by John Benteen
He was still puzzling over it as he went up the stairs to his room. He unlocked the door, then entered. He closed the door behind himself and carefully locked and bolted it again and flicked on the light switch.
Then, turning toward the bed, he halted; froze. He stared, and then he spoke one single, terse obscenity.
The girl was there, under the sheet. She looked back at him steadily. ‘Hello, Mr. Fargo,” she said.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Fargo’s voice was savage.
“Waiting for you,” Nola Shane said.
“Oh, you are, are you?” Fargo was beside the bed in a single long stride. He seized the sheet, pulled it back.
The girl was naked. Blood rose to her cheeks, but she made no attempt to cover herself. Fargo’s eyes raked up and down the lines of her long, slender, white body, over the full curves of lush breasts, fine hips, superb legs. He looked at her for a long time as she lay that way, his eyes bold, insolent. Then he grinned, that wolf’s snarl. He threw the sheet back over her. “That won’t work, either. If I wouldn’t take the job for money, do you think I’d take it for that?”
She sat upright, clutching the sheet to her breasts. Suddenly her eyes were furious. “Damn you, Fargo—”
“You don t sound like a school teacher now.” Fargo turned on his heel. “Get on your clothes and get out,” he said harshly. “Get outa my room and get outa El Paso. Go on back to Philadelphia before you get yourself hurt. You hear?”
“Fargo—”
“I said put on your damned clothes. You’ve got one minute. Otherwise I throw you out in the hall the way you are.”
She sighed. “All right,” she said in a choked voice. “I’ll go. I’m getting dressed now.” He heard the rustle of silk and cotton behind him, and it took longer than a minute, but he did not look around. Then the girl moved past him, fully clad, face red. Fargo unlocked the door. He opened it, and she started to leave, then halted on the threshold. Those huge, dark eyes met his. “You won’t reconsider—?”
Fargo shook his head. “Goodbye,” he said coldly.
She stared at him for a second longer. Then she turned, went down the corridor, defeat in every slumped, ashamed line of her body. Fargo watched her vanish down the stairs. Then he cursed again, closed the door, and went to the bottle on the dresser. He pulled the cork with his teeth. In a moment, the smell of whiskey drowned the echo of her perfume that lingered in the room.
Chapter Six
Three nights later, Fargo made a fireless camp in a draw on the west side of the Santiago Mountains, at the entrance to the Big Bend country.
He’d taken the train from El Paso to the little cow town of Marathon, shipping the bay in a stock car. There, surveying the situation, he found the town alive with soldiers. There had been another fight at Glenn Springs, at the ranch where Villa’s men had killed a boy earlier in the year. That act had brought in the cavalry. A detachment of soldiers camped there had been surprised and routed by a band of Mexicans; a few of the troopers had been killed. Smarting from the defeat, the Army had sent in more soldiers and clamped down hard on the entire region. Now Fargo was brought before the Captain commanding the troop at Marathon.
The man was a West Pointer, brisk, alert, confident, the antithesis of Tom Fallon. “Just a formality,” he said, but with no apology in his voice. “We’re checking all strangers. We don’t want anybody going down into that country. Not unless he’s on absolutely urgent business. Right now, until we can complete our sweep of the area, we can’t guarantee your safety.” He toyed with a letter opener on his office desk. “Suppose you tell me who you are and where you’re bound for.”
“I don’t think it’s a damned bit of your business,” Fargo said.
The Captain’s eyes went hard. “Protecting civilians is my business, whether they want protection or not. Until we’ve swept that country clean, anyone found down there without a permit from this office will be arrested; if he resists, he’ll be shot. Is that clear? Now, if you have sufficient reason to be there for me to issue a permit—”
“Never mind,” Fargo said. “Take your permit and ram it.” Then he turned, strode out of the adobe hut that was the orderly room. Behind him the Captain gave a squawk, but Fargo disregarded it.
He had the bay fed well, bought supplies bit by bit, unobtrusively, at the general store. He knew he was being watched, and he picked up only a little at a time to avoid arousing suspicion. Water was a tougher problem; still, anybody traveling around this country was entitled to two big canteens. He’d have to depend on the springs and holes down in the badlands when that ran out. He hoped he wouldn’t hit too many in a row that had gone dry.
