Scorch of sunlight. Stab of back pain. Fargo woke, disoriented. A stretch of flawless blue sky above him. A snoring Aaron Tillman lying about two feet away from him. Then he remembered everything. He lay on the deck of a large, yacht-like boat. They’d been transferred from the wagon some time ago. From what he could see, this was quite a vessel, what they called a well-smack schooner that had been custom-fitted with a mainsail and a smaller sail called a mizzen. There were four oars, two on each side. And a large cabin in the center of the boat. The cabin door faced the port side. He raised himself slowly and with great pain. A wide stretch of river. And in the sun-splashed, hazy distance he could see land rising abruptly from the water. He realized he was seeing the infamous island for the first time. The closer they got, the more lush and inviting the island looked. You wouldn’t expect that hell could look so good. But Fargo suspected that despite its rugged, natural appeal, the island held secrets dark enough to scare just about anybody.
