Hell on Wheels (A Fargo Western #15)

by John Benteen

  More than that, Fargo thought, blowing smoke, Landslide Bly had been ready to crush his skull with that crowbar, no questions asked, and then the railroad had sent a gunman after him. It was all a hell of a lot ado about nothing. It had got his dander up, and he did not regret one whit what he had done to Brady or the brakeman. Brady would never use his right arm again; Bly would never chew solid food with his own teeth, and the chair leg might even have taken out his voice box; Fargo did not know nor care. What he did know was that something about this division of the C & W stank like a dead fish in three days of sunshine. But right now he and the railroad were flat even, and that was that, as long as it did not crowd him anymore. He stubbed out the cigar, guessed that Jared Pelham would be up by now, and climbed the stair to the hotel’s second floor. Pelham’s suite was at the very end of the corridor. When Fargo knocked, a sleepy voice said, “Who’s there?”

  “Neal Fargo.”

  “Neal—All right, come in.” The voice was suddenly awake, alert. Fargo opened the door and entered.

  Pelham, clad in a silken dressing gown, was eating breakfast at a table in the sitting room of his apartment, which was furnished with a taste for luxury and a disregard for expense. Pelham was a professional gambler, and because he played the same game day in, day out, the odds were always with him, and only rarely was he broke. He and Fargo had faced each other across poker tables from time to time in towns all across the West over the past seven or eight years; Fargo knew him to be absolutely honest and as cold as ice. He had, here in Junction City, lost more than he cared to think about to Jared in the past few days, but both of them knew that it was through no lack of skill on Fargo’s part: Even the best gamblers could not buck a bad run of the cards. There was, between them, the unspoken bond of the real professionals, set apart from the tinhorn operators: the knowledge that each stood behind his word, absolutely. Without such a reputation, no man played for high stakes for long.

  “Morning, Jared.”

  “Neal.” Pelham’s voice was neutral, his square, pale face as expressionless as if he were about to check or raise. “You’re up and about early. Had breakfast?”

  “Just finished.”

  “Some coffee, then.”

  “No, thanks. Just want a favor. Let me hold about three hundred for two weeks. I’ll send it back to you from Cheyenne.”

  Pelham looked down at his plate. After a moment, he said, “Sorry, Neal.”

  Fargo drew in a long breath. This was not something he had counted on, and he fought down anger. “What do you mean sorry? Since when’s my credit not good with you for three hundred?”

  Pelham carefully and precisely sliced a stack of pancakes. “Since last night.”

  After a moment, Fargo said thickly, “I see. The railroad?”

  Pelham did not answer.

  “Jared,” Fargo said quietly, “this don’t add up. Somebody else, maybe, but not Jared Pelham. Since when did anybody ever throw a scare in you?”

  Still Pelham would not look at him.

  “Jared, I want an answer.” Fargo’s voice was a rasp.

  Finally Pelham raised his head. “All right, Neal,” he said flatly. “Last night you got crosswise of the C & W and Hawk Morrison. Anybody who helps you gets crosswise of them, too. A smart player don’t buck a lock. And a lock is what they got, Neal—on Junction Flats and this part of Idaho.” He paused. “In the old days, when I was on the drift, it didn’t matter. But I’m not on the drift any more. I’ve got interests here. I own a piece of two or three places, including The End of Track. I’ve got thousands invested.” He took a sip of coffee. “I don’t want to lose that investment. Way I’m fixed, Hawk Morrison could smash me like an eggshell, financially. I can’t afford to have that happen because I let you hold three hundred.”

  For a moment, Fargo was silent. Then he went to the window, looked out. Traffic teemed on the main street; in the distance, he could see the railroad yards, smoke pluming from a dozen engines against the blue, stainless sky.

  “So it’s like that,” he said.

  “It’s like that. A man has always got to figure the odds.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Fargo said. “Well, thanks anyhow, Jared.”

  “Once you’re out of Junction Flats, I could send it to you—”

  “Skip it,” Fargo said. Both knew this was the end of a friendship, that Pelham would never be able to face Fargo again. “See you around, Jared.”

  Pelham said, “Good luck, Neal.”

