Backwoods Bloodbath Read Online Free PDF Page A

since I saw him last.”
    “I savvy perfectly,” Fargo assured him.
    “None of this is relevant anyway. The Sangamon River Monster is white. For ten years he has terrorized central Illinois. It’s time we put a stop to it. That is where you come in.”
    Fargo dearly needed a drink, but the bartender was still over by the bodies. “What’s so special about me? Don’t you have trackers in Illinois? Or bloodhounds?”
    “Permit me to place things in their proper perspective.” Draypool rested both elbows on the table. “As I have mentioned, Illinois is largely backwoods country. Forests as they were ages before the first white man set foot on this continent. Woodland so thick, many travel by foot instead of on horseback.”
    “Mountain men aren’t the only ones who like to tell tall tales,” Fargo said.
    “You think I exaggerate?” Draypool shook his head. “You will see for yourself when you come to Illinois.”
    “Hold that notion.” Fargo stood and went to the bar. Most everyone else was over listening to the tin star question the gambler. The few still at the counter paid him no mind as he swung up and over and dropped lightly to the other side. He selected a bottle of Monongahela from a row of bottles of all shapes and sizes. Placing it on the bar, he was about to vault back over when the twin muzzles of a shotgun blossomed in front of his face.
    “I trust you were fixing to pay for that.”
    Fargo glared at the bartender. “Harve, have you ever known me not to make good?”
    “I wish all my customers were as dependable as you,” Harve Bennet answered, and laughed. “Admit it. I about made you wet yourself.”
    “Wishful thinking. I saw you in the mirror.” Fargo had done no such thing, but he would not give Harve the satisfaction.
    “Dang. You’re like a damned hawk. You never miss a cussed thing. What would I have to do to be more like you?”
    “Spend ten years roaming the prairie and the mountains,” Fargo said, hefting the whiskey bottle, “and lose fifty pounds.”
    Harve placed a beefy hand on his bulging middle. “That was uncalled for. I can’t help it if pouring drinks doesn’t give a man much muscle.”
    Fargo dug in a pocket and slapped down the coins needed to pay for the rotgut. “Here. Treat yourself to a cow.” He smirked all the way to the table.
    “As I was saying,” Arthur Draypool said the moment Fargo sat down, “the Sangamon River Monster’s reign of terror must end. Which is why my associates and I are willing to pay a substantial sum for your services.”
    A long swig of whiskey did wonders for Fargo’s disposition. Smacking his lips, he said, “Trackers and bloodhounds, remember?”
    “Of course we have them. Backwoodsmen are as common as fleas, and bragging about their hounds is their favorite pastime. Time and again trackers and dogs have gone out after the Monster, and time and again they have not returned, or returned without finding him.”
    “Why haven’t I ever heard of him?” Fargo rarely read newspapers, but he did keep up with saloon gossip, and most everything worthwhile found mention eventually. It was how he had heard about the Lincoln-Douglas debates, and that Abraham Lincoln was the Republican candidate for president. Politics never interested him, but the next election promised to be a corker. It was dividing the country into proslavery and antislavery camps, with each camp throwing insults and threats at the other. If things kept on as they were, bloodshed was bound to result.
    Draypool was talking. “Why should you have heard of him? The Sangamon River Monster is not well known outside of Illinois’s borders. Probably because he’s white. If he were an Indian, newspapers all over the country would carry accounts of his atrocities.”
    The man had a point there, Fargo admitted. Newspapers reveled in reports of massacres and outrages committed by the red race, usually to illustrate why it was the white man’s duty to place all of them