Hannibal Rising Read Online Free

again?”
    “Sam Clyborn sent for him. Certainly, take his revolver if you must but don’t blame me if Sam wants your head.” The lawyer smiled and said not unkindly, “Besides, as you can plainly see, we’re on our way out of town anyway so why not let him keep it? He’s only here for the weekend. Monday afternoon he is to take a steamboat back down the river to Saint Louis.”
    This was the first Fargo had heard of working only for two days. Here it was, almost Friday evening. What kind of hunt took that short a time and required someone with his particular skills? There had to be plenty of local hunters who knew the habits of the local wildlife.
    Marshal Lamar lowered his hand. “Very well. I’ll make an exception but just this once.” He stepped up to Pickleman. “Don’t think I do it out of fear, either. I’m the one person in Hannibal that Sam can’t lord it over and Sam knows it.” He wheeled on a boot heel. “Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”
    Pickleman leaned toward Fargo and said quietly, “You must excuse him. He’s been at odds with the Clyborn family now and again.”
    “Why?”
    “The marshal lives by the letter of the law and the Clyborns like to bend the law to suit them. But after all, that’s always been a prerogative of the rich and the powerful, hasn’t it?”
    Fargo didn’t answer. He shucked his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard and climbed into the victoria. There was hardly a speck of dust anywhere and the leather had a nice smell. He settled back with the Henry across his lap.
    Pickleman stared at the rifle as if it might bite him. “I honestly doubt you’ll have need of your long gun.”
    “You’re the one who said he was worried about Injun Joe,” Fargo reminded him.
    James cracked his whip. With a slight jounce they were under way. They turned south at the next corner. Beyond the outskirts of town rose a sweep of densely wooded hills.
    “I’m only staying the weekend?” Fargo brought up.
    “Oh. Yes. I can confirm that much, at least. It’s not very long, I grant you, given how far you’ve come and how much you are being paid. But I think it’s safe to say you are in for one of the most interesting experiences of your life.”

3
    All that was left of the sun was a golden arch. The woods on both sides of the road were mantled in spreading shadows. Soon twilight would descend and they still had miles to go.
    Theodore Pickleman was a talker. He prattled on about the glories of Hannibal, about how it was a hub of commerce, how it had grown by bounds the past decade, about the foresight of the man some considered the town’s founding father. “Yes, sir. Tom Clyborn was a visionary. He turned that vision into riches most men can only dream of.”
    Fargo listened with half an ear. He wished he had kept the bottle. He could use a drink. Folding his arm across his chest, he remarked, “Didn’t you tell me that creek we crossed is called Bear Creek?”
    “Yes. Once these woods teemed with black bears but now there are far fewer.” The lawyer gestured at the forest. “Tell me. What do you see?”
    Fargo wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “Trees?”
    Pickleman smiled smugly. “Indeed. You and I see trees. Not Tom Clyborn. He saw black walnut. Hickory. Ash. Sycamores. Maples. An entire logging industry there for the taking.”
    They had passed logging operations at the outskirts of Hannibal. Trees were being felled at a terrific rate. Fargo couldn’t help but reflect that as fast as the forest was being chopped down, in another twenty years there wouldn’t hardly be any forest left. He said as much.
    “So? That’s a long way off. The important thing is that we make money now.”
    “There’s more to life than money.”
    Pickleman tilted his head and studied Fargo as he might a new kind of bug.
    “Don’t let Sam hear you say that. To the Clyborns, money is everything. Power. Prestige. Luxury.” He patted the victoria’s seat. “As