Hannibal Rising Read Online Free Page A

you can tell, they only buy the best. Which, by the by, is one of the reasons Sam saw fit to send for you.” He paused. “You are widely regarded as being the best there is at what you do. Is that true?”
    Fargo shrugged.
    “I see. You’re not one to brag. But I hope for your sake it is. Sam will be most displeased if you’re not all it’s claimed you are.”
    Fargo remembered the comment about a hunt. “Has a bear been acting up? Is that why he sent for me?” So far as he knew, the only other meat-eaters that still roamed these hills and might pose a threat to people were cougars, but cougar attacks were rare.
    “Oh, goodness no.” Pickleman laughed and shook his head.
    “You’re not here to hunt wild game. Sam sent for you for a special purpose.”
    Fargo was fed up with being kept in the dark. He fished for information by saying, “Clyborn meant what he said about paying me two thousand dollars?”
    “A thousand a day for two days of your time, yes. Not bad when you consider that the yearly income for most people is about five hundred.”
    The lawyer lapsed into silence, for which Fargo was grateful. He closed his eyes and pulled his hat brim down. A little rest would do him good. He had been up most of the night with Sweetpea. He relived the feel of her lips on his, of her full mounds in his hands, her hard nipples against his palms. He’d like to be with her now, parting those silken thighs of hers and running his hand from her knees to her moist cleft. He felt himself stir and inwardly smiled.
    Unexpectedly, the victoria came to a stop.
    Fargo opened his eyes. The sun was gone and night was falling. The driver was in the act of lighting the two lamps, one on either side of the seat, that would illuminate their way in the dark.
    “Hurry it up, James,” Pickleman said. “We don’t want to keep Sam Clyborn waiting, do we?”
    “No, sir,” James replied. He had the first lamp lit and closed the glass. Turning to the second, he opened the glass and bent to light it. In the woods a rifle boomed and the back of the driver’s head exploded in a shower of hair and flesh and silk hat.
    Fargo was in motion before the sound of the shot died. It had come from the trees to the right; he went left, clearing the seat and the step and landing in a crouch with the victoria between him and the shooter.
    Theodore Pickleman was frozen in shock.
    “Get down!” Fargo rasped, and when the lawyer didn’t move, he reached up and hauled him out of the seat. A second shot blasted and the slug ripped into the victoria inches from his head. Ducking, Fargo turned Pickleman toward the vegetation and gave him a shove.
    The lawyer unwittingly straightened and took a step.
    Instantly, Fargo grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to the ground. “Are you trying to get yourself shot?” He hunkered beside the rear wheel.
    Pickleman didn’t move. His mouth worked but no sounds came out. Then he gulped and bleated, “What is going on? Who shot James?”
    “How the hell would I know?” Fargo raised his head to peer over the top and nearly lost an ear to a leaden hornet. Only this time the shot came from a different spot and by the sound was a revolver. He worked the Henry’s lever, feeding a cartridge into the chamber.
    “This can’t be happening. It just can’t.”
    “Tell that to your driver.” Fargo risked a look around the rear of the carriage. A black veil had fallen and was rapidly darkening.
    Pickleman sat up. “Oh, God. Poor James. I don’t understand why anyone would shoot him. He was a good man. He’d never harm a soul.”
    “They shot him first to keep us here,” Fargo guessed. “Now they’re waiting for one of us to try and climb up on that seat so they can do the same to us.”
    “You keep saying they but I bet it’s only one man. It has to be Injun Joe.”
    Fargo didn’t waste breath explaining. He edged away from the wheel and toward the Ovaro. He was worried the bush-whackers might decide to shoot