by John Benteen
Fargo chucked his clothes, rolled into his bunk. He had sheathed the knife now, but his Colt .38 was at the ready under his Hudson’s Bay five-point blanket. He lay awake for a long time, waiting to see if anyone else in the bunkhouse was awake. When he was convinced that no one was, he slowly relaxed and went to sleep.
Chapter Six
Duke assembled the crew early the next morning. A towering, massive figure with hands rammed into the pockets of stagged pants, thick legs widespread, he bellowed, “All right, dammit! We’re missin’ a man! Feller named Sam Goodis, bucker on Side Three—that new feller I hired jest before we pulled outa Seattle. He’s gone and so’s an ax! Anybody seen Goodis?”
The men were silent, shrugging. Fargo thought, That’s who he was. Another of Lasher’s men planted in the crew … The death of Hoskins should have stopped the opening of the new Side for days, cost MacKenzie time and timber. Fargo had unexpectedly filled the gap and so he’d had to be gotten rid of, too. Instinctively, his hand went to the .38, harnessed under his armpit inside the flannel shirt. How many more of Lasher’s people were there here? Damn it, he wished he could carry the shotgun—
They searched the area. Below the dam, the Wolf’s Head was wild, brawling; there was no sign of the body or the ax. Finally Duke gave up in disgust. “Hell, the work was too much for him. One of these damn hot-stove loggers; he musta high-tailed it out last night, ashamed to face me. All right, let’s get back to work!”
They moved out into the virgin timber. With no need at the moment for a high-climber or rigger, Fargo was paired with Milligan at falling. They began to cut the Douglas fir. Like everything else in high-lead logging, it was an art—dropping each huge tree in exactly the right direction and on the perfect spot to make it easy for the buckers to cut it into shorter lengths, the choker setters to fix the collars, the leverman on the yarder to bring the great sticks of fir rampaging through the woods on end, like charging, maddened beasts.
First the undercut in the standing trunk—and it has to be placed exactly, governing the direction of the fall. That was an art, taking into consideration the lean of the tree, the prevailing wind, everything that might affect the way one of the giants might fall. Fargo and Milligan, on either side, swung axes in rhythm, never missing a beat, huge, bright, fragrant chips flying. Then the crosscut saw was used, with wedges driven to keep it from binding, kerosene on the blade to dissolve the glue-like pitch, the blood of trees. When the cut was nearly done they could feel it in the saw handles, a kind of vibration. Looking up, they could see the treetop, scores of yards above them, began to whip. The saw withdrawn, they jumped back, and the old cry rang out, “Timberrrr—!” The tree lurched forward, there was a rending sound as the rest of the wood in its thick butt went. Slowly, majestically, the tall firs toppled until the butt broke free, kicked up and out with terrible power. Then, with terrific speed and force tons of wood came hurtling down, striking with a crash like thunder in a shower of dirt and branches. The buckers attacked it like ants swarming on a carcass, axes flying as they lopped off limbs, and Fargo and Milligan moved on to their next victim.
It was man’s work, and even though Fargo’s muscles, not yet adjusted, still ached a bit when the quitting whistle blew, he felt good, relaxed, easy. After the meal, he eased out of camp without being missed, faded into the woods, loped up the riverbank silently and stealthily as a shadow. He craved a swim, wanted to wash away the day’s sweat and pitch—and then he had something else in mind.
A long way up the river he found a place secret enough. After what had happened last night—the fight on the dam—he had no intention of making himself vulnerable by stripping off clothes and rendering himself gunless where any other assassin could make a try at him while he was unarmed. Only when he was sure he was alone and safe did he strip, pile clothes on the bank, plunge into the icy water. Even then, he never was far from the Colt which he hung close to the surface on a projecting branch.
He climbed out, dried, teeth chattering, dressed quickly. He was on the far bank from the camp now, and there was still plenty of daylight, time enough to accomplish what he intended. He checked the Colt, made sure it was loose in the holster, opened the Batangas knife with a quick flip to make sure its handles were loose and easy-moving, made a pass or two to limber his wrist with the ten-inch blade, sheathed the weapon again, and moved back into the woods.