He had already disassembled the shotgun, hidden it and the bandoleers in the bedroll strapped behind his saddle. That night, well after dark, he rode.
There were plenty of guards out, but most were posted in the vicinity of the old Comanche war-trail, the main road into the Big Bend, running almost straight to Boquillas on the Rio. Valeriano’s hangout, Fargo thought; but he wasn’t going there. Instead, he circled wide, eased into the rough country to the west of the road, and passed through under the very noses of a couple of patrols whose members were none too keen on riding around in the dark in that kind of terrain. It was almost laughably easy. As he made camp he was well satisfied with his progress.
He slept through the heat of the day, rousing occasionally to look around. That night, he traveled on. Dawn found him holed up in another arroyo, in perfect concealment in a clump of boulders above a muddy spring. He was really in the badlands now, and maybe even close enough to the Rio to be in danger from Valeriano or some other bunch of bandidos. He kept his guns close at hand and rolled himself up in his blankets, for it was cold on the desert until the sun came up. He yawned and closed his eyes.
And then he came bolt upright, raising the shotgun.
Again, at the end of its picket rope close by, the bay snorted. Fargo’s eyes picked out its silhouette in the tricky light; it faced north, ears pointed forward. He turned, followed its pointing muzzle.
Darkness still filled the arroyo. It was wide and twisting. From within that darkness, it came again, the faint clink of iron horseshoe on rock. Fargo’s lips peeled back from his teeth as he hunkered behind a boulder. There was a rider coming down the arroyo.
He thrust the shotgun around the rock, his finger on the trigger. His eyes strained to penetrate the gloom. The sound came again, up ahead, where the arroyo turned sharply. In a moment, the rider would swing around the corner. When he did, a fraction of an ounce’s pressure more on that trigger could, if necessary, drop man and animal alike in a single blast. Fargo waited.
Then, shrouded in blackness, the rider came around the bend. Fargo saw the vague outline of a low-crowned sombrero against the sky; this was an American. He let the shape come closer; then, at point-blank range, it was time to challenge. “All right,” he snapped. “Stand hitched, whoever you are! Hands up! You’re covered by a sawed-off shotgun.”
The rider jerked up short. Fargo heard a frightened gasp. “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!”
He kneeled there for a second more, frozen in surprise. Then he began to curse and took his finger from the trigger. “Goddamn it,” he said. “Goddamn it to hell!”
“Fargo! Is that you?”
“Yes,” he grated, “it’s me.” He got to his feet. “What the devil are you doin’ here?”
And then the voice of Nola Shane came back to him shakily from the darkness. “You always seem to be asking me that question.” She tried to dismount. Fargo, running forward, reached her just in time to catch her as she collapsed and fell from the saddle.
As he held her, the girl sagged against his chest. “Thank God I found you,” she husked. “I thought I’d lost your trail. And then I didn’t know what to do; I was out of water, didn’t know whether to go forward, turn back . . .” Suddenly she was dead weight against him.
Fargo slung the shotgun, scooped her
up easily, carried her in his arms to his bedroll. There he put her down, with her head on his saddle. He was almost trembling with fury. But he found his canteen, opened it, and moistened her lips. She revived a little, put up hands to seize it, raised her head greedily. Fargo jerked the canteen away.
“No,” he snapped. “A little at a time. Otherwise, you’ll be sick.”
She sank back. He made her take the water in slow, easy sips. Finally, he wrenched the canteen away and closed it. “That’s enough. Can you talk?”
“Yes.” Her voice was stronger. “Yes, I feel better now.”
Fargo took out strong Mexican cigarettes, lit one, shielding its glow with his hand. Then he blew a short, angry plume of smoke. “Suppose you tell me what you’re up to. How in hell did you get this deep into the desert? What do you mean by followin me?”
“I had to. I told you . . . there wasn’t anybody else to help me. So . . . when you left El Paso, I did, too. Followed you to Marathon on the train; I was in another car so you didn’t see me. When you got off, so did I . . . bought a horse there, a canteen. When you rode out, I followed you. Stayed as far behind as I could without losing track of you, and I was scared to death you’d spot me. But you didn’t. Until now.”
