Blood Wedding

“He talks about the South a lot, too,” Angel said. “Sometimes I thought he might want to go there to live. But he doesn’t. He says that nobody can run him off and that he’s staying right here where he belongs.”

That was a new fact for Fargo to think about. He wasn’t sure that it meant anything, but maybe it fit somewhere with all the other things he was mulling over. He thought that he might be able to pull it all together when he talked to Molly.

“Where will you go?” Fargo asked Angel.

“I’ve been thinking about that. I’d like to stay here if the people would have me. I’m willing to work, and I can learn about farming. They might not want me, though. I’ve been fighting against them for a good while. I wouldn’t blame them if they hated me.”

“You should talk to Abby about it.”

“I don’t know what to say to her. It’s my fault that Jed was killed, and they were going to be married.”

“You said Jed got what he deserved.”

“I don’t feel that way now. He was right all along. If I’d listened to him, he’d be alive, but I thought I had to stick by my family. You can see where that got me.”

There wasn’t much Fargo could say to that. He said, “You might be surprised at how forgiving people can be if they know you’re sorry for what you did. I don’t think Abby will blame you for anything after she hears what you have to say. She’ll help you find a place around here.”

“That would be nice, but I don’t know if I can ask her. It’s not right, what I’ve done.”

“People change,” Fargo said, though in his experience the ones who did were few and far between. “You talk to Abby. You might find out she’s changed a little, too.”

Angel said she’d try, and Fargo left to pay his visit to Molly.

Molly was feeding the chickens when Fargo got there, sticking her hand into a bag of corn and flinging it out in wide swaths. As soon as the grain hit the ground, the chickens would snap it up. Or they’d snap something up. Since they were in the chicken yard, the chickens would sometimes miss the corn and peck at their own droppings. After watching them for a few seconds, Fargo thought it might be a while before he wanted to eat fried chicken again.

“Hey, Fargo,” Molly said when she saw him standing there. “Did you come by to help me feed the chickens?” She gave him a wicked grin. “Or did you have something else in mind?”

“I had something else in mind,” Fargo said, “but it might not be what you’re thinking.”

“That’s too bad, but it’s nice to see you anyway. I have to put this corn in the barn. Come on along.”

Molly went off toward the barn, and Fargo followed behind. She put the bag of corn in a barrel so nothing would get into it. She covered the barrel, dusted off her hands, and turned to Fargo.

“All right. If this isn’t about what I was hoping it was, what is it about?”

“We need to have a little talk,” Fargo said.

“We’re talking already. You have a particular subject in mind?”

“Peter Murray.”

“That’s one thing I’d just as soon not talk about. He’s not a very pleasant subject.”

Fargo thought it might get less pleasant before their conversation was over. He said, “Do you want to talk here in the barn or go inside?”

“It’s nice enough here in the barn.” Molly sat on the covered barrel. “Find yourself a seat and let’s talk.”

Fargo pulled a nail keg over and sat down on it. He was at a lower level than Molly, and she had to look down at him to see his face.

“Now, what is it about Murray that you want to tell me?” Molly asked.

Fargo told her what Angel had said about the death of Murray’s wife and the way Murray felt because of it. Then he talked about how Murray always knew what was going to happen and where everyone was going to be.

“We’ve talked about that last part before. At Jed’s funeral. Remember?”

Fargo said that he did. “I’ve been thinking about it some more. If Murray knew everything that was going on, somebody had to tell him.”

“I figured that, but I don’t know who it could be. There are a lot of people around here, and I can’t keep watch on all of them.”

Fargo didn’t really think she’d tried to keep watch. He said, “Only a few people knew where Paul Murray was buried. And of the ones who knew, three of them are dead.”

Molly looked at him through hooded eyes.

“What are you trying to say, Fargo? That I have something to do with what Murray finds out about things?”

“It could be that way,” Fargo told her.

“But you don’t think so, do you. You know me better than that, Fargo.”

Fargo wasn’t sure you could ever know people well enough to predict what they might or might not do, no matter how long you’d known them.

“I’m not sure what to think,” he said. “Your house and barn were burned, but not any of the others. I asked myself about why that might be.”

“It could be that Murray hates me more than the others. And that means I’m not the one passing information to him.”

“Or it could be that he just wanted people to think he hates you. You have another house and barn already, and it didn’t take you long to get them.”