riddle when he caught the thud of hooves. Not from the canyon, but from toward Haven. Crouching, he crept through the woods until he saw who it was. Waiting until the man was almost on top of him, Fargo stepped out and leveled the Henry.
“Hold it right there.”
The big farmer Sam Worthington drew rein. He didn’t act the least bit rattled but smiled and said, “Good to see you again, mister.”
“What are you doing here?” Fargo couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice.
“Marshal Tibbit sent me.” Worthington patted the animal he was riding. “This is his horse. I was in town with my family and he came up and said as how you were out here alone looking for whoever took Myrtle and he’d feel better if you had someone to watch your back.”
That sounded like something Tibbit would do. Fargo lowered the Henry. “Seen any sign of anyone?”
“Besides you?” The farmer shook his head. “Not many folks come out this way except a few hunters now and then.”
“Do you know the area pretty well?” Fargo thought to ask.
“Fair, I’d say,” Worthington replied. “Me and mine mainly eat beef and chicken but now and then I get a hankering for venison so I’ve roamed these parts some. Why?”
“Come with me.” Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and led the farmer to the canyon. “Ever been down there?”
“Clear at the bottom? I sure haven’t. Far as I know, there isn’t a way down. Not on a horse, anyhow.”
“But you’ve never really tried.”
“No, I haven’t. Never had any need. Why? Are you trying to figure out where Myrtle got to?”
Fargo nodded.
“You ask me, it’s a townsman. None of the farmers or ranchers would do so terrible a thing.”
“Know all of them well?”
“Only a few,” Worthington admitted.
“Then you can’t really say.”
“No. But when you work with the soil day in and day out it gives you a respect for life. Plus all the farmers hereabouts are family men. Quite a few, like me, have daughters. A father would never be so vile as to abduct one.”
Fargo wasn’t convinced. He’d witnessed more than his share of the unsavory side of human nature, enough to know not to take anyone for granted. “Let’s head for town.”
“I came all this way for nothing?” Worthington chuckled. “That Tibbit. I like him, you understand, but he’s not cut out for the law business.”
“To hear him tell it, he’s done fine except for the missing girls.”
“It’s easy to be a lawman when no one ever breaks the law,” Worthington said. “Haven is plumb peaceable. No shootings, no knifings or fights.” He paused, and grinned. “Not until you came to town, anyhow. The most Tibbit ever has to do is shoo a pig off the street or once in a blue moon have a drunk sleep it off in his jail. The rest of the time he sits in his office with his boots on his desk and takes naps or reads or stuffs himself.”
“You must have talked to others about the missing girls,” Fargo said. “Doesn’t anyone have any ideas?”
“Mister, we have talked ourselves hoarse. Every time one goes missing, it’s all we talk about for weeks.”
“I take it everyone would like to see whoever is to blame be caught?”
“That goes without saying. I ever catch the bastard ...” Worthington held out a big hand and closed it tight, his knuckles crackling like walnut shells under a nutcracker.
The farmer was a talker. The rest of the ride, he related to Fargo about how irrigation was the key to raising crops and how the soil wasn’t the most fertile in the world but it sufficed and how much he loved working the land and seeing things grow and selling the harvest.
“Farm life is the only life for me.” Worthington ended his recital. “My pa was a farmer and his pa before him. It’s in the Worthington blood.”
Ahead spread the field and beyond it the buildings. Fargo was looking forward to a visit to the saloon. He would treat himself to a bottle of whiskey and a game of cards. Or maybe
“Hold it right there.”
The big farmer Sam Worthington drew rein. He didn’t act the least bit rattled but smiled and said, “Good to see you again, mister.”
“What are you doing here?” Fargo couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice.
“Marshal Tibbit sent me.” Worthington patted the animal he was riding. “This is his horse. I was in town with my family and he came up and said as how you were out here alone looking for whoever took Myrtle and he’d feel better if you had someone to watch your back.”
That sounded like something Tibbit would do. Fargo lowered the Henry. “Seen any sign of anyone?”
“Besides you?” The farmer shook his head. “Not many folks come out this way except a few hunters now and then.”
“Do you know the area pretty well?” Fargo thought to ask.
“Fair, I’d say,” Worthington replied. “Me and mine mainly eat beef and chicken but now and then I get a hankering for venison so I’ve roamed these parts some. Why?”
“Come with me.” Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and led the farmer to the canyon. “Ever been down there?”
“Clear at the bottom? I sure haven’t. Far as I know, there isn’t a way down. Not on a horse, anyhow.”
“But you’ve never really tried.”
“No, I haven’t. Never had any need. Why? Are you trying to figure out where Myrtle got to?”
Fargo nodded.
“You ask me, it’s a townsman. None of the farmers or ranchers would do so terrible a thing.”
“Know all of them well?”
“Only a few,” Worthington admitted.
“Then you can’t really say.”
“No. But when you work with the soil day in and day out it gives you a respect for life. Plus all the farmers hereabouts are family men. Quite a few, like me, have daughters. A father would never be so vile as to abduct one.”
Fargo wasn’t convinced. He’d witnessed more than his share of the unsavory side of human nature, enough to know not to take anyone for granted. “Let’s head for town.”
“I came all this way for nothing?” Worthington chuckled. “That Tibbit. I like him, you understand, but he’s not cut out for the law business.”
“To hear him tell it, he’s done fine except for the missing girls.”
“It’s easy to be a lawman when no one ever breaks the law,” Worthington said. “Haven is plumb peaceable. No shootings, no knifings or fights.” He paused, and grinned. “Not until you came to town, anyhow. The most Tibbit ever has to do is shoo a pig off the street or once in a blue moon have a drunk sleep it off in his jail. The rest of the time he sits in his office with his boots on his desk and takes naps or reads or stuffs himself.”
“You must have talked to others about the missing girls,” Fargo said. “Doesn’t anyone have any ideas?”
“Mister, we have talked ourselves hoarse. Every time one goes missing, it’s all we talk about for weeks.”
“I take it everyone would like to see whoever is to blame be caught?”
“That goes without saying. I ever catch the bastard ...” Worthington held out a big hand and closed it tight, his knuckles crackling like walnut shells under a nutcracker.
The farmer was a talker. The rest of the ride, he related to Fargo about how irrigation was the key to raising crops and how the soil wasn’t the most fertile in the world but it sufficed and how much he loved working the land and seeing things grow and selling the harvest.
“Farm life is the only life for me.” Worthington ended his recital. “My pa was a farmer and his pa before him. It’s in the Worthington blood.”
Ahead spread the field and beyond it the buildings. Fargo was looking forward to a visit to the saloon. He would treat himself to a bottle of whiskey and a game of cards. Or maybe
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