by John Benteen
It was enough. The bomb hit the ground not fifty yards from their ranks. Then it went off, thunderously. It shook the earth and sprayed dirt and rock and plumed smoke. Fargo, the bay at full gallop, unslung the shotgun and looked back.
It had worked; it had all worked like clockwork! There had been no bombs in the packs—except this one. Fargo had known he might have to use it. That single explosion was enough to create pandemonium. The mounts of Lopez’s men went crazy at the blast and at the splattering impact of earth and rock and cactus. They bucked, jumped, and stampeded. Though not a man was hurt by the dynamite, the whole contingent of soldiers was turned into a churning, tangled mass of men and animals for minutes. And those minutes meant the difference between life and death to Fargo. Bent low, he mercilessly lashed the bay. The animal seemed to fly as it made for the chaparral.
Chapter Two
Of course, the Mexicans came after him. Superb horsemen all, they fought their mounts under control with astonishing speed. Then he heard the gunfire and the sing of lead.
He twisted and watched them come across the flats behind him, not the whole fifteen, but at least a dozen, with Lopez in the lead. He made that wolf’s grin again. Like a stirred-up hornet’s nest, he thought. But he’d kept his bargain with Villa. He’d delivered the guns to Lopez intact and had his money. What happened now was on the head of Tomas Lopez.
Meanwhile, he was a long way from being in the clear. He was still in Winchester range, and that hail of lead around him increased as the pursuers worked the levers of their carbines with machine-gun speed, their horses at a dead run. Fargo did not try to shoot back. He wanted cover first. If the bay stumbled or faltered before he made it, he was finished. He gave all his attention to the terrain, his life staked on the carefully chosen animal’s speed and surefootedness.
Then, ahead, the wall of chaparral loomed, a great thicket of cactus, mesquite, ocotillo, yucca, and cholla with terrible spikes. It was cut by goat paths. Lopez’s men would know those and Fargo didn’t. But that made no difference now; all he wanted was an entrance into it.
He found it, a notch in the barricade, and slammed the brush-wise horse full into it. Thorns like claws and fangs struck at man and animal alike as the brush closed behind them; then Fargo jerked the bay to a sliding halt. Raking the Winchester from its saddle scabbard, he quit leather in a smooth, cat-like leap. He landed in a crouch, ran toward the edge of the brush—with the rifle in his left hand and the sawed-off Fox in his right.
He crouched there and watched them come across the flats riding hard, still shooting at the place where he’d disappeared. Lead whipped the leaves around him, snarled its ugly whine. Fargo laid the shotgun aside, raised the Winchester. He was about to fire—on the ground, with a firm stance, he could not have missed—when there was a harsh, metallic sound. The rifle was jerked from his hands as if a giant had snatched it. As he had brought it up, a random bullet had caught its barrel, ruined it.
He stared at it an instant, cursing. They were still out of shotgun range, and he’d counted on bringing down enough to turn them with the rifle, the Fox held in reserve if they dared to approach closer. Now he was in trouble—bad trouble. They could rake the brush with rifle fire and he could not reach them.
Neither could he turn and run. They’d fan out through the chaparral trails which they knew better than he. They’d run him to earth like hounds after a jaguar. He had to think of something else; with no margin of survival left except the Fox, he had to take another long and deadly chance.
In two seconds, he made his decision. He dropped flat in the center of the little path; there was nothing to do but brave that hail of lead. It chugged all around him, and it took all of even his stern will power to hold fast. But it was better to endure a blind barrage than one carefully aimed; a slim chance against no chance at all.
So he lay there and waited. Then he cursed. Still out of shotgun range, they pulled up and spread out a little. Then, with their mounts tight-reined for greater accuracy, they sent at Lopez’s order a devastating volley of fire into the brush. Lopez had developed a healthy respect for Fargo; he was not going into the chaparral after him without doing everything possible to neutralize all those weapons.
Fargo had never endured such a fusillade in all his hard-bitten life. It was a sleet storm of lead whipping the brush all around him, a bee swarm of deadliness, each metal insect bearing a fatal stinger. He pressed himself desperately to earth, head down, heels flat, and dared not even look up.
