by John Benteen
Fargo was after two things: a priceless cannon and a beautiful woman. But the only way to the Valley of the Skulls was through land so primitive that word of revolution would not have reached it. There was a reward out for him in Guatemala and there were the bandits in Yucatan, and they would have stalked him all the way, if they did not kill him for his guns and outfit first . . .
Chapter One
They were killing machines, the two fighting cocks. Hatched and bred with only one objective, one destiny: combat.
The men, nearly fifty of them, made a circle behind the warehouse on the outskirts of San Antonio. The sun was hot, the air still; in the distance church bells tolled. The men shouted, waved handfuls of money, betting. Inside the circle, the handlers ‘billed’ their chickens: two barefooted Mexicans moved close to one another so the game fowl could slash at each other with the beaks of snakelike heads. Then the referee, a businessman of the town in white shirt and tie, said loudly, “Pit!”
A circle had been drawn in the dust. The handlers moved to opposite sides, lowered their roosters to the ground. Then they released them. The two birds charged at one another, hackles raised, the steel spurs, razor-sharp, strapped to their feet, gleaming. In a flurry of glittering feathers, wings beating, heads lashing, gaffs slashing, they met, left the ground, fell back.
On the circle’s inside edge, Fargo crouched, watching closely. One cock was bronze and gold; his money rode on it. The other was gunmetal blue. Now, as the birds hit the dust, he sucked in breath. The bronze cock was underneath, the blue on top—and the blue had both spurs sunk deep into the bronze one’s breast and belly.
The bronze cock’s wings beat, hard, desperately. “Handle,” the referee said.
The two men moved in. Carefully, the bronze cock’s owner detached the blue cock’s gaffs from flesh. He picked up the bronze one, blood dribbling between his fingers. There was blood on its head, too, and in its eyes. As he moved back to the circle’s edge, he used his tongue to lick, delicately, the rooster’s eyes clean.
“Pit,” the referee said.
The blue cock, unharmed, charged. The bronze cock, dying, shoved its way forward awkwardly. It would fight to the last beat of its heart, be dangerous so long as one flicker of life remained. Fargo felt a kinship with the bird. It was doomed, yes, but it was going out the way a creature bred to fight should; the way he would go out when his time came. Around him the crowd’s shouting rose to crescendo, but he was silent. For him there was meaning, significance, in the bronze cock’s lethal determination to deal damage before it died.
Trailing blood, it pushed itself into ring’s center with faltering wings and limber legs. The blue rooster hit it hard, confidently, knocked it on its back, slashed at it with its gaffs. The bronze cock beat the dust with wings, slashed back, and found a target for its gaffs in the blue one’s exposed breast. Suddenly the blue cock went into convulsions. Wings flapping wildly, it rolled and twisted, dragging the bronze one with it, spurs locked deep in flesh. Then the blue cock was underneath; all at once it went wholly limp. Fastened on top of it, the bronze one looked around with glittering eyes beginning to glaze. The referee moved in, closely. The blue cock was motionless, dead. The bronze one beat its wings again, tried to rise on the body of its opponent, threw back its bloody head and golden neck. From its throat came one feeble half-crow of triumph. Then it too went into the wing-flapping convulsions of death, fell forward, and was still.
The referee stood up, faced the crowd. “The red cock wins. Next bird.”
Fargo’s mouth twisted in a faint grin of satisfaction. He straightened, gray eyes searching the crowd. Where was Galloway?
Then he saw him, striding away quickly down the alley between the warehouses. Fargo’s lips thinned; he grunted a curse, shoved through the mob, went after him. As he moved with long-legged stride, his polished cavalry boots struck the dusty earth sharply, and Galloway could not have helped hearing him come, but Galloway did not look back.
