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.