Then he screamed.
It was a terrible scream, high-pitched and full of agony. The sound, unmistakable to anyone who’d ever heard it, of a man gut-shot and mortally wounded. He screamed again, and then the sound trailed off into a hideous, bubbling moan. He lay absolutely still on the path.
For two seconds more, the onslaught of lead hammered the brush around him. Then, like a downpour turning to drizzle, it tapered off. Five ten seconds more, and it stopped entirely. Fargo cautiously raised his head and peered out.
The men, after that fusillade, were reloading empty weapons. Lopez had produced a pair of binoculars and was carefully glassing the edge of the chaparral. Fargo remained motionless. Then he saw Lopez gesture a command. The band of soldiers drew together a little. With Lopez in the lead, they trotted slowly, warily, toward the brush.
Fargo thumbed four more shells for the shotgun out of the bandoleer. Holding them ready in his left palm, he waited, sucked in his breath.
If he had any chance at all, it was to let them get to point-blank range. Fire too early, maybe two rounds would strike home, but they’d be back out of range again before he could reload. He’d have to let them come in close—very close.
And now they were doing it. When no answering fire came from the chaparral, they picked up speed and came at a canter. The increase in the gait of their horses was the measure of their confidence. And still Fargo waited, motionless as a rock, screened by leafy branches.
Seventy yards, now; sixty. Fifty. But, of course, he was lost if they decided to halt and pour in another barrage like the last. At this distance they could not miss.
Forty yards. Still they came on. Thirty . . . Now they were close enough to Fargo to hear the squeak and jingle of their gear; stirrup leathers and bit chains. He heard their soft, tense conversation. One of them laughed slightly and Fargo grinned as in answer. If a man could laugh, he was sure of himself. In this country, dealing with a professional like himself, it could be fatal.
Twenty yards, now; sixty lousy feet. And he was going to let them come even closer. He could feel the vibration of all those hoof beats. Ten yards, thirty feet. They loomed as a presence outside the edge of the wall of brush. He heard the low growth out there swishing against their stirrup bows and the legs of their mounts. Another ten feet and they’d be able to see him.
They were close enough. Fargo shoved the shotgun forward, tilted up its barrels, and pulled both triggers.
Even before the first charge hit, he was on his knees, the gun broken, left hand cramming in two more rounds. The barrels snicked shut, he aimed and fired again, sending another eighteen slugs hurling in deadly random pattern straight into that wall of men.
And as he reloaded two more rounds, he glimpsed for the first time the effect of his fire.
It had made a slaughterhouse in front of him.
Thirty-six buckshot slamming point-blank into a dozen men. The air rang with the shrill screams of wounded horses and dying riders. The animals were down, thrashing; others, raked by lead, reared, pawed, bucked. Cut to ribbons, men fell from saddles or were crushed under dying mounts. What had been a confident band of hunters was now a bloody, squirming mass of butchered flesh; and even as he perceived that, Fargo fired again, both barrels, straight into the turmoil.
And yet, he saw in that instant, he had not quite caught them all. He heard a shout out to the left where Lopez and another man—the guard, Emilio—fought their frightened mounts. Lopez’s face was a mask of fury. The
n he saw Fargo. As his mount reared high he trained his rifle, one-handed, and fought the animal with the other. Its bore centered on Fargo’s chest. In that instant, Fargo dropped the shotgun. His hand flashed down and came up with the Army Colt. It spoke before Lopez could pull the trigger.
The shot was a lucky one, but that did not help Lopez any. When the notched bullet caught him in the face, he ceased to have a head. It simply exploded, like an overripe pumpkin, dissolving in a red spray. Even as he swung the gun toward Emilio, Fargo saw the headless body fall back over the horse’s rump and the Winchester drop from its lifeless hand.
Emilio, horse also rearing, stared from high above down into Fargo’s face. He read his doom. As the animal came down, he jerked it around, the last survivor. Fargo saw him cock his heels and ram home spurs to flee. Then Fargo aimed the Colt, carefully. He shot Emilio in the back. The Mexican dropped from the saddle.