Despite all the mist and fog of the mornings, they were dry. This was the tag end of summer, the beginning of fall, the fire season. The needles under his feet were brittle and if he had stepped on twig or branch it would have cracked like a pistol shot. But he did not; he was like fog himself as he sifted through the shadows beneath the towering trees.
Presently he reached it; the clearing in which the Mannix cabin sat. Taking cover behind a screen of greenery, he drew from his pocket a small telescope. Opened, it was not more than a foot long but it gave him the magnification he needed. Shielding its lens with a palm lest any light from the setting sun strike it with a telltale gleam, he brought it to bear on a cabin window.
Inside, a lamp had been lit. Presently Barbara Mannix moved into view. She wore the tight shirt, blue jeans. He watched her go to a cabinet, take down a bottle and a tin cup. She poured a sizeable jolt from the bottle into the cup, drank it quickly, like a man. Then, assuming herself sufficiently screened by the woods around her, she unbuttoned the shirt, stripped it off. In a moment, she was naked to the waist. She turned to the window, almost as if deliberately giving Fargo a view of those magnificent breasts. Then she evidently removed the jeans, though he could not, at the moment, see beneath the sill of the window.
After that, she vanished. When she returned she wore a robe belted about her waist with a cord. She had another drink, this time straight from the bottle, and then she shifted in and out of his sight in a regular pattern; evidently she was cooking supper.
There was no sign of her father, and there was only one horse in the little pen behind the house. The light began to fade. Then Fargo’s keenly tuned hearing caught the sound of hoofbeats. Approaching from the direction of the logging camp, Lance Mannix rode into the clearing.
Fargo hunkered down a little more tightly behind his cover. He watched Mannix swing down, tilt back the Forest Service hat, and the telescope picked up the man’s face in profile as he began to unsaddle the horse. He was, Fargo thought, a damn hard-looking customer, and he handled the heavy stock saddle as if it were a feather; there was strength aplenty in those wide shoulders and thick arms, despite the marks of heavy drinking on his countenance and the beginning of a whiskey-belly under his belt. He turned the horse into the corral, put up the bars, then strode into the cabin.
Fargo swung the scope back to the window. Mannix went straight to the cabinet, got out the bottle, pulled its cork with his teeth, and drank directly from it, long and deeply. He shuddered slightly, then drank again. He and Barbara traded a few words. Apparently she was asking him if he wanted food; and, it seemed, he’d rather drink. The two of them were framed directly in the window and, right now, Fargo wished that the ability to read lips were among his skills.
But it was clear that their words were growing heated. He saw Barbara’s lips peel back in a kind of snarl, the face of Mannix darken as the argument built up. He saw the Government man’s big hand clench: now Barbara was yelling at him. Suddenly Mannix hit her, fast and hard, with open palm. The blow knocked her out of Fargo’s vision, but she bounced back quickly. And now—Fargo tensed—she had a table knife in her hand. She came at her father with it, and the big man dodged the thrust with surprising speed. And it was, Fargo realized, a thrust that was meant to kill!
Then he caught her wrist, twisted. The knife fell to the floor, Barbara squirmed, struck at him with clawed hand, the robe flying open, big breasts bouncing. Mannix hit her again. Suddenly she quit fighting. He said something fiercely to her; she stared back at him with lambent eyes, lips parted. All at once her shoulders slumped, her face changed. Mannix
grinned coldly.
Then, as Fargo watched, he pulled her to him. She came willingly. Mannix’s hand went inside the open robe, closed over one breast. He bent his head, Barbara raised hers, and Fargo saw how her lips were parted. He swore softly as Mannix kissed her long and hard and in a way far from fatherly. And when the kiss was over and Mannix let her go, she snuggled against him tightly, easily, her hands under his coat, caressing his torso. He bent his head to kiss her again; then they moved out of the range of Fargo’s vision, Barbara’s arms around his neck.
Fargo lay there for a long time but they did not reappear.
