Hell on Wheels (A Fargo Western #15)

by John Benteen

  It was ready, now, Fargo thought. Carrying it carefully, thumbs over the lateral pin that retained the spring, he took one last cautious look around, then went almost casually to the water tower. Blow one leg, and that would be enough to bring the whole structure crashing down—and squarely across the C & W track.

  Fargo bound the dynamite to the outside leg of the water tower as high up as he could reach, using copper wire. Then he took out one of the clocks he’d stolen from Whitmore, its back removed, its mechanism otherwise intact. Winding it up and setting it, he ran a small wire from its main cogwheel through a tiny hole in the lateral retaining pin, after wiring the clock securely to the tower leg. He double checked to make sure everything was in order, then fastened a piece of dirty canvas over the entire affair to protect it from wind and grit. If you knew it was there, he decided, stepping back, you might see it; otherwise, it would not be noticed in the shadows of the framework of the tower. There would be a passenger train through at two, in-bound, another out at four. Passenger trains did not stop here for water; there would not be another freight until ten tonight. Satisfied, Fargo scuttled into the brush and watched the tower for a while. Then he hurried back to the mules, convinced that no one had seen him. He still had work to do, plenty of it, and a lot of ground to cover.

  ~*~

  Under cover of twilight that night, he sneaked the mules back into Whitmore’s corral. The train shed and office were empty. Fargo thumbed a key from his pocket, left it on Whitmore’s desk. Taking a last look around, feeling a little beat from lack of sleep and long hours in the saddle, he warily walked the half mile to Whitmore’s house.

  It was a small, neat bungalow, built of stone to resist the corrosive fumes from the smelter. Fargo went in the back door, through the kitchen. There was, he noted, a pot of coffee on the stove; otherwise, no sign of anyone at home. Right now, he was not interested in coffee. He needed a drink, and he knew where Whitmore kept the bottle. He had two long jolts of bourbon, and then, powdered with dust and gummy with sweat, he went to the neat bedroom Will had assigned him, where, before doing anything else, he cleaned his weapons of all dust and grit. Shucking everything but the pistol and the Batangas knife, he got clean clothes from the suitcase and started down the hall. There was a bathroom there with a big, claw-footed tub and, a luxury rare for these parts, hot water. Railroad men got filthy, and Whitmore had rigged a small boiler, well insulated, under which a banked fire smoldered winter and summer, in a shed behind the house. Tapped into the bungalow’s gravity system, it held two hundred gallons, and Fargo intended to take advantage of it. After all, he was going to have a big night in town later on, and he wanted to look his best …

  The bathroom door was closed. Fargo, holding his whiskey glass in one hand, opened it with the other. Then he grinned. “Sorry, lady.”

  Ellen Whitmore, in the tub, jumped, splashed, and then relaxed and smiled as she saw the big man standing in the doorway. Sitting up straight, she dropped her hands, revealing rich, pink-tipped breasts dappled with suds. “Oh, it’s you. Hello, stranger.” Her smile widened, completely wanton. “Come in. You’re just in time to wash my back.”

  “Always glad to help a lady.” Fargo closed the door. “But your dad—”

  “He’s making the late run to the mine. Won’t be home for a good two hours.”

  “That sounds like time enough to get your back clean.” Fargo sat on the tub’s edge, held out the glass. “Want a snort?” His eyes played over the long, white length of her, its image refracted, rippling, in the sudsy water.

  “Love one.” She took the glass, drank long, deeply, while he rubbed soap on the smooth skin between her shoulder blades and splashed water on it. “Where in the world have you been? I’ve seen hardly anything of you since we got to Felspar. Night before last you and Will sat up so late talking—and last night you weren’t here at all. I was disappointed, Neal. I came to your room about three, and it was empty.”

  “That time of night is when the tom cats prowl,” Fargo said.

  “You’d better be joking.” Ellen took his hand and laid it on her breasts. “You don’t need to prowl. Anything you’ve got, I can handle right here. Will sleeps like a log …” Frowning, she went on. “Seriously, where were you?”

  “Nowhere you need to know about. But I got kind of dirty while I was there. Was sort of looking forward to a nice, hot bath.”

  “Were you, now?” Ellen said. She pressed his hand down more tightly on the soft, slippery flesh of her bosom. He felt the hard points of nipples beneath his palm. “Well, you know,” she said, draining the glass, “this is a big tub. Big enough for two.”