  Fargo did not answer as he went out.

  ~*~

  There was, he knew, no use in trying to rent a horse at the livery stable on credit; nor would Whitlow lend him any money. He paused at the hotel desk. “Three of those Panetelas,” he said, indicating a box of cigars in a case along with other sundries. “Put ’em on my bill.”

  “Mr. Fargo,” the clerk began. “About your bill—”

  Then he looked into Fargo’s eyes and his voice trailed off. He got the cigars and handed them over.

  “Thanks,” Fargo said. He bit the end off one and lit it. “Where’s the Division Headquarters of the C & W?”

  The clerk hesitated. “End of Main Street, turn right, down by the yards.”

  Fargo nodded and went out. His strides were long, purposeful, as he walked the length of Main.

  The Division Headquarters of the railroad was a squat, sooty brick building behind the freight and passenger station. Clerks and secretaries labored at desks behind a wooden railing in a bullpen. At a telephone switchboard, a sharp faced woman looked up. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

  “Hawk Morrison in?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison cannot—”

  “You tell him Neal Fargo’s here. And if he’s smart, he’ll see me damned quick.”

  Her face changed; she smiled. “Oh, Mr. Fargo. Of course. Mr. Morrison’s expecting you. Go right in.” She pointed. “Across this room, first door to your right in the hall.” Fargo rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other; beyond that, he betrayed no surprise. “Thanks.”

  The door’s frosted panel bore the inscription J. D. Morrison, Div. Superintendent. Fargo did not knock.

  When the door closed behind him, the man at the desk looked up, shoving aside the stack of papers he’d been working on. Again Fargo was taken by surprise; he had expected an older, tougher looking man. Morrison was in his early thirties, dapper, handsome, and, at first glance, bearing no resemblance to a bird of prey at all. He smiled. “You’re Fargo. You didn’t waste any time. I like that in a man.” Standing up, he put out his hand. “I’m John Morrison. Everybody calls me Hawk.” Their gazes met and then Fargo saw how Morrison had earned the name. His eyes were strange: hard, tinged with yellow, piercing in their keenness, a falcon’s eyes.

  Nor, by the look of him, was Morrison a deskman. In his shirtsleeves and vest, he was only a couple of inches shorter than Fargo and wide in the shoulders, rangy in the body. His movements were graceful, economical, his bearing wholly self-assured. His hair was dark, his tanned face smoothly shaven. A warning bell rang in Fargo’s head; this man must not be underrated.

  Instead of taking Morrison’s hand, Fargo took the cigar from his mouth. Morrison’s smile faded. “So you were expecting me,” Fargo said.

  “Yes,” Morrison said. “Sit down.”

  Fargo took one more wary glance around the room. “You can ease off,” said Morrison. “I’m alone, no bodyguards, no yard bulls.” He dropped into his swivel chair, leaned back, crossed his legs, looked at Fargo with a cold glint of amusement.

  Fargo sat. “You’re trying to roust me,” he said. “I don’t like that.”

  “Things in this world don’t always happen the way we like,” Morrison said smoothly.

  “No. But I try pretty hard to make ’em happen the way I like ’em. And I’ve just about taken a notion that I’d like to stick around Junction Flats a spell. Also, I’ve taken a notion that if the railroad tries to interfere with that, I’d like to come
straight to the man at the top and make him pay for any trouble he causes me. Way I understand it, you’re the man at the top.”

  “I am that,” Morrison said evenly. “Indeed I am. And don’t you ever forget it.”

  “All right,” said Fargo. “You’ve heard my say. Now I’ll hear yours.”

  Morrison stared for a moment into Fargo’s bleak eyes. His own gaze did not waver. Then he seemed to have reached a decision. “Fargo,” he said, “I’m gonna reach in my desk drawer. Not for any kind of weapon. Sit easy.”

  “You go ahead,” said Fargo. But his hand was very close to his gun, and Morrison saw that.

  Morrison pulled open the drawer, brought something out, tossed it on the desk in front of Fargo. It landed with a soft plop and Fargo stared at it.

  “Go ahead,” said Morrison. “Count it. Five hundred bucks in fifties. It’s all yours and there’s more where that came from—a lot more, if you’ve got the guts to earn it. Call that a retainer.”

