The Black Bulls (A Neal Fargo Adventure Book 10)

by John Benteen

  A woman screamed. The band’s sound died. Suddenly the room was very quiet. Jorge had made his fight and lost, but Fargo had just begun to enjoy it. He kept the gun barrel moving. His intention was mayhem. Every morning when Jorge shaved he would remember his lesson. Until the day he died, that memory would confront him every time he arose from sleep.

  Then Fargo finished his fun. He released Jorge, let the black-suited body drop heavily to the floor. The compadrito lay there, nearly unconscious, his face a mask of blood. Fargo stepped back and jacked the shells from the gun. When it was empty, he tossed it to land on Jorge’s belly.

  “Clean up that mess.” he growled.

  The woman stared at him with wide eyes. “My God,” she whispered. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done? You’ve got to get out of here. He was von Stahl’s top man!”

  “Who’s von Stahl?”

  “No time to explain!” Pam’s face was terrified. She seized pencil and paper from the bar. “Out! Come to this address later. Two hours, three! Hurry, before the police come! Otherwise, you’ll wind up in jail and never see daylight again!”

  Fargo knew South American police and South American jails. He crammed the slip in his shirt pocket. “Later,” he said. Suddenly he leaned across the bar. He grinned. His lips touched hers, briefly. Then he left. When he glanced back, she was standing behind the counter, staring at him dazedly. Then he was on the street. He hailed a passing cab. It took him to the waterfront, where, for the next two hours and a half, he passed the time drinking and checking out whores. After a while he looked at his railroad watch and left. It took a long time to reach the house; and while his horse-drawn hansom cab clopped through the side streets he leaned back against the seat and wondered about von Stahl.

  The villa was enormous, four stories tall with a brick wall, screen of palms and a wrought-iron gate. Fargo had the driver wait while he rang the bell. A servant opened the gate and stared at him in the light of the post-lamps. Then he recognized the hat. “Come in, Señor. The mistress is expecting you.”

  Fargo was led through dim vast halls. The servant paused before a door of carved mahogany and used the knocker. “Come in,” a woman’s voice said.

  “The Señor in the Yanqui hat,” the servant announced, as he shoved open the door.

  “That will be all, Ernesto,” the voice of the Englishwoman said. The man bowed, withdrew. Fargo entered. His right hand was slightly raised for a fast draw.

  It was not necessary. There was only one occupant of the room, and she arose from the bed as he entered. In the single lamp, the red silk robe that sheathed her superb body glimmered; the ostrich feathers around its neck were white, but not whiter than the generous vee of breasts exposed by the gaping neckline.

  “I don’t know your name,” she said, stroking her thigh.

  “Fargo. Neal Fargo.”

  “Fargo,” she repeated. “I am Pamela Danfield. And I think I owe you another drink.” She looked at him, gray eyes luminescent in the lamplight. “What will you have?”

  Fargo grinned.

  Pamela Danfield smiled back. They looked at each other for a moment. Then she turned away. “Not so fast,” she said. “If it’s too fast, it’s no good. Will whiskey be all right?”

  “Fine,” said Fargo.

  She went to a tray on a nearby table. The room smelled of her perfume. Fargo could see the tiny jut of nipples beneath the clinging fabric of the robe as she poured two drinks of Scotch. He took off the cavalry hat, dropped it on a chair.

  She sat down on the bed, touched the mattress beside her.

  Fargo sat down there too. She passed him a glass. Then raised her own. “Salud y pesetas,” she said.

  “Salud y pesetas y amor.”

  Her eyes ran over him. “Neal Fargo,” she repeated. “No. I thought I knew everyone in Buenos Aires; but I don’t know you.”

  “You will,” Fargo said.

  “Of course,” she said. They drank again.

  Then she moved away, slightly. “I’m not sure whether I’m grateful to you or not. I had a bad time with the police after you left. It took considerable mordida.”

  “How much were the bribes? I’ll pay.”

  “No. No, I’m a businesswoman; it’s all part of the expense of doing business. But Jorge was an important man. The head of von Stahl’s—” her mouth curved “—protection agency.”