  “Damned if that ain’t just what I was thinking,” Fargo said.

  She smiled, tossed her head, slithered her body around making room. “Come on in. The water’s fine ...”

  ~*~

  One thing about it, Fargo thought, as he ambled leisurely down the main street of Felspar, he was clean. He was clean as hell. Laughing softly, he took out a cigar. And it never hurt to try something new. As nearly as he could recollect, that was a maneuver he’d never pulled off in a bathtub before. Fortunately, they had both been dressed, Ellen had mopped up all the spilled water and they were drinking coffee in the kitchen when Will Whitmore came in.

  His eyes raked over Fargo curiously. “I found that key I lost.”

  “What key?” Ellen had asked.

  When Fargo frowned, shook his head, Will said, quickly: “Nothing.” He went to the cabinet. “Sorry I’m so late, but some people from the mine had to come to town on business and I waited for ’em, brought ’em in the caboose on the last run. Want a snifter, Fargo?”

  “No, thanks. Done had a couple and I’ll have another down in town, maybe several.”

  Will’s brow furrowed. “Town? I was hopin’ you’d be around tonight. We’ve got a lot of things to talk about—”

  “Nothin’ so important it can’t wait,” Fargo said, standing up. He took the battered old campaign hat off a rack. “Me, I like a night off amidst the bright lights every now and again. Fact is, this railroadin’ gits kind of borin’. Same old thing day in, day out. Don’t see how you stand it. You want me, Will, I’ll be in The Johnson Bar.” And, leaving them both standing there open-mouthed, he had clamped the hat on his close-cropped white hair and gone out.

  Now he halted in front of The Johnson Bar, took out a pocket watch—a railroader-type he had carried for years because of its relentless accuracy—and checked the time by the light raying from a window. Eight o’clock. An hour and a half, a little more, to kill. He loosened the .38 Officer’s Model Colt in its holster and went into the saloon.

  It was well filled, mostly with hard, gun-toting men who were undoubtedly C & W guards. Rawhide Blaine, at the bar, towering over them. When Blaine saw Fargo, he froze, drink halfway to his mouth. Then he tipped the glass, letting the whiskey drain down his throat. As Fargo came to the other end of the bar, Blaine came to meet him.

  “Hello, Blaine,” Fargo said civilly. “Bourbon, bartender. A bottle and a glass. Best in the house. And another glass for Mr. Blaine.” Blaine was keeping hands high, thumbs hooked in vest pockets. Fargo watched his eyes. Blaine was a gunfighter, and a gunfighter could smile in friendship and draw simultaneously. But he could not mask his eyes. There was always a change, a warning flicker. Fargo had worked for a long time trying to rid himself of that telltale reflex, and had not entirely succeeded. “I’m surprised to see you around,” Blaine said. “You’ve been scarce since you took Slasher Gregg. Thought maybe you’d hauled your freight.”

  “No. Just gettin’ my feet on the ground. How’s our friend old Slasher?”

  “Wrapped up in bandages like a baby,” Blaine said. “You ought to of killed him, Fargo. As it is, you cut out his nerve. He ain’t ever had a man lay a knife on him like that before. And now he’s gone knife-shy. He never was no good with a gun, so he’ll be no use to anybody any more.”

  “That’s the way the old world g
oes,” Fargo said. “Have a drink.”

  “Obliged,” said Blaine and took the glass. “Cheers.”

  “Salud y pesetas,” Fargo said.

  After they had drunk, Blaine said, “I passed your message on to Hawk. He sent back an answer on the telegraph.”

  “I figured that,” Fargo said, “when somebody tried to drill me yesterday mornin’ while I was ridin’ the front of Whitmore’s train.”

  Blaine helped himself to another drink. “Railroadin’s a dangerous business.” He sipped the whiskey. “But it wasn’t me, Fargo. When I want you, I’ll come and get you. Straight up.”

  Fargo stared at him. For the moment, the two of them were alone in the room, in space and time, oblivious to the whole world. They were gunfighters, professionals, and both tainted with the incurable addiction to violence, with the need, the compulsion, to match themselves against the best of their kind they could find, live to the fullest by risking death head-on, straight-up, gun-to-gun. Like fighting cocks or the black savage bulls bred for the ring, it was in their blood.