And that ended it. Men lay dying out there on the desert, but dying men could not fight. Fargo pouched the Colt and scooped up the shotgun. For good measure, he reloaded and fired again into that welter of chopped flesh.
Then he judged it safe. He did not want to face the long journey without a rifle, so he darted out of the brush. Lopez’s Winchester lay where it had fallen. Fargo snatched it up and made sure its caliber matched his ammunition. There was groaning in the brush, but no one fired as he darted back to cover.
He had tied the bay when he dismounted; otherwise, it would have been long gone. One of the bullets had cut a raw slash across its rump, but no other harm had been done. Fargo leaped into the saddle. He squinted through the leafy arch of foliage overhead to find the sun and get his bearings. There would be pursuit from the village, of course, but it didn’t worry him now. By the time it got underway, he would have all the head start he needed.
He put the bay into the brush, having reloaded and reslung the shotgun. As it wound along the goat path, Fargo reached back and patted the plump saddlebags behind the cantle.
Twenty thousand dollars. He had made more than that in one score many times. Still, it was a good round sum. It would finance one hell of a blast in El Paso before he went to work again on another job.
Fargo grinned. All he had to do now was get across forty miles of Mexican desert swarming with bandits and guerrillas, across the Rio, and negotiate another seventy-five or so through the Big Bend country of Texas. That had some of the worst badlands in the world, teeming now with American soldiers guarding the border against raids by Villa—soldiers Fargo preferred not to meet, laden as he was with the spoils of highly illegal gunrunning. And that was it. Nothing to it, if you knew your business.
And he knew his. He’d been learning it all his life. His hard education had begun even before he could remember, when Apaches had raided the New Mexican ranch his father had carved out of the wilderness, killed both his parents, and somehow missed the child hidden by a desperate mother. He had been raised by foster parents until he was twelve. But they had not wanted a son; they’d only wanted a hand to do all the dirty work around their spread. Just as he achieved some semblance of manhood, he’d cut out, headed north, gone on his own. He’d been alone ever since.
Winding through the brush, alert as any hunting animal, Fargo let his mind range back over all the hard years. From horse jingler to top hand on a succession of cow ranches. Then the War, and he’d been accepted by Roosevelt’s regiment of Rough Riders. He’d endured combat and sickness in Cuba and earned his spurs, learned his trade as a fighting man. Another hitch in the cavalry, this time in the Philippines during the native insurrection against the new American rule. After fighting Tagalogs on Luzon and the even deadlier Moros on Mindanao, his seasoning had been complete.
He was not a man cut out for Army discipline. His hitch over, he’d put what he’d learned to work for his own profit. There was always money to be made somewhere if you were a professional fighting man who knew your trade. He’d made his in Mexico, Central America, Alaska, in the oil fields of Texas and Oklahoma; anywhere there was use for a gun and a man who knew how to handle it. Between jobs, what with the rise and fall of his fortunes, he’d been a professional prize fighter, gambler, and once, when he’d hit rock bottom, a bouncer in a Louisiana whorehouse. There was nothing he had not seen or done—nothing he could think of, anyhow—but he was always ready to tackle something new when it cropped up.
He’d made a lot of money and he’d spent a lot. When you were in his business, you lived from one minute to the next. Saving for your old age was a joke; soldiers of fortune had no old age. The thing to do was live every minute to the hilt, never turn down a bottle, a woman, a fight, or a hand of showdown. The boots he wore were cavalry issue. Fargo knew he would die with them on someday. That suited him fine. It was the way a man ought to go out.
But even for him, gunrunning was getting a little hairy. It was turning into a sucker’s game, and he never played a sucker’s game. While he was in El Paso—if he ever got there—he’d look around for another score.
He crossed the Rio Grande at midnight, two days after his fight with Lopez. When the horse scrambled up the North bank and Fargo was on American soil, he did not relax his vigilance. He redoubled it. Lopez’s outfit was not the only bunch of border jumpers and bandits operating along the Rio; he’d had one skirmish with an unidentified group of them last night—not soldiers, but a bunch of peons who’d gotten their hands on some guns and were out for loot. They’d been inexperienced and stupid, and he’d easily eluded them after killing two of their number.