  Fargo made no move toward the money. Now Morrison’s face, for all its good looks, was wholly that of a bird of prey. “Go ahead, take it,” he said. “I know you’re broke.”

  Fargo said, “You thought wrong. You got a telegraph blank?”

  “Yeah,” said Morrison warily.

  “Pass it over. And a pen.”

  Morrison did, watching Fargo narrowly as Fargo wrote. “Have that sent to Cheyenne collect,” Fargo said, passing back the sheet.

  Morrison’s eyes flicked over it, and he read aloud: Miss Tess Kendall ... Wire five thousand my credit Bank of Junction Flats, Idaho, immediately. Fargo. He looked at Fargo. “Just like that, eh?”

  “Just like that,” said Fargo. “There’s being broke, and then there’s being broke. I ain’t never broke, Morrison. Go ahead, have it sent. I want a copy back, date, time, and signature of the operator.”

  After a moment, Morrison said, “All right.” He went to the door, called someone, passed over the message with instructions. When he sat down again, some of his self-assurance had ebbed.

  “Now,” Fargo said, picking up the money and tossing it back to Morrison, “take this and buy yourself a sack of peanuts. I didn’t come here to deal with you, I came here to tell you this. I rode your train last night and paid my way. But that damned man-mountain Bly tried to kill me before I could even buy the ticket. Later, he and that tinhorn, swivel-holster yard dick braced me in The End of Track. I reckon you know what happened. This mornin’, I find you’ve tried to put the hooks into me, threw a scare into Pelham, cut off my credit in this town. Okay. All I wanted you to know was that I don’t like your railroad, I don’t like the way you run it, and I just made up my mind I don’t like you, either. I’ve had more trouble over that one caboose ride than if I’d stolt old Jay Gould’s private car. Now, you and your railroad get off my back, you understand? I’ve already hurt a couple of C & W men and it won’t bother me a bit if I got to hurt the Division Super.”

  ~*~

  Morrison’s face was a mask, his hawk-eyes glinting yellow. Then he eased.

  “Okay, Fargo.” Now his tone was conciliatory. “You’ve got apologies coming and I’ll make ’em. You’re right. Things have been mishandled—and I’ve misjudged you.”

  He paused. “Bly went after you last night because I’ve given hard and fast orders nobody not employed by this company rides a freight in this division, paid or not. That’s my decision and nobody else’s business. But, yeah, Bly moved too fast. But brains weren’t what he was hired for.”

  He leaned back. “I didn’t send that yard bull after you; Bly brought him. But Brady was good, supposed to be the best we had on the whole line. You took out him and Bly both in ten seconds flat. When that got back to me, I did some checking.”

  He gestured carelessly. “I don’t give a damn about them; a man that can’t cut the mustard takes what’s coming to him. They bit off more than they could chew and that’s their hard luck. Right now, what I do give a damn about is the fact that you’re Neal Fargo. I thought you might be just the man I wanted, but I figured to push you a little harder and see how you responded. Well, you’ve come back the way a man like you ought to. And I’m satisfied you live up to that big rep of yours. Also—”

  “Also, you figured that if I was desperate for cash, I’d hire out cheap,” said Fargo thinly.

  “Maybe that, too.” Morrison grinned coolly. “Business is business. Let’s forget that mistake for now. What it boils down to is that I got a job for you. Now, forget the five hundred. What’s your price?”

  “I don’t bet in the blind. What’s the job?”

  “You’ll know that when you take my money, not before. Well, how much?”

  Fargo was silent for a moment, chewing the cigar. Presently he said, “A company this size, a man like you ... I’d say my rock bottom price was twenty thousand.”

  Morrison came upright. “Goddlemighty! Twenty thousand?”

  He stared at Fargo. Fargo looked back steadily. Morrison let out a breath. “All right,” he said at last. Five now, five in a month, ten after you’ve finished this job successfully. It’s a hell of a price, but I need you.” He arose, turned toward a big steel safe in the corner.

  “Hold on, Morrison,” Fargo said.

  The man swung around.