  But Fargo had decided earlier on that he did not want to kill Blaine if he could help it. He had another use for the man, one for which he needed him alive. Besides, Blaine might kill him instead. There was always someone, somewhere, faster. And, while Hawk Morrison was still alive, that would not be fair to Whitmore, whose money Fargo had taken.

  So he let his hand fall away from his gun. “Blaine,” he said, “I came here to have a few drinks in peace. Suppose we let it ride for now.”

  Something shifted in Blaine’s eyes, as if he too had second thoughts. Or maybe he mistook Fargo’s hesitation for fear, and wanted to let it gnaw a while longer. “Sure,” he said. “I’m in no hurry. Thanks for the drink, Fargo.” He set down the glass and took his own place on the long side of the bar.

  Fargo carried bottle and glass to a table in a corner and slid in, with back to the wall. They knew he was here now, every man in the saloon. That was excellent. He clamped a thin black cigar between his teeth and lit it. He smiled faintly, through the drifting smoke, as he watched the activity. The smile was contemptuous.

  Blaine might be a top fighting man, but he obviously had never been a soldier. Only a man who thought like a civilian would allow his forces to knock off completely, hang around a place like this drinking, gambling, arguing. If there was an enemy in your territory, even the chance of one, if you were any sort of commander at all, you took no risks. You put out your guards, maintained strict security, took nothing for granted. Fargo was the enemy, and yet Blaine, over-confident, could not break the bad habits fallen into when he had totally ruled the roost up here. Well, Fargo thought, he would learn.

  Fargo drank, assessed without interest the few frowsy women circulating in the crowd. Compared to Ellen Whitmore they were pathetic. An hour slid away. Fargo had poured four drinks; two of them had drained secretly into the sawdust on the floor. He had not come here to get soused. He was lifting the fifth drink to his lips when he halted.

  A man, big, rawboned, in miner’s clothes, and strangely familiar had just come into The Johnson Bar. It took a second for Fargo to make the connection, but when he saw the drawn, doomed face, he remembered: Emmett Ridge, the surly, jumpy powder man at the Cayuse Mountain Mine. Fargo watched him closely as Ridge looked around, spotted Rawhide Blaine. Blaine saw him at the same time. His gaze met Ridge’s, then, almost imperceptibly, flickered to Fargo. Ridge turned, saw Fargo sitting there, turned away and went to the end of the bar. He had one drink, then went out.

  Fargo’s cigar was dead. Slowly, thoughtfully, he relit it.

  As he had expected, ten minutes later, Rawhide Blaine set down his glass and left The Johnson Bar. Fargo let out a rasping breath, finished off his drink. Inside him, maybe fed by the whiskey, a flame of excitement, a sense of triumph grew. His visit here tonight had paid a bonus. He toyed with his glass, considering how to exploit it. There was no way, unless Ridge came back, because, for the next hour he dared not leave this place.

  Presently, Blaine returned. Not looking at Fargo, he went back to the bar. Another ten minutes: then the door opened again, and Ridge entered, face bleak and drawn. Staying clear of Blaine, he ordered a drink. Fargo saw how his hand shook as he raised it.

  There was space next to Ridge. Fargo got up, walked across the room, took it. “Hello, Ridge,” he said.

  Ridge stared at him, then gulped his drink and asked for another. He did not speak to Fargo.

  As Ridge was raising the second glass, Fargo said quietly: “Tell me, how’s things out at the Hallelujah Tunnel?”

  The glass slipped from Ridge’s fingers, hit the bar, spilling whiskey. Ridge turned, eyes flaring. “Mister, you got things mixed up.” His voice was hoarse. “I work at the Cayuse Mountain Mine.”

  “Days,” Fargo said. “Nights are another matter.”

  He knew, then, that he had scored, had Ridge cold. He saw the fear and desperation in the big man’s eyes. And in the same instant, Ridge hit him—hard.

  He was fast and the big, work-hardened fist slammed into Fargo’s jaw like the head of a nine-pound sledgehammer. Fargo sailed backwards, hit the floor so hard the room shook; his head rang, his eyes blurred. Then Ridge was coming after him. Fargo, dazed or not, was on his feet like a rubber ball. Ridge stopped short, face working like that of a cornered rat, eyes lambent. “You got a gun,” he rasped. “I’m not heeled.”

