Hannibal Rising by Jon Sharpe Page B

one person didn’t appear the least bit upset—the backwoodsman Tom had picked as his partner. The man was picking at his teeth with a fingernail.
    “Who would do this?” Charles said, aghast. “Why kill poor Emmett?”
    Fargo was scanning the woods. That the second assassin hadn’t opened up on them didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. Or did it? A disturbing thought struck him, a thought he kept to himself. He did say, “We can’t stand around in the open like this. We’re sitting ducks.”
    Some of the others gave him angry looks.
    “He’s right,” Roland said. “We should make haste to the lodge. We don’t know but whoever did this might come back.”
    Samantha had an arm around Charlotte and was saying, “There, there. You need to calm down. You need to control yourself.”
    The younger woman’s face contorted in disbelief. “ Calm? How can any of us be calm at a time like this? Emmett is dead .”
    “I know that, dear,” Samantha responded, “and I don’t want any of the rest of us to share his fate. Please. We must collect our wits and get out of here.”
    It was done quickly. Servants were directed to wrap Emmett in a blanket and drape him over his horse. Fargo was going to take hold of the reins but Tom snatched them before anyone else could.
    They pushed hard. Every moment was an eternity of suspense. They never knew but when another shot might thunder and another of them might wind up wrapped in a blanket.
    Fargo had time to think and came to several conclusions. Again, he kept them to himself. They had gone about a mile when he slowed and let some of the others pass him so he could rein alongside Tom. On the other side of him was the hulking backwoodsman. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
    Tom glanced at the horse he was leading, and the body. “Whoever killed him will pay. Mark my words.”
    “Any idea who it could be?”
    “How would I know?” Tom snapped. “It’s not as if we haven’t made enemies. When you’re rich and powerful you can’t help stepping on toes.”
    “So you think it’s someone with a grudge against your family?”
    “What else?”
    Fargo didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Your friend, there, didn’t seem bothered.”
    The backwoodsman had been gazing into the forest but now he turned his craggy face and gave Fargo a withering look. “You talkin’ about me, mister? ’Cause if you are, I ain’t Mr. Tom’s friend. I hardly know him. I hardly know any of them.” He motioned at the family members up ahead. “So no, it doesn’t bother me a lick that one of them was shot.”
    “Must you be so cold about it?” Tom demanded. To Fargo he said, “This is Cletus Brun. He’s about the best hunter in Hannibal, next to Roland. I’m paying him for his services this weekend just as my sister is paying you.”
    Brun snorted. “Shucks. Your brother ain’t all that great. I beat him once out to the fair in the turkey shoot.”
    “Don’t underestimate him,” Tom warned.
    “Don’t you underestimate me,” Brun said.
    “Whoever shot Emmett and almost shot Charles is bound to try again,” Fargo mentioned.
    “Have you ever been to our lodge?” Tom asked, and answered his own question. “No, of course you haven’t. It’s a fortress. We’ll be safe there.”
    “For how long?”
    Tom didn’t hide his annoyance. “Why are you bringing this up? To upset me? Isn’t it bad enough I’ve lost one of my brothers? Must you rub my nose in the fact I might lose more of my family?”
    “So you really care about them?”
    “Go away,” Tom said. “I didn’t like you when we first met and I like you less now. So what if I haven’t gotten along with them in the past? They’re still my brothers and sisters.”
    Cletus Brun said, “You heard Mr. Tom. Go pester someone else, little man, and leave us be.”
    Fargo couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him “little.” But the woodsman was a lot wider across the chest and shoulders and must outweigh