Free Backwoods Bloodbath by Jon Sharpe Page B

fists. “There you go again. Carping on my presumed flaws. But I do not have to sit here and listen.” She began to rise.
    “Sit back down!” Clyde’s command had the same effect as the crack of a bullwhip; his daughter flinched, and did as she was told.
    Arthur Draypool was nervously running his hands along the polished arms of his chair. “Perhaps we have come at an awkward time and should take our leave.”
    “Nonsense,” Clyde said. “Parents must keep their offspring in line. I am sure our other guest does not think less of us.”
    All eyes swung to Fargo. “I will if I don’t get a glass of whiskey,” he said good-naturedly.
    “You would rather have that than coffee? How remiss of me.” Clyde snapped his fingers and the butler scampered to comply.
    Jace Mayfair had not said a word the whole time. He had been studying Fargo, and now he shifted toward him, crossed his legs, and remarked, “I have heard you are one of the best trackers alive.”
    Since no one had mentioned anything about Fargo’s profession since they had arrived, he responded, “Who told you that?”
    “Mr. Draypool, before he left.”
    Arthur smiled and spread his hands. “Clyde is one of my oldest and dearest friends. He believes, like I do, that we must take steps to clean up our fair state. In fact, he put up a portion of the ten thousand dollars.”
    Clyde Mayfair nodded. “When the law can’t do what it is supposed to do, decent men must take the law into their own hands. I frown on vigilantism, but it can’t be helped. Our group is devoted to the greater public good.”
    “How many of you are there?” Fargo inquired.
    “Oh, about a dozen so far,” Clyde said vaguely. “But more will rally to our cause before too long. Wait and see.”
    “Ours is a great and holy crusade,” Margaret commented. “We will not rest until Illinois is exactly like the sovereign and law-abiding state of South Carolina.”
    Jace had not taken his eyes off Fargo. “I like to hunt, and I have done some tracking, but I am an amateur compared to men like you and Hiram Trask.”
    “Who?”
    “Trask is from down South,” Jace explained. “He lives deep in the backwoods. He’s not as famous as you, but he can track anything that lives, anywhere, anytime. Maybe you will run into him someday.”
    “You never know,” Fargo said.
    Jace’s mouth quirked upward. “It would be interesting to have a contest between the two of you to determine who is the king of the trackers, as it were.”
    Clyde Mayfair made what Fargo took to be an impatient gesture. “Don’t be silly, son. Trask operates out of Georgia, and it is unlikely Mr. Fargo will venture south of the Mason-Dixon Line anytime soon. His usual haunts are much farther west. Isn’t that right?”
    Fargo acknowledged that it was.
    “Still, it would be interesting,” Jace insisted with that enigmatic grin. “It isn’t often that men of their caliber are pitted against one another.”
    “Let’s change the subject,” Arthur proposed, and he began asking Mayfair questions about the state of the farm, the state of Mayfair’s crops, and the weather.
    Now it was Fargo who was bored. He gulped the whiskey the butler brought and nursed a second. With nothing better to do, he admired Priscilla Mayfair’s tantalizing figure. She met his scrutiny with amused interest, undressing him with her eyes. When she thought no one else was looking, she grinned and winked.
    The night ahead promised to be entertaining. Fargo looked forward to getting to know Priscilla a lot better. But first he had to endure another half hour of idle chatter. Then Clyde Mayfair took it into his head to give him a tour of the grounds.
    “Something to do until supper.”
    Once they were outside, Margaret wanted to show Fargo her flower gardens, which she claimed were the grandest in Illinois. At one point she pointed at a rose and said, “Have you ever seen one so big?”
    Priscilla bent down and sniffed. “I like the big