Fargo struck another match, shielded it, looked at her in its light. Her face was drawn, her hair tangled and matted with dust. But she looked back steadily, defiantly. “I won’t give up! You’ve got me on your hands now. You’ll have to help me!”
Fargo shook out the match. “I don’t have to do a damned thing for you. I’m gonna refill your canteen and turn you around. You can ride out the way you came in; keep straight north and you’ll have no trouble.”
“No,” the girl said.
“Don’t tell me no! You’ll do what I say!”
Her mouth curved. “And how are you going to make me?”
Fargo stared at her. Then he got to his feet. He went to the saddle, unlashed his rawhide lariat, let one end of it dangle free. He cut the rope end through the air. It made a savage sound. “I can make you, baby,” he said thinly. “Don’t think I can’t.”
“Yes,” she said, and her breasts rose. “You can beat me with that thing. But it won’t stop me. Nothing will stop me, Fargo. I’m going to stay with you until you take me to Boquillas. If you send me back, I’ll tell the soldiers where I saw you last. They’ll come after you. Whatever you’re up to down here, you won’t be able to do it with them on your trail.”
His eyes were slits. He let the rope trail. “I could always kill you,” he said. “Hide the body where nobody would ever find it.”
She did not respond to that threat either. He had not expected her to. “You won’t do it,” she said flatly.
“How do you know? You don’t know anything about this country or the kind of men in it.”
“All right,” she said evenly. “If you’re going to do it, I can’t stop you.”
He dropped his hand to the butt of the Colt he’d thrust into his waistband when he’d come out of his blankets. “I ought to,” he said. “You’ve fouled up all my plans.” Then he took the hand away. “But, no. I’m not pushed that hard yet. Damn you, you’ve got the guts of a she-bear, haven’t you?” He could not quite keep an edge of admiration out of his voice. Cold courage was something he responded to wherever he found it; and she was full of it. He let out a long breath of disgust.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll figure out something else to do with you.”
“You’ll take me to Boquillas?” There was hope in her voice.
“Yes,” he lied.
“Oh, thank you, Fargo.” Her voice was suddenly weak with relief. “Oh, thank you so much.” And now, in the growing light he saw, for the first time, tears; they coursed rivulets through the layer of dust on her face.
“But not right away,” he went on. “I’ve got business west of here—damned serious business. It’ll take me a few days to tend to that. When I’ve done it, then well swing back east, go to Boquillas. I’ll help you make your deal with Valeriano.”
“A few days—” New despair came into her voice.
“You’ve still got better than two weeks, according to that letter. That’s time enough for me to do what I’ve got to and still bail out your brother.”
She was silent. Then she said, “All right. It’s better than nothing.”
“I guess it is. Because it’s all you’re going to get. Now—” he gestured. ‘We’re gonna ride again at dark. You’d better get some sleep.” He turned away. “I’ll see to your horse.”
“Yes,” she said. She lay down, pillowed her head on his saddle, closed her eyes. Almost immediately she was out, drugged with total exhaustion.
Fargo did indeed go to see about her mount. She had picked a good one—a tough, short-coupled dun that looked desert-wise. That was one break, anyway, he thought.
He unsaddled it. The bags behind the cantle were heavy with gold—ten thousand or more, he judged; her brother’s ransom. His mouth twisted. Hell, the guy was probably already dead by now; once he’d written the letter they needed as bait, they’d probably plugged him. They wouldn’t waste food and water on him. But it made no difference. He was not going to take her to Boquillas, anyhow. But he had to keep her fooled, keep her docile, cooperative, until he got the gold. She was on his hands; there was no way to get rid of her without tipping off his presence down here to the soldiers or killing her in cold blood. He couldn’t afford the first, and the last was not his style. In his time, Fargo had killed women, but only in self-defense. He was a wolf, but not a rabid one. So he would ease her along, keep her fooled until he had the gold. Then he’d dump her where some cavalry patrol from Terlingua was bound to find her and get the hell out of Big Bend with the loot.
