Fargo 12

by John Benteen

Ahead, he saw the fork. When he swung the dun east the dust still hovered above the road, a little thicker now. Then he rose in his stirrups, squinting into the sun-glare.

  The morning was very clear; he could see a long way. More than a mile ahead, almost screened by a stream of dust, a black speck sped along the road bound in the same direction in which he traveled. Not a wagon at all, Fargo realized: a buggy—and going hell-for-leather, its driver whipping the horse mercilessly, recklessly, risking turning over at that speed.

  Some little bell of warning went off in Fargo’s head. He settled into the saddle, spurred the horse, lashed it with the reins. It stretched itself into a steady, pounding run. But it did not gain on the buggy.

  Then, suddenly, the dun lurched, stumbled. Fargo pulled it up. The animal took a few awkward steps, and, looking down, Fargo saw the loose shoe on the off front foot, held in place by only a single nail. All the rough traveling across Nevada and the Mojave had taken its toll.

  Swinging down, Fargo cursed. Holding the reins, he raised the horse’s forefoot, wrenched the shoe loose, threw the worn piece of metal aside, and hit the saddle once more. He spurred the dun again, and obediently it began to run, but a little off beat, its foot tender. The delay had cost him; ahead, the buggy had disappeared. Only the mist-like dust of its passage remained.

  The dun was limping a little when he reined it in hard two miles farther on. He pulled it around so he could read the sign above the lane that ran through an orange grove. Suspended between two high posts, it said: Carlton Ranch.

  There was a gate, but it was unlocked, wide open, as if whoever had passed through it had been in too much of a hurry to close it. There was, beyond the turning of the lane, no more dust on the highroad, but a cloud of it smeared the air above the winding drive. Again Fargo grunted a curse, and, despite the horse’s lameness, he pushed it hard and mercilessly down that gap between the orange trees, through the floating, yellow dust.

  After half a mile, the dust suddenly ceased. Fargo halted the horse once more. Quickly his eyes picked up the marks of the buggy’s tires where it had turned off the lane into the grove itself. Fargo lifted rein, followed the buggy’s tracks.

  It wound in and out between the trees, and, judging from the horse’s tracks, still rolling fast. The ground rose slightly to a kind of ridge. Fargo checked the dun, loosened his Colt in its holster, swung down, tied the animal to a limb. Then, soundlessly, he ran forward on foot, weaving in and out among the trees, following the buggy tracks.

  Suddenly he halted. Ahead, he saw the parked buggy, its lathered, excited horse pawing the turf of the grove. And he saw, too, the man in a gray business suit and homburg hat beside it, holding field glasses trained on something below where the gentle rise fell away.

  Fargo’s lips thinned. He moved forward, taking cover from tree to tree. He covered a hundred yards that way, and then he was only twenty from the man in the business suit. As the fellow turned to put the glasses back in the buggy, Fargo saw that he was small, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and well past fifty. His face was pale and hollow cheeked, his mouth a bloodless line; but his blue eyes were clearly visible, vivid and blazing beneath white brows.

  He stowed the binoculars carefully, almost primly. Then, as Fargo watched, he took something else from the buggy. Fargo’s eyes widened as he recognized three sticks of dynamite, bound tightly together with haycord, capped and fused.

  The little man held it in his hand for a moment—that bomb—looking at it with a face that worked strangely. Then he fished in his pocket, brought out something else—a package of safety matches. He stared at those, too. His narrow chest rose and fell as he sucked in a long breath. Then he turned around and began to walk.

  Fargo went after him quickly and silently, bent low and running. As he neared the man, he heard a strange sound: The fellow was either laughing or crying, Fargo could not tell which.

  The man stopped, looked at the dynamite and matches again. Fargo came up behind him in that moment, poised himself and pounced like a great cat.

  One hand clamped over the man’s mouth to seal it. The other seized the thin wrist of the hand that held the dynamite and twisted. Behind Fargo’s palm, the gray-suited man let out a grunt of pain; the bomb dropped to the soft earth. Then Fargo pulled him backwards, wrestled him down, pinned him by sitting astride his body, his hand still closing the thin-lipped mouth.

  The man looked up at him with those fierce blue eyes, first full of surprise, then of defiance. There were wet trails on his cheeks, the marks of tears.

