants were staying respectfully back and whispering among themselves.
    Out of all of them only