Backwoods Bloodbath Read Online Free PDF

on white-run reservations where they could learn white ways and live like whites forever after.
    “Give the Monster a few more years,” Draypool said, “and I warrant he will garner a lot more attention. But we don’t want that. Illinois does not need the adverse publicity. It will deter people from moving there.” He uttered a deep sigh. “The group I represent is dedicated to Illinois’s betterment. The Monster is a detriment we can do without.”
    Fargo treated himself to another swig of whiskey. The man sure was fond of big words, but there was no denying he cared about Illinois and the folks in it. “When was the last time anyone tried to track this Monster of yours?”
    “Two and a half months ago. He wiped out a family of five near Decatur. Three of the best trackers in the state went after him and never came back.”
    “What’s his name?” Fargo did not recall it being mentioned.
    “No one knows. Neither his name, nor where he is from, nor why he does what he does.” Draypool clasped his hands in eager appeal. “What do you say? Will you accept our proposal and end his killing spree?”
    Fargo hesitated. Illinois was a long way from his usual haunts, and eastern forests were nothing like western forests.
    Arthur Draypool played his trump card. “As an added inducement, I am authorized to pay you a handsome sum. Half now, and half when the Monster has been brought to bay.”
    “How handsome a sum?” Fargo began to chug more whiskey, and nearly choked on the reply.
    “How does ten thousand dollars sound?”

3
    Ten thousand dollars . Fargo could not get the amount out of his head. It was more than he had ever had at any one time in his life. The smart thing to do would be to squirrel most of it away for his waning years. That made the most sense. But knowing him, he would do what he always did with a windfall: he would spend it on the three things he liked most in life and have none left by the time he was done indulging. Besides, there was a certain high-stakes poker game in Denver in a couple of months. Ten grand to sit in, and the winner always walked away with upwards of half a million.
    “Do we have an accord, then?” Arthur Draypool asked.
    They were outside the Hitch Rail. A few yards away was a genuine hitch rail, lined with horses. The street was uncommonly busy for that time of night. It was past eleven P.M., yet pedestrians and riders went briskly about their nocturnal business.
    “We have a deal,” Fargo confirmed, and held out his hand.
    “You can’t possibly imagine how grateful we are.” Draypool’s shake was weak, his palm wet with sweat even though the temperature had dropped to below seventy degrees.
    Fargo watched the Illinoisan walk off. They had agreed to meet the next morning at seven at Draypool’s hotel. By eight they would be on their way east.
    About to go back inside, Fargo paused. The street was not well lit, but there was enough light spilling from windows that he clearly saw a man emerge from the recessed doorway of a butcher shop and follow in Draypool’s steps. It seemed innocent enough, and Fargo would not have thought anything of it except that the butcher shop was closed, its doorway in shadow. The man who stepped out of it, therefore, had been concealed there, waiting for just that moment.
    Kansas City, like most cities and towns along the mighty Mississippi River, crawled with what newspaper editors liked to refer to as “the criminal element.” Pickpockets were a plague. Robberies were so common they rarely merited mention. Only more serious crimes, like murder, were splashed over the front pages.
    Yet another reason for Fargo, upon seeing the man in the dark suit follow Draypool, to leap to the commonsense conclusion that the man intended to separate Draypool from his money, or do him harm, or both.
    Fargo frowned. Saucy McBride was waiting inside to attend to unfinished business, but he could not very well ignore the threat to Draypool. Hoping Saucy