All the same, a man never knew when he’d run into more. They had no hesitation about raiding into the States. They’d already killed ranchers up here in Big Bend, where a few shirt-tail, hard-luck Americans had tried to get a toe hold to run cattle. Their depredations had driven out the settlers and most of the miners, and had brought the U.S. Cavalry in.
So he had soldiers as well as revolutionaries to worry about. There was an embargo on guns to the Mexican Revolution, and the Army was not likely to be gentle with suspected gunrunners. He made his way carefully and warily along dry creek beds and deep arroyos amidst a jumble of barren hills, lava flats, lost canyons, and every sort of thorned growth that grew in the Southwest. He kept his shotgun across his saddle horn and his Colt loose in its holster, its hammer riding on a live round, something unusual for any experienced gunman. But even one bullet, down here, could make the difference between life and death, and he begrudged an empty chamber in the revolver’s cylinder.
At daybreak, he camped in the shadow of the Chisos—the great range of mountains rising in purple grandeur above the badlands. Once they had been the last stronghold of Apaches; now, there was no telling who might be hiding out in their recesses: Mexican guerrillas, Army deserters, outlaws from Texas. He would skirt them, ride wide around traveling by night, and make his way north and west out of the badlands back to civilization.
Holed up in the shelter of a cut bank, his belly growling with hunger, Fargo slept lightly, warily. His weapons were within reach; his ears were subconsciously attuned to any suspicious snort or whinny from the horse which would serve as a warning.
But it was not the horse which brought him out of sleep, groping instinctively for the sawed-off Fox in the white, hot glare of midday. With the shotgun ready, he cocked his head and strained his ears.
Then it came again, miles away, a sound like the popping of dry sticks.
But he recognized it at once: what he was hearing was gunfire. Somebody was in a hell of a battle five miles off. Both Winchesters and pistols were being used. He listened for a long time. Then the sound dwindled, died. Somebody had won, somebody lost. But in any case, there would be no more sleep for him. He could not afford it.
He put the bay in a better hiding place. He stowed his gear, including the gold, where it could not be seen. Then, with cased field glasses around his neck, he scrambled up to high ground and took shelter atop a huge boulder. It was only one of a titanic jumble of rocks in which h
is khaki-clad body was lost, blending with the dusty stone as if made of the same substance.
And he waited, using the glasses from time to time.
An hour passed, two; he bore them with the patience of a man whose life depended on knowing who had done that shooting. Regularly, he glassed the sun-shimmering flats that spread out below him between his rock-shelter and the Rio.
The sun moved along the sky, lowered. It struck gleams of unsuspected color from the desert. Fargo waited, watched.
And then at last, he saw them—ghosts, riding out of the past.
Chapter Three
Fargo said aloud in a disbelieving voice, “Son of a bitch!”
They came out of a wide canyon miles away in single file, men on horseback. There were, perhaps, thirty of them. They pushed their horses hard, sunlight glittering on their rifles. And they were not Mexicans. Neither were they American soldiers.
They were, in fact, riders of a kind that had not been seen down here in Big Bend or anywhere else in the West for over thirty years; and that was why Fargo swore.
“Goddamn it,” he said aloud again, “this is 1915.” But that did not change things. What he was looking at was a war party of Chiricahua Apache Indians. Fargo lowered the glasses, then put them back to his eyes.
It was, of course, impossible. The Apaches—all Apaches, the Chiricahuas, the White Mountains, the Mescaleros, Tontos Mimbrenos and Warm Springs tribes—had been defeated long ago, herded onto reservations in Arizona, disarmed and spirit-broken. Geronimo’s breakout in the 1880’s had been the last flare-up of Apache defiance. They were a whipped breed, guarded by cavalry at Fort Apache. Every Apache buck was tagged like a dog, wore a number around his neck. It was impossible for thirty of them to jump the reservation, arm themselves, and ride all the way from Arizona to Texas without having the whole Southwest stirred up, swarming with pursuing soldiers, telegraph wires humming and reinforcements pouring in.