  Fargo said, “Don’t yell. You yell, I’ll kill you. Understand?” The Batangas knife leaped into his hand, unhinged its handles, and its blade touched the man’s throat.

  Slowly, reluctantly, the man nodded.

  Still sitting astride him, Fargo took his other hand off the man’s mouth.

  “You’d better go ahead and kill me,” the man whispered when he could talk. “Because I’ll kill them both sooner or later.”

  “Even if you have to blow yourself up along with them?”

  The man’s mouth twisted. “Do you think I care—now? After all I’ve been through?” He shook his head. “I didn’t know he had someone on the lookout—”

  “I’m not on the lookout. Carlton, there’s no need for it...”

  “Goddammit,” the banker almost sobbed, “he’s in there with her now! And do you know what they’re doing?”

  “I’ve got a good idea,” Fargo said.

  “Laughing at me! Calling me a fool!”

  Fargo’s eyes went hard. “You are a fool,” he said tersely and sprang to his feet. “Get up.”

  Carlton arose unsteadily. “Any man’s a fool to kill himself or ruin his life over a bitch like her,” Fargo went on coldly.

  “But I love her,” Carlton whispered. “You don’t understand. I love her. I loved her from the minute I saw her in that place in San Francisco—” He broke off.

  Fargo laughed icily. “So you knew she was a whore. So why do you feel cheated?”

  “She said she loved me, swore she did. All she wanted was a chance to go straight, make a new life—” Tears were running down his cheeks again; he passed his hands over his eyes, shook his head. “I believed her. God help me, fool that I was, I actually believed her.”

  “A whore is a whore,” Fargo said. “I know hundreds of them. Never saw one yet worth killing over. Much less committing suicide or going to jail. You’ve learned something, Carlton, and paid for your education.” He paused. “Anyhow, I don’t care what you do to her, or to yourself. But you ain’t killing him.” He paused. “I am.”

  Carlton took his hands away from his eyes and looked at Fargo incredulously. “What?”

  “I’ll save you some trouble. That man in there with your wife—” Fargo turned, looked down the ridge. Below, two hundred yards away, a small, neat, pretty house of redwood boards nestled in the hollow. Behind it were tethered two saddle horses—a steeldust and a chestnut. “He’s my meat. I’ve come a long way and traveled hard to kill him. And I’ll do it now. But first I’ve got to get some information out of him.”

  Carlton shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Good. The less you know, the better. But I’m going down there now, Carlton, and kill the man with your wife. You can come along if you want to, but you’d better stay out of it if you know what’s good for you until Frost’s dead.”

  “Frost. So that’s his name.”

  “It will be for a little while. Listen, Carlton, I’m going to rub him out. If you want revenge on her, there’s a better way of getting it than killing her or yourself. She’s used to living high, isn’t she?”

  “I’ve given her everything. Brought her down here where nobody knew her... A fine house, servants, beautiful clothes, all the luxuries—” His face warped pathetically. “And she pays me back like this.”

  “For how long?”

  “Four years, now. And almost all that time, she’s ... cuckolded me … with …
scum!” His voice rasped. “The worst scum she could find!”

  Fargo laughed coldly. “So she’s used to the easy life. She thinks she’s got it made. It’ll hurt her a lot worse if you divorce her than if you kill her. She’ll have to go back to making her living on her back. No more servants, no more fine clothes. And knowing that when she gets old and ugly, she’s finished—”

  “Divorce is a scandal—”

  “So’s having your wife hit the hay with every stud that comes down the big road. She’ll get older, Carlton, her looks’ll go. She might work in a good house for a while, then a worse one, then on the streets, in the alleys, a dollar a throw—and then nobody wants her at all, she can wait on tables or scrub floors. You kill her, her punishment’s over quick; you divorce her, it goes on the rest of her life.”

  “You’re right,” Carlton whispered.

  “You staying here or coming with me?” Fargo asked.

  Carlton drew himself up. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “I want to see that man die.”

  Fargo stared down at the house. “I expect they’re busy enough in there so that if we’re fairly quiet we can get up on ’em without any trouble. Let’s go.”

  “You lead the way,” said Carlton.

  Fargo drew his Colt and went down the hill, all his faculties focused, his attention riveted on the house below nestled in the orange grove. Carlton came behind him.