  “That racket,” Fargo said. “Who’s von Stahl?”

  “A German.”

  “I knew that from the name, but—”

  “One of the most powerful men in Argentina. A very bad man to cross.”

  “So am I,” said Fargo.

  She smiled. “Jorge found that out. He will not forget it. Neither will Wilhelm von Stahl. I think you had better plan to leave Buenos Aires soon. Or at least get a new hat. That one stands out like a sore thumb.”

  Fargo’s grin was wolfish. “The hat goes where I go. After twenty years, it fits exactly right.”

  “Very well.” Pamela shrugged. The motion dislodged the robe, revealed one shoulder, the upper slope of her right breast. She did not bother to replace the cloth. She looked at Fargo directly. “Perhaps we should talk later.”

  “I think that would be a good idea,” said Fargo. He reached out, unknotted the robe’s cord. It gaped open, revealing a superb body, high, white breasts with nipples the size of half dollars, their points jutting; a smooth, rounded belly; a blonde triangle below; superb legs. Pamela laughed softly, stood up, shrugged off the garment entirely and was nude. Like that, she lay on the bed while Fargo undressed.

  When he came to her, she held out her arms to embrace him.

  Much later, near dawn, they lay together sipping whiskey and talking.

  Pamela Danfield was the daughter of an Englishman who had settled in Argentina fifteen years before. “He had a ranch on the Rio Colorado, put all his money into it. Six years ago, we had a bad time; the price of beef dropped; there was a drought and most of our cattle died. Then von Stahl came to him and offered money to bail him out. He took the German in as a partner.”

  Her voice hardened. “I still don’t understand what happened. Father was found dead on the pampa; it seemed his horse had thrown and dragged him. And von Stahl had papers Father had signed; in the event of his death, Wilhelm owned the entire ranch; I got nothing.”

  She sipped her drink. “I was twenty-four, then, and I didn’t even have money enough to return to England. Barely enough to get to Buenos Aires ...”

  “How did you survive?”

  Pamela looked at him with narrowed eyes. “How do you think? A man. He was rich and bored with his wife. Eventually he was bored with me.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Fargo.

  “Perhaps I was bored with him. Anyhow, it cost him to get rid of me. I took the money and bought that place you were in tonight.”

  Fargo looked around. “You’ve done well.”

  “It’s all in having the right connections.”

  “I guess so.” He rolled over. “I want to hear more about von Stahl.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know yet. He interests me.”

  She smiled. “All right. Wilhelm von Stahl. He is about your age, I would guess; just shy of forty. And, perhaps, in his own way, every bit as hard as you. He came here from Germany twelve years ago. Spoke fluent Spanish, was filthy rich. Do you think it is possible that even then the Germans knew they were going to fight the English and the French?”

  “People say that,” Fargo told her.

  “It would explain a lot of things. Argentina’s neutral. It ships beef to both the English and the Germans. Armies can’t fight without beef. Wilhelm von Stahl’s money might have come from the German government. Anyhow, bit by bit, ranch by ranch, he built himself an empire on the pampas. He’s either bought out or taken over one estancia after another. Now he ships more beef out of La Pampa province than any other stock-grower. And it all goes to Germany. But he’s not satisfied wi
th that. He’s bought half the government officials of Argentina. Enough, anyhow, to make sure it stays neutral and doesn’t turn against the Germans, even though the German submarines sink ships bound from here to England—or the United States, now that it’s in the war. And he’s spread out into Buenos Aires. You can’t run a place like mine without paying protection to him. He takes in a fortune from that operation—and uses it to expand his hold on the cattle industry.”

  “I see,” said Fargo. “Maybe that would explain—Did you ever hear of a rancher named Caesar Hierro?”

  “Of course. One of the biggest landholders in La Pampa province.”

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “By reputation. His estancia is so far in the back country that he never comes to Buenos Aires. Unlike most of the ranchers, he lives on it and manages it himself. As I understand it, he came here from Mexico when he was a young man, took over a vast tract of land that, until then, had been infested with wild Indians and wilder gauchos neto, the back country outlaws who are worse than the Indians. He subdued them all and built himself a fine ranch. There was much discussion when a herd of Mexican fighting bulls was unloaded at Bahia for his ranch. Bullfighting is not so great a sport in Argentina as in Mexico or Spain, but still that attracted a lot of attention. So did the young girl who came with the cattle; they say she was a great beauty.”

