yourself.â
Fargo took a step back. âThereâs nothing you could show me that would change my mind.â
âYes, there is. Trust me.â
Fargo snorted.
âWe have to go in the back. To the kitchen.â
âWhy there?â
âYou have to see with your own eyes.â
âFine,â Fargo said. âLead the way. But one wrong twitch and youâre dead.â
âI believe you.â
Wilbur slowly walked to the end of the bar and over to the hall. He jumped when Fargo jammed the Henry against his spine but he didnât try anything as he led the way to the kitchen and across to a square door in the floor.
âThe root cellar?â Fargo said. âWhat in hellâs down there.â
âOpen it and find out.â
âNo,â Fargo said. He didnât know what game the man was playing at but he would see it through. âOpen it yourself.â
Wilbur bent, gripped the rope handle and lifted. The door swung up easily. âThere,â he said with a nod. âThey didnât want anyone to know.â
It was a little girl, tied hand and foot and with a bandanna over her mouth. She was on her side amid a slab of deer meat, a pile of potatoes, a basket of carrots, and more.
She looked up in stark terror, her face streaked with dry tears.
âItâs the granddaughter,â George Wilbur said. âJessie Cavanaugh.â
Fargo glared and raised the Henry.
âWait!â Wilbur cried, throwing his hands up. âIt wasnât me who tied her. It was Fletcher. He figured to give her as a gift. His very words.â
âA gift?â Fargo said.
âTo Blackjack Tar. Ever heard of him?â
Of course Fargo had. Tar was the scourge of the territory; for five or six years heâd been robbing and killing to his vile heartâs content. The things he did to his victims made Apaches seem tame.
Wilbur had gone on. âFletcher and Blackjack Tar are friends. They used to ride together.â
âSon of a bitch,â Fargo said, and lowered the Henry a few inches.
Wilbur exhaled. âYouâre not going to kill me, then?â
âNo,â Fargo said, and clubbed him with the stock. He didnât hold back. The blow slammed Wilbur off his feet and he fell flat and didnât move.
Fargo hiked his boot to stomp the manâs face but set his leg down again.
Jessie Cavanaugh was watching.
âI wonât hurt you, girl,â Fargo said, starting down the short flight of steps. âI heard about your grandpa and grandma, and Iâm sorry.â
Tears welled, and the child bowed her head and uttered a choking sob.
Fargo wanted to kick himself. He leaned the rifle against the steps, drew his toothpick, and made short shrift of the ropes. He expected her to cower in fright, and to have to coax her out. To his surprise, no sooner did he undo the bandanna than she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to his chest.
âThank you, thank you, thank you,â she sobbed.
A knot formed in Fargoâs throat. Coughing to clear it, he told her his name. âWe have to get out of here. One of the gang is still on the loose.â
She looked up with such gratitude and warmth, it made him uncomfortable. âYou saved me.â
âAnyone would,â was all Fargo could think of to say.
âWhat happened to the bad woman? Is she dead? She treated me awful. She hit me and teased me.â
âDid she, now?â Fargo said. âNo, sheâs still alive. Weâll turn her over to the law.â
âShe stabbed my grandma. Iâd like to stab her.â
âWe have to go.â Fargo stood and helped her stand. He grabbed the Henry and saw her stumble. He hooked an arm around her to keep her from falling.
âSorry,â Jessie said. âMy legs wonât work.â
âHow long have they had you tied down here?â
âI donât know how many days but itâs been
Learning to Kill: Stories