  “I didn’t say I’d work for you.”

  Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “You said—”

  “I said that if I did, twenty would be my price. But you can keep your money.”

  “Damn it, Fargo—”

  Fargo stood up. “You won’t tell me what the job is until I bind myself to you. Anybody that’s got a job like that, it’s something down and dirty. Okay, that’s my trade. But only when I figure I can trust the man I’m working for.” He grinned coolly. “I’ve seen you now, and I’ve seen your railroad and how it operates. And I’ve just decided—I wouldn’t touch anything you offered me with a ten-foot pole. I’d wind up crossed, double-crossed and triple-crossed before the dust settled.” Morrison’s face went white; his eyes blazed. Fargo ground the dead cigar in the ashtray on the desk; its stink was pungent in the room. “Like I said, all I came down here for was to warn you. I’ll be around a while yet. Long as I’m here, you and your railroad stand clear of me or I’ll hold you responsible and deal with you. Now, if we understand each other, I’ll let you get back to work.” He went to the door.

  “Fargo!” Morrison bit off the word.

  He turned, hand on the knob.

  Morrison stood there behind the desk, those hawk eyes still blazing. His voice was soft, even, when he spoke. “All right, you’ve had your say, now I’ll have mine. Nobody talks to me like that and gets away with it. Nobody gets slantwise of me and my division and stays healthy. I’ll be checking with the bank. When that money comes in, you take it and get out—same day. Or you’ll take the consequences. And I don’t mean just out of Junction Flats. I mean out of Idaho.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I don’t make threats,” Morrison said. “Just promises. You heard me.” Then, almost casually, he sat down behind his desk. “Good day, Fargo.”

  “See you around, Morrison,” Fargo said, and he went out. Once he had left the building, instead of turning toward Main Street, he dodged to his right, sheltered behind the Division Headquarters’ corner where he could watch the door. He stayed there five minutes, but no one came out. Then, still cautious as a trap wise wolf, he went back to his hotel. He did not underestimate Hawk Morrison: there was power and danger in the man, and Morrison had plenty of other railroad detectives and hardcases at his disposal in a yard this size. He could not handle them all at once. Not, anyhow, until he’d reclaimed the gear he’d cached back in the desert.

  Chapter Three

  It was good to be in the saddle again, out in the clean high country, away from Junction Flats with its pall of engine smoke, soot and coal dust. Good to feel a strong horse moving under him, fresh wind in his face. Idaho, Fargo thought: fine country, especially afte
r Mexico. Everything the West had to offer rolled up into a single state: mountain wilderness, snow-capped peaks, fine cattle range, fast rivers like the Snake, and awesome canyons, and sagebrush flats and desert. Ranching, logging, farming, and yet not so many people that you bumped into a fence or a town every time you turned around.

  As he’d expected, the five thousand Tess had sent had come in the day after his encounter with Hawk Morrison. Fargo’s first move had been to pay his hotel bill to date, without checking out; his second had been to buy this fine chestnut gelding and to rent the sturdy, mountain-bred pack pony trailing on a lead rope; he’d need it for the extra saddle. He had made sure the livery manager knew he’d be back in a day or two. He didn’t want Morrison to get the idea that he was scared and running.

  Morrison ... Fargo’s mouth quirked wryly, as he savored the recollection of the man’s face when his offer of twenty thousand had been turned down. And maybe, Fargo thought, he had been a fool to do that. He’d learned well enough lately that jobs like that didn’t grow on every tree. But he had a sixth sense, and the deal stank. When a man offered that kind of money, he wanted something rough as hell done. If he laid his cards on the table about what it was, well and good; you either took it or you walked away. But Fargo was too old, too wise. He had been around too long to do business with somebody who tried to suck him in the way Morrison had. More than that: he knew the big railroads like the C & W. They watched their nickels and their pennies. A Division Superintendent was a big dog, all right, but Fargo couldn’t imagine a corporation like the C & W authorizing even a Division Super to lay out twenty thousand cash to hire a fighting man just like that, without contracts, paper work, a lot of clearances. That wasn’t the railroad way of doing business. The whole affair smelled to Fargo like buried steel to a trap wise wolf.