Valley of Skulls (Fargo Book 6)

by John Benteen

  Then gunfire rattled; Telford, on his knees, had seized a Winchester blown clear by the explosion. He was using it, and Fargo saw men fall. Fargo scrambled to his feet and a gun flared from the outer edge of darkness. He punched a shot at the flame with the pistol in his hand and heard a man scream, and then somebody called his name. “Fargo! Goddamn you, Fargo!” And he whirled, and there across the fire was young Ned Stoneman. He had a pistol lined on Fargo, and his finger pulled the trigger.

  Fargo fired the other shotgun barrel, without aiming. At the same moment, he fell sideways again.

  There was no need to aim, only point. Those nine spreading slugs snapped across the blazing fire and most of them took young Stoneman in the head and chest. His upper body seemed to dissolve, his shot went wild; he staggered backward under the impact. Then, miraculously, what was left of him, by pure, reflexive nervous action, caught its balance and came upright. It stood there, nearly headless, spouting blood. Then it fell forward across the flames.

  Fargo came up with his handgun ready.

  But there was no more gunfire. Only the hissing of the campfire flames, the smell of burning flesh, and the rank fumes of cordite. Crouching, he turned in a full circle. Then he stood up straight.

  Nancy began to scream—loudly, with hysteria.

  “It’s all right,” her father said. “Honey, it’s all right. They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Governor of British Honduras was a thick-bodied pompous man with a red mustache. Behind his desk he leaned back in his chair and snorted, and the mustache riffled.

  “A preposterous story.” He looked from Fargo to Telford to Nancy Telford with pale green eyes. “Do you think I can accept it? Here I have on my hands an international incident; the most powerful man in the United States leaves his yacht at Belize, goes up-country, and he and his son disappear. And you tell me that they died in an accidental explosion up the headwaters of the Belize. And do you think the United States will believe that? With an adventurer, a soldier of fortune, like yourself mixed up in it?”

  Fargo took out a thin, black cigar, clamped it between his teeth, lit it. He itched, but he did not scratch. Even the jails of British Honduras, like all those in this part of the world, were full of fleas. He had spent enough time in the Belize prison to acquire his quota of flea-bites. “You’ve had the story,” he said. “We brought out the Mayan stelae. Mr. Stoneman came upriver to meet us … and his son. We used blasting powder to fell trees to make rafts and unfortunately, both Stonemans got caught in a misfire.”

  “Oh, of course. And so you appear on the scene with hundreds of pounds of jagged lumps of pure gold, which we are supposed to presume you—what? Mined on the Belize? Which we have impounded. And—” He broke off. “Tell me. If you will only tell me the real story. Look, Fargo, Darnley’s Raiders were a thorn in our side. They’re all gone now, and that’s to your advantage. But I can’t just confront the American government with a cock-and-bull story about the disappearance of one of the richest, most powerful citizens of America and his son. I know the Mayan stelae you’ve brought out are valuable beyond compare. Those I’m prepared to release to the Smithsonian in Washington. But the gold? and the death of Stoneman? Fargo, can I release to you a half-ton of pure gold and let you go without knowing the truth of the death of Stoneman?”

  “You have heard all I’m gonna say,” Fargo told him. “As a matter of fact, if there’s any more, you’re better off not knowing it.”

  “Just the same—” The Governor broke off as someone knocked on the double mahogany doors of his chambers. “Come in,” he grunted.

  “Sir.” The aide, a British Navy ensign, saluted briskly. “This signal, from His Majesty’s cruiser Norfolk.” He thrust over a folded square of paper.

  The Governor unwrapped it, read it. Fargo saw his florid face change. Then he hitched his bulk up in his chair and sighed. “Apparently I underestimated you, Mr. Fargo. It seems you have friends in high places.” He read aloud: “Release Fargo and all personal possessions, whatever they might be. Strong representations from high American authorities, especially past President Roosevelt, make this imperative. Stoneman under indictment for violation anti-trust laws in oil and railroads; presumed disappeared to avoid investigation. Tender all possible help Fargo and Telford’s passage to Washington.”

  The Governor laid down the square of paper. “Signed by the King of England. Not the Foreign Secretary, not the Colonial Secretary, not the Prime Minister. His Majesty himself.”

  Fargo let his wolf’s grin go. His single message to the ex-Colonel of the Rough Riders had borne satisfactory fruit.

  “So the case is closed unless your own government wishes to reopen it. Very well, I understand the Norfolk is bound north. I trust that will be satisfactory transportation.”

  Fargo’s grin widened. “Very,” he said, with vast relief.

  ~*~

  In the room on the cruiser he had been assigned to, he opened the crudely made tarpaulin bag. It had taken a crane to haul it aboard. Within it, the jagged remnants of what had been the Golden Gun glittered at him dully.

  Fargo looked down at them with a certain sadness. The blast had scattered golden hunks like shrapnel far and wide; he had retrieved this much. It was worth a fortune, maybe the biggest score he had ever made until now. A quarter of a million dollars, likely … then he looked up as his stateroom door opened.

  Nancy Telford stood there.

  “May I come in?” she asked, almost shyly.

  “Yeah,” said Fargo.

  She entered. She looked at the vast pile of wracked, golden metal. “What will you do with all that money?”

  “Drink some of it up, gamble some of it away ...”

  “All that?” Her voice rose. “You could live forever on so much—”

  “No,” Fargo said. “Nobody lives forever.”

  She looked at him.

  “Especially not me,” he said.

  “Neal.” She came to him, put a hand on his. “There’s a fortune there. All you have to do is settle down, enjoy it ...”

  “And rot away.”

  “Not with someone you love and who loved you to see to you.”

  Fargo took out a cigarette, lit it. “And get old. Let the kidneys go, the liver and the lungs. Fall apart inside, while I rock on my front porch and sip my soup.”

  “You make it sound so awful.”

  He grinned. “It’s all right for those who like it.” Then he stood up. “It’s more than I can spend before I’ll be ready for another job. I’d thought about donating part of it to a worthy cause.”

  Nancy looked at him. “What?”

  “The rest of the stelae there in the Valley of Skulls. When the revolution’s over, somebody ought to go there and bring them out. I figured that since your daddy originated the whole idea and nursed everything along, maybe half of this ought to go to him for that.”

  Her eyes widened. “Fargo.”

  “What the hell,” he said. “One man can only spend so much money. That’s what Stoneman couldn’t get through his head.”

  She stood there motionless. Then she said, “He’ll be so relieved, so delighted—” She raised her face, looked at him with eyes of lambent green. “But … how long will you be in Washington?”

  “Longer than I figured,” Fargo said. “There’ll be an investigation, I know that; I’ll be tied up for a while.”

  Her breasts rose and fell. “Good. The longer the better.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Fargo said. “We’ll have a spell together, anyhow.”

  Her lips moved soundlessly, forming the words Thank God. Her eyes met his.

  “If we’ll be together so long,” she said, “maybe we’d better get in practice.”

  “You know,” said Fargo, “I was thinking that, too.” He threw the tarp over the remnants of the Golden Gun and reached for her, pulling her to him …

  FARGO 6: VALLEY OF SKULLS

 
By John Benteen

  First published by Belmont Tower in 1970

  Copyright © 1970, 2015 by Benjamin L. Haas

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: February 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2015 by Edward Martin

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

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