“I don’t know,” Fargo said. In his capacity as an investigator for the army, it was important he stick to the facts and not make the mistake of believing others without proof.

“So much for us being friends,” Thaddeus grumbled. “Mike Durn has you hoodwinked, and you haven’t even met him yet.”

“I will soon enough.”

Thaddeus fell silent, leaving Fargo to his thoughts. Although he did not mind helping the army out, it was not his usual line of work. But Colonel Travis was a friend, and he would do what he could.

The situation was compounded by the fact that Polson was so far removed from civilization. Normally, the town marshal or county sheriff would handle things, but Polson did not have a marshal and was not in an established county. For that matter, Polson was not part of a state, either. It was in Nebraska Territory, which stretched from the Canadian border to the north clear down to Kansas Territory in the south.

Not that the legal niceties mattered all that much. Since the federal government was trying to set up an Indian reservation, and rumors had filtered back of an organized effort to prevent it by driving the Indians out, the problem was clearly under federal jurisdiction.

So Colonel Travis decided to send in a special investigator.

Enter Fargo.

The sun relinquished its reign to the gathering twilight.

As Fargo had reckoned, by then he was within sight of Polson and the south shore of Flathead Lake.

“I hate coming here,” Thaddeus Thompson remarked. “It makes me think of Martha, and how she met her end.”

“Did anyone take a look at the bodies besides you?” Fargo asked.

“I never thought to ask. I dug the remains out from under the tree and buried them. Then I came here and accused Mike Durn to his face.”

“What did he do?”

“He called me a loon, and most folks believed him.”

“Most?”

“A few still have their backbones. Sally Brook took my side but she is only one gal and there is not much she can do.”

“How would I go about finding her?”

“Sally runs a shop for ladies. She sells dresses and hats and such. You can find her there most any hour of the day.”

As they neared the lights of Polson, Fargo recollected more of the local geography. The settlement had been built in a sort of natural amphitheater at the south end of the lake, which fed into the nearby Flathead River. To the west towered the Mission Mountains.

The last time Fargo was here, the nights were quiet and peaceful, the few residents, homebodies who turned in early so they could be up at the crack of dawn. Those days, and nights, were gone.

Now, Polson had the trappings of a boomtown. Nearly every building was ablaze with light. Piano music wafted on the breeze, punctuated by loud voices and laughter. Every hitch rail was filled. Coarse men in dirty clothes prowled the street, admiring women in tight dresses who sashayed about advertising their wares.

“I’ll be damned,” Fargo said.

“Not what you expected, huh?” Thaddeus said glumly. “Every cutthroat and no-account in the territory has heard Polson is a haven for their kind. This is only the beginning.”

Fargo was going to ask what he meant but just then a drunk came stumbling out of the shadows and nearly collided with the Ovaro.

“I know him!” Thaddeus declared, and awkwardly slid off, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Fred! It’s me!”

“Thaddeus?”

“What do you say to sharing that bottle?”

Fred beamed and clapped Thaddeus on the back, and the pair melted into the shadows.

Fargo rode on down the street. The most noise came from the largest and newest building. A sign out front proclaimed that he had found the Whiskey Mill. Since there was no room at the hitch rail, he drew up at a corner of the overhang and tied the reins to the post.

Sliding the Henry from the scabbard, Fargo stepped to the batwings. A blast of sound and odors hit him: curses, squeals, mirth, the tinkle of poker chips, the rattle of a roulette wheel, the smell of beer and whiskey mixed with cigar smoke and perfume.

Fargo breathed deep, and pushed on in. The saloon was bursting at the seams. Every table was filled. The bar was lined from end to end. Women flitted about, being as friendly as they could be.

With a start, Fargo realized that few of the females were white. Most were Flatheads, but a few were from other tribes. He went to skirt a table when suddenly a man in a chair pushed back and stepped directly into his path. They bumped shoulders, hard.

“Watch where you are going, damn you,” the man complained.

Fargo went on by, saying, “You walked into me, lunkhead.” He was brought up short by a hand on his arm.

“What did you just call me?” The man was compact and muscular and had the shoulders of a bull.

“Want me to spell it?” Fargo tore loose and took another step, only to have his arm grabbed a second time. He turned, just as a fist arced at his face.

3

Fargo sidestepped and the fist missed his cheek by a whisker. Before the man could recover his balance, Fargo slammed the Henry’s stock against his head. It rocked the man onto his boot heels but he did not go down. With a bellow that drew the attention of those around them, he drove a fist at Fargo’s gut. Again Fargo used the Henry, flicking it so that the man’s fist connected with the barrel and not his body. The man howled and shook his hand, then feinted with his other fist while kicking at Fargo’s groin. Twisting, Fargo took the kick on the outside of his thigh.

The man was red with rage and drink, and Fargo was mad, himself. Stepping back, he struck the Henry against the man’s left knee. That brought a roar of pain and the man doubled over, clutching his leg and exposing the back of his head. Fargo brought the stock sweeping down and the man groaned and pitched to the floor, unconscious.

Fargo slowly lowered the Henry. He had half a mind to kick the bastard’s ribs in. Instead, he turned and found himself the center of attention. The saloon had gone quiet and nearly everyone was staring at him. Ignoring them, he strode on. People scampered aside to let him pass. Those at the bar parted to give him space.

The hothead had done Fargo a favor. Now he was someone to be reckoned with. Word would spread, and be exaggerated in the telling, and by tomorrow everyone in Polson would take him for a bad man. That could work to his advantage.

No sooner did the thought cross his mind than all those around him were giving him even more room. Not because of what he had done but because a knot of four men were coming toward him from the back. Fargo watched them in the mirror while saying to the bartender, “A bottle of your best. And if you have watered it down, God help you.”

Two of the four men Fargo had already met: Kutler and Tork. The third had to be the man called Grunge. He was about Fargo’s size but his hands were incredibly huge, three times as big as normal hands would be, and his knuckles were walnuts.

The fourth man had to be Big Mike Durn. He stood head and shoulders above everyone else. His chest was immense. From what Fargo had heard, he expected Durn to be an unkempt river rat. But Durn was clean-shaven and freshly scrubbed, his suit immaculate. He did not wear a hat. Nor, to Fargo’s surprise, did he wear a revolver—that Fargo could see. Durn’s eyes were a steely gray, and when he smiled, as he did now, the smile did not touch them. “That was nicely done, Mr. Fargo.”

Fargo arched an eyebrow.

“Kutler told me about running into you,” Big Mike said. “You are everything the gossips claim.”

“A man shouldn’t listen to biddy hens,” Fargo said.

Durn leaned an elbow on the bar. “Welcome to my saloon. To my town. To what will one day be my territory.”