His gray eyes were cold, hard, thoughtful, when at last, he got to his feet and faded into the woods, darkening with oncoming night. Father and daughter? Not damned likely. He had seen too many times the same sort of fight and reconciliation between whores and their fancy men. That couple in there was a young girl and a desperately jealous, hard-drinking older lover. They could not bear to be separated, and that was why Mannix had brought her out here and passed her off as his daughter.
And so, he had lied. In how many other ways had he lied?
Fargo was like a ghost as he loped downriver. When he reached the dam he faded into the underbrush, scrutinized it in the dying light to make sure the coast was clear. Then he crossed the Wolf’s Head on it, sauntered on into camp. But, almost immediately, he halted, cocking his head. On the main road in from outside, wagons were coming—a lot of wagons. And that was strange, since no supplies were needed now.
He sauntered casually to one side of the clearing. Others had heard the sound, too, and the loggers had come out of their bunkhouses. Milligan came up to him. “Hey, Fargo, where you been? I thought you and me might have a game of cribbage.”
“I went to take a swim,” said Fargo. “Who’s coming in?”
“Damned if I know.” Then Milligan stiffened as, at the head of a cavalcade, a buggy appeared. The Irishman pointed.
“Hey, look. Ain’t that The Old Man hisself? Ain’t that Alec MacKenzie?”
It was, and the owner of Great Northwestern was in woods clothes, flannel shirt, stagged pants and caulked boots, when he got out of the vehicle. But that was not what arrested Fargo’s attention.
It was the two wagonloads of men behind MacKenzie that pulled into the camp. Some of them—and there were more than two dozen—were in woods clothes, too, but they were not loggers. Fargo had seen too many of their kind to be deceived. And the rifles they carried cinched it. These were fighting men.
Fargo’s nostrils flared. What Milligan had scented was like a distant crown fire. What Fargo smelled now—an old, familiar taint—was war.
~*~
Duke Hotchkiss had emerged from the office. He was obviously startled to see his boss, and even more amazed at the two wagonloads of men. Fargo could not hear the conversation that took place between the bull of the woods and the company president there outside the small log building, but he saw Duke wave his hands, frown, then shrug. Then MacKenzie turned, looked around, and his eyes came to rest on Fargo. He pointed, “You,” he said. “Come here.”
Fargo’s mouth twisted. It was war, all right. He strode over. “Hello, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“Fargo, I’d like to talk to you, along with Duke. Inside.”
“Sure,” Fargo followed the two of them into the office. MacKenzie shut and latched the door behind them.
He took Duke’s chair behind the desk, motioned to two other chairs. Duke’s eyes went from MacKenzie to Fargo with puzzlement. “You two know each other?”
“We know each other,” MacKenzie said. “I hired Fargo.”
“The hell you did? I hired him, after a fight—” Then Duke broke off. “Oh,” he said with comprehension. “Undercover man.”
“That’s right,” the tall Scot said. “But he’s not going to be undercover anymore. He’s going to have the chance to do what he hired out to do—fight.”
“Look, Mr. MacKenzie, maybe you’d better explain this.” Duke rubbed his face. “We jest get back into the woods with a full ticket and here you show up with two dozen more men we don’t need, all armed to the teeth—”
“I’ll explain it,” MacKenzie said. “And we need the men.” He took out a cigar, bit off its end, thrust it between his teeth. “From now on, I’m taking personal charge of this operation.”
Duke’s leathery face registered surprise; his eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “I ain’t been runnin’ it to suit you?”
“You’re running it all right, even if you did lose Hoskins yesterday.”
“I told you, that was an accident; he cut his own climbin’ rope.”
“Maybe.” MacKenzie arose, began to pace the office. “Be that as it may, we’ve got to do two things from now on—cut timber and fight. Duke, you’ll handle the logging. But the fighting’s Fargo’s responsibility from now on—that’s his specialty.”
Duke rubbed his chin. “It sure as hell is.”
“Anyhow,” MacKenzie continued, “right after you and your men pulled out of Seattle, I picked up word from certain sources I have there. I thought I was in bad shape if I didn’t make this cut, but it seems Saul Lasher’s in worse. The way he cuts, he’s painted himself into a corner, nobody will lease him timber rights to anything, and he’s idle, with mill contracts he’s got to make, too, if he’s going to survive, not be foreclosed on by the banks. He’s got to have the Wolf’s Head, and he’s got to have it in a hurry; the banks are shoving him hard. And there’s only one way he can get it.”