  ~*~

  The trees gave excellent cover. They allowed Fargo and Carlton to get within fifty yards of the house. Then, at the edge of the grove, Fargo said, without looking around, “The door may be locked. You got a key?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Pass it over. Then we run for the front. You stay behind me. When the shooting starts, take cover.”

  Carlton grunted something, and his hand snaked past Fargo’s flank holding a key. “All right,” Fargo said. “We go in fast.” He began to run.

  They crossed the open space, Fargo with Colt ready, the key in his hand; and in one smooth motion, as they reached the front door, he slipped it into the lock, turned it, flung open the door and charged into a carpeted living room. There was another door in its far wall, and he crossed the carpet in two muffled strides. Turning the knob, he threw it open and stepped inside; and the man and woman on the bed stared at him as he leveled the gun.

  Frost, clad only in pants, sat on the edge of the bed. Behind him, naked, lay a woman—stunningly beautiful, honey-haired, face fine-featured and aristocratic, breasts small, pointed. Her violet eyes opened wide at the sight of Fargo, and of the man behind him. “My God,” she blurted.

  Frost saw Fargo and batted his eyes rapidly; his jaw dropped. Yellow teeth showed through his beard. “It can’t be ...” He shook his head. “You’re dead.” Then he made a quick, sideways lurch, hand reaching for the holstered sixgun that hung just out of reach on the post of the head of the bed.

  Fargo pulled the trigger. The woman screamed. The roar of the gun was thunderous in the little room. The bullet knocked splinters from the bedpost, and Frost drew back.

  “Hitched,” Fargo rasped. “Stand hitched, Frost.”

  Frost’s hands went up, slowly. His face worked with panic. “Fargo, for God’s sake, you’re supposed to be dead. How—Don’t shoot me. It wasn’t me, it was Clint—”

  “Stand up,” Fargo said, with Carlton crowding in behind him.

  Barefooted, Frost arose. His barrel chest was covered with shaggy black hair. “Move over to the other wall,” Fargo ordered. Frost obeyed. His lips quivered with fear; his eyes were enormous.

  “I want to know about Clint,” Fargo said quietly. “And Sandy Steele. Where are they?”

  “Yeah. Yeah,” Frost said eagerly, licking his lips. “Clint’s the one you really want, Fargo. He’s the one that kicked you so bad. Clint and the girl, they rode this far with me. Then they turned south, to Mexicali...”

  Fargo stood tensely, covering Roy and the woman, the gun muzzle swinging. “Go on.”

  “There’s a Mex Colonel in the Federal Army holdin’ Mexicali right now. Clint aims to trade the girl off to him for pertection; he’s crazy about gringo women. That and some gold will git him passage to South America under Federal pertection. He’ll still have plenty left to live like a king down there.”

  “You bitch,” Carlton’s voice broke in, in a low, vibrant rasp. “Oh, you dirty slut.” Fargo had never heard such hatred in a man’s voice.

  “Go to hell,” the girl said mockingly. “A woman wants a real man now and again.”

  “Carlton!” Fargo snapped. “Stand clear!”

  But he was too late. Carlton dodged between him and the woman with a cry of fury. In that instant, as Fargo’s aim was blocked by the banker’s body, the naked girl twisted, drew the Colt from the holster on the bedpost, eared back the hammer. Fargo tried to shoot, but Carlton was in the way. At the same moment, Frost, seeing his chance while Fargo’s attention was wholly diverted, leaped.

  He smashed hard into Fargo, knocking him sideways. Fargo’s gun went off, a round thudding into the ceiling. Then Frost had whirled past, snatched the Colt from the woman’s hand. He thumbed a wild shot at Fargo, who was still off balance. Fargo shot back and missed.

  Frost dodged into the living room, punching another round through the door as he went. The girl cried out, in pain. Fargo shot at Frost again, coming on to his feet now, able to aim, but Frost had slammed the door, and the bullet spread its nose against the solid wood. “He killed her!” Carlton screamed. “The sonofabitch killed her!” Suddenly he ran past Fargo.

  “Wait!” Fargo yelled.

  “No!” Carlton cried, and he whipped something from beneath his coat. Fargo saw the three sticks of dynamite bound together. Carlton had picked them up again as they had come down the hill out of the grove; the man had been a walking bomb all along. Then Carlton was at the bedroom door, a match flaring in his hand. Fargo took a step, halted as the fuse began to sputter. The second sparks began to fly, Carlton, yelling something incoherent, flung open the bedroom door.