Fargo quickened his pace. He was a big man, well over six feet, broad in the shoulder, heavy in the chest, narrow in waist and hips. An old cavalry hat topped a short-cropped thatch of hair gone prematurely snow-white above a face hard, craggy, marked at the age of thirty-five by years of tough outdoor living. His features were ugly, brutal, yet somehow attractive in their ruthless strength. He wore a white shirt, a tie, a corduroy jacket especially cut to conceal the holstered Colt .38 Officer’s Model revolver under his left arm, whipcord pants, and boots. He could have been a prosperous cattleman or an oil wildcatter. He had been both in his time, but now he was a soldier of fortune, a man who hired out to fight no matter what the odds—provided the money was right. He was good at his trade and he did not come cheap; he liked money.
And Galloway owed him some. Fargo’s long legs closed the gap between them.
Then he barked, harshly: “Galloway.”
The other did not halt. Indeed, appearing not to hear, he moved on faster.
“All right,” Fargo said, to no one in particular. Then he ran.
He ran the way a panther travels, in graceful, fluid bounds that covered ground with deceptive swiftness. Galloway heard him coming, seemed about to break, then thought better of it. At last he halted, turned, a man in a big sombrero, suit, tie, and high-heeled boots. As tall as Fargo, he was a few years older, with a rocky slab of a face, huge hands doubling now to fists, and a barrel chest. He was, he claimed, a cattle buyer. Maybe, Fargo thought as he faced Galloway, he was also a welcher. In Fargo’s book, there was nothing lower.
Galloway’s face was pale beneath its tan; his black eyes narrowed. “You called me, Fargo?”
“Yeah.” Fargo halted five feet away. “There’s a little matter of a thousand bucks you owe me. The red cock won.”
“No. They killed each other.” Galloway shook his head. “All bets off.”
“If you don’t know cockfightin’, Galloway, you shouldn’t risk money on it. The last bird alive is the winner.” He grinned, not pleasantly, but like a hungry wolf spotting prey. “Let’s have the dinero, Galloway.”
Galloway’s eyes batted. Then he smiled. “Okay, sure. If that’s the way it works.” He reached in his coat pocket, and his hand came out holding a snub-nosed, nickel-plated .32
He was fast, but Neal Fargo made him look slow and stupid. No man reached like that without triggering reflexes in Fargo’s body, and his boot was already coming up. It connected, and Galloway squalled, and in the same instant Fargo moved in and his big hand caught the other’s wrist. Fargo squeezed, and bones slid and ground together in his grasp, and the pistol dropped. Fargo brought his right across, hard; slammed the doubled-over Galloway back against the warehouse wall. Then he kicked the gun and sent it skittering down the alley as Galloway, groaning, dropped to his knees.
“I’ll have the thousand,” Fargo said, standing over him.
Galloway sucked in breath. Then, without warning, he launched himself at Fargo.
He came up fast, and his big head, cannonball solid, caught Fargo in the belly, knocked him across the alley and against the warehouse on the right. Galloway came after him, fast, but not fast enough. Fargo dropped low, and Galloway’s double-fisted, clubbing blow missed and Fargo drove his own fist deep in the other’s belly and, simultaneously, chopped Galloway across the back of the neck with the blade of his left hand.
Galloway slammed against the wall, then sagged. On his knees, he tried weakly to seize Fargo’s ankles. Fargo stepped aside, kicked him in the chin. Galloway sprawled, rolled over on his back. Not quite out, he shook his head groggily.
“Get up,” said Fargo from above him. “Get up and pay off.” He pulled the Colt from its shoulder holster. “Or n
ext time you git a pistol whippin’ that’ll make you look like you tried to kiss a bobcat. Up, Galloway.”
Groaning, Galloway struggled to his knees. Then he pushed himself to his feet, stood there swaying. “For God’s sake, Fargo,” he husked, “don’t hit me again.” He reached in his coat once more, this time brought out a wallet. His hands shook as he counted out the money.
Fargo took it, still holding the gun trained. He counted it swiftly, accurately, thrust it in his own coat. Then he backed away, picked up the nickel-plated gun, jacked the cartridges out, stuck them in his pocket, and dropped the weapon in the dust.
His eyes locked Galloway’s. “Don’t you come around me again, you cheap bastard,” he said coldly. “Don’t you come around me as long as I’m in San Antone, you hear?” Then he turned contemptuously and walked away.
