Hannibal Rising Read Online Free PDF Page A

what?”
    Fargo couldn’t resist. “What.” He reined around and tapped his spurs and brought the Ovaro to a trot. Thanks to the moonlight the road was easy to make out. He stayed in the middle, his hand on the Colt.
    “I want to thank you for saving me back there.”
    “We’re not safe yet.”
    Fargo wasn’t convinced they could relax until a mile had fallen behind them. By then he had slowed to spare the Ovaro. As he felt the tension drain from his taut sinews, it suddenly occurred to him that this had been the second attempt on his life in twenty-four hours. There had been the man and woman on the steamboat and now two assassins in the dark of night in the forest. “I wonder,” he mused.
    “You wonder what?”
    “You’re going to make some woman a fine wife one day.”
    Pickleman didn’t respond right away. When he did, he chuckled. “Oh. I get it. You’re quite the wit. I didn’t expect that of you.”
    “Let me guess. You’ve taken the notion that my kind must be as dumb as tree stumps.”
    “I’ve met very few frontiersmen, Mr. Fargo. Those I have struck me as uncouth louts only interested in three things. Liquor, women, and having a good time.”
    “That’s me, sure enough.”
    “No, it’s not. You might fool others but I suspect there is more to you. Much more.”
    “If you say so.” Fargo rose in the stirrups. He’d heard the drum of hooves. Drawing rein, he waited.
    “What are we doing?” Pickleman asked.
    “Do you have ears?”
    Presently three riders swept into view, riding hard. Fargo swung the Ovaro broadside so they couldn’t see his gun hand. It would give him a split-second’s advantage, should it come to that.
    The three spotted him and slowed. The thick-shouldered man in the lead was holding a rifle and started to raise it but stopped at a bleat of relief from Pickleman.
    “Roland? Is that you? Thank God.”
    “Theodore?” The man gigged his sorrel up close and stopped. “My God, man. What is going on? The carriage came barreling down on us and we stopped it and found James dead. I remembered you had gone into town earlier and came straightaway to find you.”
    “Highwaymen attacked us,” Pickleman said. “Had it not been for Mr. Fargo, here, I would no doubt be as dead as James.”
    The man turned to Fargo. He had bushy brows and fingers as thick as spikes and wore a tweed outfit with Hessian boots and a cap. Across his chest was a bandolier of cartridges and on his hip a knife with a stag hilt. “So you’re the man Sam sent for? I’ve heard of you. They say you’re one of the best scouts alive.”
    “I get around,” Fargo said.
    “Not that it will do you any good this weekend. I know these hills better than anyone.”
    Pickleman coughed and said, “Mr. Fargo, this is Roland Clyborn, the second of Thomas’s four sons. His passion is hunting.”
    “What was that about this weekend?” Fargo asked.
    Roland glanced at the lawyer. “You haven’t told him yet?”
    “Sam’s orders.”
    “Figures.” Roland turned to Fargo. “A word to the wise: Stay out of this. If I were you, I’d turn around and head back to Hannibal and take the first steamboat downriver.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    “You will be in trouble up over your head.”

4
    Someone once told Fargo that rich people were different from ordinary folks. Fargo found the notion preposterous. He’d met enough of the well-to-do to know there were smart ones and dumb ones, gabby ones and quiet ones, nice ones and bastards, generous ones and selfish sons of bitches. The only difference Fargo could see between rich people and ordinary folks was that rich people had more money.
    The Clyborns had enough to buy their own state.
    Their mansion covered four acres. Patterned after a European manor, it was three stories high. The walls were made of stone taken from a local quarry. A bewildering array of arches and eaves and minarets ran the length of each side. Windows were everywhere: big windows, small