He went back to where she lay after he had finished with the horse. His eyes wandered over the curves of her body beneath the dusty blouse and the divided leather skirt. Meanwhile, there was a way he could collect a certain compensation from her for the trouble she would be. He took out a cigar, thrust it between his teeth and lit it. He would get around to that, too, in due time.
They started the next leg of the journey earlier than Fargo had planned, in the cool of evening before night had fallen. The presence of Nola and her horse would put a strain on his water; they had to reach the next spring without delay.
Fargo rode ahead, scouting. Nola came behind, following the harsh instructions he had given her to the letter. “Never ride over the top of a hill until I give you the signal. Don’t fire a gun, don’t call out, don’t do anything to attract attention. If I tell you to ride, you ride. If I tell you to get off that horse and hit the ground, you do it. Whatever I say, that’s what you do without asking questions or horsing around and you do it quick. We’ve got soldiers, bandits, and maybe Indians to worry about. One mistake and you’ll never see Boquillas or your brother—or anything else in this world. Is that clear?”
“Clear,” she consented.
“Okay. Long as it stays that way, we’ll get along.”
The country they traversed was a savage jumble of barren hills, deep-gashed arroyos, lost canyons, dry creek beds; it was overgrown with creosote and cactus, dominated by the central landmark of the Chisos Mountains, a hulking blue presence in its very center. Fargo negotiated it with sureness. He carried no map except in his mind, but that was all he needed. He had the frontiersman’s talent of never forgetting the lay of any country he had ever traveled.
As it turned out, though, the next water hole was dry.
Fargo cursed: that meant they had to keep on through daylight, and it doubled the danger of being discovered. They were getting close now to the sector Fallon’s cavalry would patrol out of Terlingua. In addition, Mexicans and those damned mysterious Indians might be abroad. Neither American soldiers, Mexican revolutionaries, nor Indians had much stomach for traveling or fighting at night, but they would all be out and active once the sun came up.
Still, there was no help for it. The
economics of the desert were inexorable. Water—everything hinged on that. They had to have it and had to ride until they found it. He showed Nola how to keep a pebble under her tongue to moisten her mouth. During the worst part of the day, despite the urgency of moving on, they laid up in what shade they could find and moved as little as possible, torpid as snakes or lizards. The noonday furnace blast would bake all the remaining moisture out of their bodies—moisture it was a matter of life and death to conserve.
At four o’clock they started again. The sun went down: The wind had a knife-edged bite. Ignorant of how cold the desert could be at night, Nola had brought no heavy coat. She huddled in one of Fargo’s blankets as they rode. They struck a creek bed, but it was bone-dry, and Fargo did not use the energy to do the digging which might have produced a scant ration of water from its sand. Better to gamble on finding enough at the next spring than to waste strength and sweat digging. It was after midnight when Fargo’s bay suddenly threw up its head, pricked its ears, snuffed the air. Then it quickened its gait and Fargo relaxed: The bay smelled water.
He fought the thirsty animal to a cautious walk. Water holes attracted people. They were where men camped. He unslung the shotgun. Presently, when the creek bed turned, he gave the bay’s reins to Nola and went ahead on foot to reconnoiter.
He rounded the bend and loped on in a crouch, as soundless as a cat. So soundlessly, in fact, that when he spotted ahead a growth of scanty willows, he surprised a cougar at its kill; it had just slaughtered a deer. He almost ran into the big cat before they saw each other. Then the cougar fled, scrambling up the side of the deep bowl in which the spring welled with reassuring abundance from the earth. Fargo relaxed. There were no humans here and there had been none recently; the cougar’s presence was a certain sign of that. He loped back, signaled Nola to come on. As she dismounted he told her, “We’ll camp here for the rest of the night. Not at the spring, but on the high ground, out of the way if somebody else shows up here.”
They drank their fill, then watered the horses, a ticklish, time-consuming procedure. The animals were nearly dehydrated. They would have killed themselves with too much cold water if Fargo had not fought them back. When that was over, he was about to lead them to higher ground when Nola said, “Fargo. Wait.”