  “No,” Fargo said. Quickly he unlatched the cartridge belt, tossed it on a table, and the knife followed. “Now, I’m not, either.” But the words were not fully spoken before Ridge was charging again, and before Fargo could get his guard up, Ridge hit him in the belly.

  The blow drove Fargo backward, knocked the wind out of him, but somehow he managed to raise his arms, turn his torso, fend Ridge’s follow-up; it bounced off a forearm and then a shoulder. He sucked in air desperately, dropping into a crouch and another fist whistled by his ear. Then he had air enough to fight, anyhow, and he sent a jab under Ridge’s guard, from the crouch, and felt it drive home in Ridge’s solar plexus. He heard Ridge’s breath rush out, and now the odds were closer to being even. Fargo came in fast, with the grace and skill learned in the prize ring. He jabbed and jabbed again, but Ridge, it turned out, could box, too, and he countered easily, his footwork quick, his guard professional. Fargo tested him for half a minute, made his decision. Here, in The Johnson Bar, was no place for a Marquis of Queensbury exhibition, not with Blaine and his gunmen standing around. This had to be ended and ended fast and hard; he would take some punishment, but he’d inflict more—a lot of it.

  So he pressed Ridge, let him circle, while he himself feinted, for another ten seconds, gaining breath while Ridge used his. Then he flashed in, fists driving with blurred speed, one-two, one-two, and he was vulnerable that way, attacking, and Ridge hit him twice; one big fist rocked his head, another slugged him above the heart, but Fargo took it and kept coming, because now he was in past Ridge’s guard, and he hit hard, left fist low, driving into Ridge’s belly just above the belt, right aimed high. Ridge’s breath whooshed out, and Fargo’s right fist slammed into his nose and broke it.

  He felt it go, bone and cartilage crushed beneath his knuckles, and blood was suddenly rushing. But Ridge was game, a barroom fighter as well as boxer, and even as Fargo landed that telling, crucial blow, Ridge brought up a quick, hard knee. It almost accomplished its purpose, but not quite; Fargo caught it on the inside of his thigh before it hit his groin.

  But it partially connected with its target, and a flash of sickening pain went through Fargo. He never slowed, followed up, hit Ridge on the nose again. Ridge moaned, shook his head, slung blood, but, strong, dead game, he slugged Fargo right and left, splitting left brow and lower lip, driving Fargo back; and Ridge bored in, face and chest scarlet, and Fargo blocked a finishing blow just in time, dazedly swung his head to let another rip by. Then there was no more science, no footwork, just two men within striking range of one another, determined
to batter one another down, slugging with all the speed and force of hard muscled bodies. They went at hurting one another like men chopping wood, and now Fargo was half blinded with blood from that cut brow; he saw Ridge through a red mist, and he went after Ridge’s nose again, and the eyes.

  That nose was almost gone already. Ridge gasped breath through open mouth, making sobbing, bubbling sounds. Now his eyes, too, began to bleed as Fargo chopped his brows. His face was ghastly, but Fargo’s not much better. And still, Fargo thought, hitting the man with everything he had, Ridge stayed on his feet, slugged back, his blows hurting. Fargo knew he himself could not take much more of this. Ridge was driving for the nose, now, too, and—Fargo stepped back a pace, spat blood. This time, when his hand shot out, it was open. He took a fist on his jawbone that nearly unhinged the jaw, but his splayed fingers smeared blood into Ridge’s eyes, blinding him completely. Ridge gurgled something, shook his head like a wounded bull, fired another punch. It was wild and Fargo dodged it easily. Now he had Ridge—he hoped—and just in time. He came in with the last of speed and strength, ignoring a blind roundhouse that passed behind his head. A hard, short left set Ridge up, a right drove in with force that almost crunched Fargo’s knuckles. He felt bone in Ridge’s face give beneath the blow. The left slammed into Ridge’s belly again; Ridge stepped backwards, swaying, trying to raise his fists. Each one seemed to weigh a ton. He got them partly up. Then they fell to his sides. Fargo measured the last punch, the coup de grace, chopping Ridge on the jaw. Then he dodged back, clear of Ridge’s body, falling forward limply, jarring the room with its impact on the floor.

  “Goddlemighty!” somebody said in awe. But Fargo was already whirling, groping toward the table where he’d left his gun. The room shimmered, his left eye was closed, and his hand ached as he closed it around the gun butt.