Behind him, Galloway made a strange sobbing sound, as if he were crying over the loss of his money.
Fargo lost fifteen hundred on the next fight, won two thousand on the one after that. Then it was over; the crowd broke up. Fargo walked through the warehouses to the street and caught a trolley uptown.
He was staying in the best hotel. Women in the lobby followed the tall, hard-faced, ugly man with their eyes as he passed through.
His room was large. He peeled off coat and tie, turned on the electric fan. He did not remove the shoulder-holstered gun. There was a bottle of whiskey on the bureau. He pulled its cork with strong teeth, drank long and deep then put it aside.
Turning, he pulled from beneath the bed a large, brassbound trunk with a heavy padlock. He unfastened it, took most of his winnings from his coat, was about to deposit the cash inside. But he could not resist the guns; and, one by one, he took them out and checked them.
He was a professional and they were the tools of his trade. Like all master craftsmen, he respected his tools and kept them in meticulous working order.
First there was the .30-30 Winchester Model 94 carbine. He took that out of its scabbard, checked its oil, worked its lever. Satisfied, he laid it aside.
Something glowed in his eyes as he lifted out the next item. A case of finest chamois skin was stripped away to reveal a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun, a Fox Sterlingworth, ten-gauge, its breech beautifully chased and engraved. He ran his thumb over the inscription worked into the decoration: To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt. His mouth quirked. It had been a long time since he had heard from the man he’d served in the Rough Riders in Cuba. He wondered what the tough old coot was up to. Probably hunting lions somewhere in Africa or jaguars in South America.
Originally a fowling piece, the gun’s short barrels were now open bore, each capable of throwing nine chilled buckshot in a deadly pattern from which, at close range, nothing could escape. Fargo had attached a sling to it, and now he slipped his arm through it and let the gun hang muzzles down behind his back. Then he hooked his right thumb in the sling, twitched. As if by magic, the two short barrels whisked up under his armpit, pointed straight ahead; in the same clock tick of time, Fargo’s left hand shot across his body, tripped both triggers. The gun clicked twice. In that position, it was upside down, but that would have made no difference at all if it had been loaded; not to anyone standing in front of it.
Fargo smiled faintly, transferred the gun to his other shoulder, went through the same routine. He had been born ambidextrous. It was a knack that had saved his life more than once.
He checked the shotgun carefully for oil and cleanliness, then restored it to the chamois case. He put it aside, took out the Batangas knife.
Twin handles of water-buffalo horn folded forward, sheathed the blade. Fargo flicked a catch, jerked his wrist; both handles opened, snapping back into his palm, revealing ten inches of the hardest, sharpest, best-crafted blade a knife-fighter could obtain. This weapon had come from Batangas on Luzon, where Fargo had served a hitch in the cavalry during the Philippine Insurrection; and the boast of its owner that it could be driven through a silver dollar with a single blow without breaking or dulling had been proved by him. Fargo was an expert with it, and he made two quick practice passes, blade low and parallel with the ground, then flipped the handles back around it, locked them, and restored the weapon to its special sheath. He laid it aside, pulled out the bandoliers.
There were two big ones to crisscross over his chest; one glittered with ammo for the Winchester; the other held fifty shells for the shotgun. All its loops were full. He put them aside, too, and pulled out the cartridge belt and pistol holster he wore around his waist when he was not in town. Fat cartridges winked at him, their gray noses hollow inside; these were dum-dums, designed to expand explosively on impact, possessing awful stopping power and capable of doing dreadful things to flesh. They were not pleasant in their effect, but when Fargo shot a man, he wanted him to stay down.
The trunk also contained clothes suitable for different climates; Fargo had plied his trade of professional soldier, hired gunman, and revolutionist in many parts of the world. He’d had other occupations, too: born on a New Mexican ranch, his parents killed by Apaches, he had run away from his foster home at the age of twelve. Since then, he’d fought in Cuba, punched cows, logged big timber, wildcatted in the oil fields, boxed in the prize ring, gambled as a professional, and once, when down on his luck, had even served a term as bouncer in a whorehouse.