  “Enough discussion, maybe, to attract von Stahl’s attention?” Fargo asked.

  “Perhaps. Why?”

  “Never mind why.”

  “All right. I won’t ask any questions. The main thing is not to attract von Stahl’s attention to you.”

  Fargo grinned. “I think I did that tonight.”

  “I know. I’m very grateful to you for coming to my rescue.”

  “You’ve paid me. More than adequately.”

  She laughed. “I don’t feel the debt’s discharged yet. It’s still a while until morning.” Then, laying a hand on his chest, she was serious. “Fargo, I mean it. You’ve got to get out of this country. I told you, Jorge was head of von Stahl’s protection game, and Jorge has killed a lot of men in his time, not all face to face, von Stahl has killed more. They say he’s a great horseman, knife-fighter, gunman. Anyhow, he doesn’t allow anyone to score against him. Once somebody does, the way you did tonight, he goes after them, won’t rest until he’s killed them.” Her nails dug into his flesh. “Fargo, please; leave Argentina.”

  “No,” said Fargo. “I have business here.”

  “Damn your business! If you buck von Stahl, you’ll die here.”

  “Maybe not,” Fargo said. “But thanks anyhow for being concerned.” He rolled over, slipped his arm beneath her head. His lips peeled back from his teeth in that wolfish grin. “Now, relax. And if you feel like you’ve still got more debt to pay ... Well … ” He chuckled softly and his other hand touched her breasts. “I’m ready to collect.”

  Chapter Three

  An ocean of grass stretched without end to the horizon everywhere Fargo looked. He had been staring at it now for two days as, like a beetle on a huge, level floor, the rickety little train crawled southwest from Buenos Aires across the vast reaches of the pampas of the interior. Like the Llano Estacada of Texas and New Mexico, these grassy plains staggered the senses with their never-ending sameness, only occasional bunches of cattle, a few whistle-stop towns of desolate bleakness, and sometimes a gaucho racing the locomotive on his wiry horse, breaking the monotony.

  Fargo sized up the gauchos carefully, contrasting them with the cowpunchers of his own stamping grounds. Instead of broad-brimmed Stetsons, they wore narrower hats; baggy pants replaced Levis and chaps, and they were shod with rudely made colt skin boots instead of the bench-made, high-heeled footgear of the North American rider. He caught glimpses of the hilts of knives protruding from the sashes around their waists; rolled behind their saddles were the ponchos that served them as jacket, slicker, and blanket. The saddles themselves were lighter, padded with fur or sheepskins, and a rope around the horse’s jaw, Indian style, seemed to serve most of them as bridles. A few carried rifles in saddle scabbards.

  In the crowded, stinking passenger car, Fargo shifted restlessly, checking the trunk on the seat opposite. Thank God this ride was about to end; the little town of Dos Caminos couldn’t be far, now. The train was faster, true, but he hated being boxed in when there was all that open country outside. He lit a cigar, leaned back, let his mind run over the information Pamela Danfield had rounded up for him.

  He had made her villa his headquarters for two full days, not so much from desire for her—although that part of it had been fine—as for what he could learn from her. A woman who ran a place like hers was in the best position to find out what was going on in Buenos Aires—and out on the pampas.

  The night before he took the train, they sat drinking bourbon and putting it all together. “Jorge is out of action for a while,” she told him, with a spiteful satisfaction in her voice. “You broke his nose and his wrist and gave him a concussion from that gun whipping. He’s left Buenos Aires, gone back to wherever he came from to get well. I think von Stahl fired him; von Stahl doesn’t like people who lose fights.”

  “Is von Stahl in Buenos Aires?”

  “Not now. Probably he’s at one of his estancias. He’ll spend a month or two out on the pampas, a few weeks in town to keep his fences mended with the politicians, and then out into the back country again.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “About your age. As big as you, maybe bigger. Blond, blue-eyed, handsome in a hard way. So handsome the first time a woman sees him, something just chokes up inside her; she wants him. Then she gets to know him better and . ..” Pam’s voice trailed off.