  Frost’s bullet caught him in the chest, flung him backward. The bomb flew out of his hand, rolled into the living room. As Carlton fell, Frost and Fargo were in sight of one another, Frost’s left hand reaching for the front door. Fargo shot. Frost screamed as the bullet smashed his palm, the split slug demolishing flesh and bone. He fired at Fargo, but Fargo dodged behind the door jamb just in time. Frost’s bullet chunked splinters from it. Then Fargo stepped around the frame as Frost desperately tried to hold on to his gun and open the door simultaneously with his one good hand.

  The bomb hissed and sputtered in the middle of the living room and Fargo judged that there was perhaps three minutes’ worth of fuse left on it. He aimed, fired.

  Frost screamed, fell, as Fargo’s bullet ploughed into his right thigh, expanded, destroying flesh and tendon. He tried to rise, aim the gun, but the leg gave way and he fell. Fargo lined his .38, fired the last round in its cylinder. It almost tore off Roy Frost’s other leg.

  Frost lay sprawled, head not a foot from the bomb. He tried to raise his Colt, but lacked the strength. With dazed eyes he stared at the sputtering fuse. Maybe two minutes left now. “Fargo,” he husked. “Fargo, this thing’s gonna go off.”

  “Then run from it,” Fargo said grimly. He crammed fresh bullets in the Colt.

  “Fargo—” Roy’s voice was a ululating wail. “You can’t—You got to help me—!”

  Fargo turned his back on the man, faced the shambles in the bedroom.

  The woman, naked, had been caught by Frost’s stray bullet; it had smashed through her breast into her heart. She sprawled obscenely on the bloody sheets. On the floor beside her, her husband’s body was a twisted heap. He had been shot through the heart, just like her. The difference was that his face wore a twisted, triumphant smile.

  Ninety seconds, Fargo guessed. He stepped up on the bed, threw open the window, slithered out. He ran around behind the house, slashed the reins of the horse
s with the Batangas knife, slammed the steeldust hard on the rump. It shied and ran off. He leaped into the saddle of the chestnut, pulled it hard around, spurred it. He rode hard, bent low, away from the house. He faintly heard Frost scream again.

  Then the whole world blew up.

  Three sticks of dynamite in an enclosed space. All around Fargo dust roiled; splinters and chunks of blasted wood fell. Nothing hit him or the horse, which bolted at the blast.

  He fought it to a standstill two hundred yards from the house, jerked it around so hard it reared and pawed.

  He stared. Except for a pile of charred rubble and a few wisps of smoke, there was nothing left of the house, nothing left of the Carlton woman or her husband—and nothing left of Roy Frost.

  Fargo sucked in a long breath. He trembled slightly with reaction from the fury of those past few minutes. He saw bits of charred fabric drifting through the sky above the wreck of the Carlton place.

  Slowly his mouth twisted into a sort of snarl. Nobody, he thought, would ever be able to figure out how that had happened. All he had to do was ride fast, and he would be in the clear.

  Then he became aware of something rubbing against his leg. He looked down: the Winchester that protruded from the saddle scabbard was his own. And looped around the saddle horn was his bandolier, still stuffed with cartridges.

  He seized the bandolier, draped it across his torso. He whirled the chestnut, rode it into the grove where his own dun was tethered. He transferred gun and scabbard to his own saddle.

  There were bags behind the cantle of Frost’s mount. Fargo searched them, brought out four buckskin pokes of gold. He crammed them in his own saddle bags. Along with the pouches he had taken from Dorsey and Chad, they filled them.

  He mounted the dun, slapped the chestnut and set it running. Then he swung the dun around, threaded it through the orange groves, came out on a different road at last. He oriented himself by the sun. Then he rode south, bound for Mexicali.

  Chapter Nine

  The American government was mad at Mexicans: all Mexicans, Federals and Revolutionaries alike. None of them would do what President Wilson or his ambassador, also named Wilson, wanted them to do. They insisted on killing not only each other, but any American civilians who got in the way, without trying to disguise the fact that they fought for power and loot, a half dozen factions locked in combat with one another. There was no way any right-minded government could make out what was going on or choose up sides, and so the border had been closed; it was now against the law for Americans to cross it, or for Mexicans to come north into the United States without special permission.