In addition to the clothes, there were boxes of spare ammunition and reloading tools and primers. Fargo was fussy about his ammunition; he wanted certain powder loads and bullet weights, and when he could not buy them, he put them together himself.
There was also five thousand in gold in the trunk, all that was left of ten that he had brought back across the river a week ago. He made money fast and spent it the same way. Now he added the winnings from the cockfight, restored the weapons carefully to the trunk, and put the trunk back under the bed. Then, as he was having another drink, someone knocked on the door.
Instinctively, Fargo’s hand went to the gun. “Who is it?”
The woman’s voice was low. “Carla, Fargo.”
He grinned, opened the door quickly. She came in just as quickly and shut it softly behind her. She was tall, full breasted, her hair black as a raven’s wing, her eyes huge and lustrous. Her waist was slim, her hips curved beneath the clinging dress; although the garment masked them. He knew how long, how superb her legs were. She was one of the reasons he spent money so fast.
“Neal,” she whispered, and she came to him. He felt the soft cushions of her breasts against his chest, her nails digging into his back, her lips opening beneath his mouth as he held her and kissed her. The kiss lasted a long time; when it was over, her eyes were shining, her breasts heaving, and she was panting slightly.
That grin came back on Fargo’s face. “Where is he this afternoon?”
“Bert? He left for Marfa to buy some cattle after Sunday dinner.” Her voice was husky. “We’ve got the whole night ahead of us, Neal.”
Then she turned around. “Unbutton me,” she said.
Fargo did.
He had met Carla Reeves in the hotel lobby two days before. She had just come out of the dining room with several other well-dressed women, the wives, Fargo tagged them, of San Antonio’s upper crust. She was the loveliest and most expensive-looking of them all. For an instant, their eyes had met. That had done it. When he came out of the dining room, she had let the others go on without her and she was waiting in the lobby …
Her husband was fifteen years older than she, and he dealt in cattle and land; it kept him traveling. That made it easier. Not that his presence in town would have stopped Fargo. When he saw something he wanted, he took it. If a man couldn’t see to his own wife, that was his tough luck.
Now he ran his eyes over Carla’s nakedness as she finished stripping off her clothes. He liked the way the big breasts, nipples hard as rocks, stood out firmly; he liked the white velvet softness of her belly, the long, soft-thighed, yet strong legs. He liked the full, lush mout
h. But, he thought, it was about time to end this. Might as well wind it up today.
“Aren’t you going to undress?” she whispered.
“Sure.” He stripped off the gun belt, pulled off his shirt. Her eyes were hungry, admiring, as they ranged the tanned, muscular torso scarred and puckered with old wounds. Then the boots and the rest of the clothes. By then, she was on the bed waiting. He went to her.
When it was over, Fargo got out of bed, lit a cigarette, took a pull at the bottle, passed it to her.
She drank from it like a man, gave it back, looked at him with lambent eyes. “Fargo ...”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been thinking ... If I told Bert, he’d give me a divorce ...”
Fargo took his cigarette from his mouth, blew smoke. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that, Carla.”
Her eyes widened, face paled. She hitched up in bed, instinctively throwing the sheet across her loins. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Well, it’s time for me to be moving on,” he said.
“Moving on? Neal—”
“Ease off, Carla.” He smiled faintly. “You came into this with your eyes wide open. I never said anything to change that.”
“B-but I thought, I hoped—”
“That you could tame me down and keep me here?”
“No. No—that I … we … the two of us, could stay together. That you’d take me with you when you went...”
Fargo shrugged, took the bottle, drank again. “No dice, Carla. Where I go, I travel alone. A woman wouldn’t last a minute in some of the messes I get into, and neither would I if I had one to look out for. No. No, you stay with Bert. He’s nice and steady and a little bit dumb. He knows how to get hold of a dollar without havin’ to lay his life on the line to do it. You’ll be a lot better off with him …”
Carla swallowed hard; tears sprang into her eyes. “Neal, please—”
He shook his head, wordlessly.
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Well, at least we’ll have a few more days together.”