  “You’ve had your turn with him,” Fargo said wryly.

  “Yes. When I first came to Buenos Aires to stay. I thought I was in love with him until ... Well, he’s rough with women.” An edge of hatred crept into her voice; her gray eyes glittered. “He likes to whip them.”

  “Sounds like a tough hombre.”

  “Tough as they come. He was an officer in the German army for a while; maybe he still is, even though he’s an Argentine citizen. He’s a superb rider, a fine shot, and they say no man’s his equal with a knife. Or a sword.”

  “Sword?”

  “The portefios still fight duels occasionally. Matters of pundonor, honor, you know. Wilhelm von Stahl has killed at least two men in duels—with cavalry sabers. He’s a Prussian, and with Prussians especially it’s a point of honor to have saber scars. Von Stahl has them on each cheek.”

  “Okay,” said Fargo. “So much for von Stahl. What did you find out about Caesar Hierro?”

  “Nothing; absolutely nothing. I made inquiries of several people who should have heard from him recently, especially his agent here in Buenos Aires, who handles his business affairs. The minute you mention Hierro’s name, they all shut up like so many clams. And—You can see something in their eyes, Fargo. Fear.”

  “And the two Mexican vaqueros Don Augustin sent here?”

  She shrugged. “As if the earth had swallowed them. But that’s not unusual. More men than a few have died alone on the pampas, their bones never to be found. Every year men disappear like that.”

  Fargo nodded. “Well, that seems to be that. Nothing for it then but to head for Hierro’s estancia and see what’s going on. Pam, I appreciate it. There was risk involved for you, wasn’t there, in checking around like this?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Why’d you take it?”

  She looked at him steadily. “I had my reasons. Partly because ... I like you. We hit it off. But, then—I have scores of my own to settle with von Stahl. Besides, I’m a business woman. I don’t like what it costs to buy protection from him. I have a feeling you and von Stahl are going to clash; when you do, I hope you kill him. I’d like to be rid of him forever.” She sipped whiskey. “Then, of course, I’m English and there’s a war on. And von Stahl is
helping my country’s enemies. It all adds up to my wanting von Stahl dead and being willing to help you any way I can. It’s a gamble, of course, but if you come up against him, I think I know who the winner will be. If I’m right, I’ll never have to worry about him again; if I’m wrong, I’ll probably have to flee Argentina.” She unrolled a map she had brought with her to the table. “Enough of that now. Let me show you how to get to Hierro’s ranch.”

  Fargo bent over it with her. “Here,” she went on. “Dos Caminos. You can go that far on the train. After that, there’s a hundred miles of the wildest pampa in Argentina before you come to Rio Carmen, which is thirty miles from Hierro’s place, the only town close to it. You’ll have to buy an outfit in Dos Caminos and go on horseback to Rio Carmen. But I doubt that you can find men in Dos Caminos to go with you. I’ll try to find them here in Buenos Aires for you. How many?”

  “Men? I don’t need any men. I work alone.”

  Pamela raised her head and stared at him. “Don’t be a fool! You can’t make that trip without an armed escort! That whole stretch between Dos Caminos and Rio Carmen is crawling with gauchos malo, outlaws, what you Americans call cattle rustlers! They’ll kill a traveler for his horse and saddle! You don’t dare try it by yourself!”

  Fargo grinned. “I’d rather work alone. It keeps the overhead down.” Then he was sober. “Thanks, Pam, but I’ve been in this business long enough to know that one man, not more than two, can get through a stretch of country like that without attracting attention. You take a whole army with you, you might as well write letters telling everybody you’re on your way. I like to travel fast—and I can do that by myself.”

  For a moment, he thought she would protest some more, but she only looked at him long and hard. Then she nodded. “I could talk all night and it wouldn’t change your mind, would it?”

  “No,” said Fargo. “Besides, I’m leaving in the morning. I hadn’t planned to spend my last night in Buenos Aires talking.”