He lit the cigar. “My lease with the Government calls for me to exercise every precaution to protect that tract. I’ve tried to do that. But there’s one thing that can get it cancelled within twenty-four hours and put out to the next bidder—Lasher. That’s if we have a fire that destroys more than a quarter of the Tract.”
Fargo sat up straight. MacKenzie went on. “This is the fire season and these woods are dry as powder, will be until the rains begin in maybe two weeks. It’s the crucial time, when a single dropped match or cigarette butt can burn me right out of a fortune. The Government had made it my responsibility to see there is no fire, or if there is, I put it out before it does any significant damage. If it does, I lose my logging rights automatically and they go to Lasher.”
He blew smoke. “Until now, he’s nibbled at me, not wanting a fire any more than I do because, after all, the more standing timber’s left the richer he’ll get if he could freeze me out some other way. But, according to my information, he’s reached a point of desperation now. He’d burn a quarter of the Wolf’s Head, maybe risk burning half of it to get quick possession. And he’s hired men—fighting men, just like those out there in those wagons.”
“I’m beginning to see,” Duke muttered.
“Aye, it’s clear. He’s going to send his men into the Tract. They’ll start fires, and if we try to put them out, they’ll fight us—at least until there’s been enough burn to make sure my lease is cancelled. Then he gets immediate possession, rips out everything that can be sawed, and fill his contracts and get square with the banks in a hurry. The word I get is that he’s hired at least two dozen men, maybe twice that many, and is funneling them out here in our woods. If he gets away with it, I’m ruined myself. So we’ve got to do two things at once—keep on getting logs out, and hunt down Lasher’s men and stop ’em from starting fires. You log, Fargo hunts, and I take overall control of both operations.”
“Goddamn,” said Duke. “I’ve never been mixed up in a deal like this before.”
“Let’s hope you never are again. Once a fire gets started in this country, steep as it is, we’ll have hell’s own time putting it out.”
He turned to Fargo. “So that’s your job. I’ve got two dozen of the meanest, toughest bastards I could find in Seattle for you to handle. They’re all woods-wise, but they’re gun-wise even more.” He gestured. “If Lasher’s men aren’t out there already they will be soon, like wolves in the brush. You find them. When you do … Well, any tres
passer on this tract is to be shot on sight, and I’ll take the responsibility.”
He went to a file cabinet, fished in it, brought out a map. “You’ll have to study this and range well out beyond the actual limits of the Tract. They can stay outside my territory and still set a fire that the wind will bring in.”
“Duke will know the winds,” said Fargo. “He can tell me how they blow and where and when, and we can spot our patrols that way.”
“Good. What you’re going to have to do, Fargo, is think like Lasher would; if you were gonna burn us out, where would you start?”
Fargo grinned his wolf’s snarl. “Right across the river.”
MacKenzie blinked. “What’re you talking about?”
“Mannix. The Government man.”
“The hell you say!” Duke blurted.
Fargo looked at MacKenzie, “What do you know about Mannix?”
“Nothing, except that he showed up at my office in Seattle with all the proper credentials, told me he’d been assigned by the Forest Service to monitor my cutting. Why?”
“Yesterday, before Hoskins fell off the spar tree, the girl, Barbara, was playing with his rope. Oh, she was clever about it, but before she was through, she’d handled it from one end to the other.” His eyes were hard. “I know high-climbers and high-climbing. A man like Hoskins wouldn’t cut his own rope. Somebody else did it and did it between the time he checked it in the morning and when he went up that tree. The way she played around with it, she’s the logical one. A single-edge razor blade palmed between her fingers, a little sawing while she was pretending to learn high-climbing—”
“That doesn’t make sense!” Duke snapped. “With her father the Ranger on the job?”
“He ain’t her father. Or if he is, he’s in bad trouble.” Then, tersely, he told them both what he had seen through the telescope.
