by John Benteen
~*~
The cabin’s front room was big, its floor of hard-packed dirt, its fireplace, in which embers smoldered, of mountain stone. A huge spinning wheel sat on one side of it, an old-fashioned handloom on the other. A cougar’s tawny hide made a rug before the hearth, and there were guns everywhere. The place was a veritable arsenal: rifles, revolvers, shotguns, hung on pegs or were stacked in corners. Nor did Fargo miss the cans of powder, the boxes of cartridges for the modern weapons. Apparently this was not only the clan’s headquarters, but its fort. Heavy wooden shutters, thick enough to stop a bullet, guarded every window; loopholes and firing slits pierced the walls.
Tom gestured to a board table with split-log benches. “Set,” he said. Tallow candles burned in holders, and in their flickering light, his eyes raked over Fargo and his armament “Jess was right. Ye do tote a lot of hardware.”
“I use it in my business.”
“Which is?”
“Fighting,” Fargo said.
Tom nodded. “I figgered that back in Fort Davis. I got a feelin’ Jess is lucky I stopped him from going up against ye. Bonnie! Bonnie!”
The girl appeared in a doorway at the end of the room. She was clad in a tattered flannel robe belted around her waist with a piece of rope. Her hair hung down in a thick, loosened, glittering cascade around her shoulders. Her blue eyes widened at the sight of Fargo.
“Fix this gentleman something to eat.”
“Yes, Pappy,” she said. Fargo carefully kept his eyes off of her as she went to the fireplace. Next to Jess, she spelled worse trouble than any other Canfield in the valley.
Roaring Tom dismissed the other men who hovered around curiously. “Awright, dadburn it! Don’t stand thar like blackbirds on a fence. Ye, Joe-Sam, git back up yonder and take Rafe’s place! Willie, ye go relieve Buck! The rest of ye git back to bed; we got work to do early in the mornin’! And ye two guards—keep yer eyes open! Don’t let nobody else take ye like no sucklin’ babe!”
They mumbled assent, drifted out. Tom went to a shelf, brought back a two-gallon clay demijohn, uncorked it, shoved it at Fargo. “Have a snort. Then we got talkin’ to do.”
Fargo hooked a thumb through the handle, cradled the jug on his bent arm, hoisted it and drank without spilling a drop. Tom grinned. “’Pears like ye’re as good with a jug as with yer fists.”
He took the demijohn, drank, too. Then he snorted, wiped his beard. “Okay, Mr. Fargo. Whut brings ye to Black Valley?”
“I got some bad news for you,” Fargo said.
“Oh? Whut is hit?” Tom’s face didn’t change. In the candlelight, it was like a relief map of a rugged mountain range itself, all peaks and wrinkled valleys.
“You know a man named Steed?”
“I know him,” Tom growled. “Land-grabbing bastard. Wusser than a Whipple.”
“He’s getting up an army. He’s coming in here to clean you out.”
Tom sat immobile for a moment. Then he picked up the squirrel rifle, laid it on the table before him. “Oh, is he now?” His big hands caressed the long barrel, the polished, silver-mounted stock. “Well, I allow we can take keer of him.”
“Maybe not,” Fargo said. “He’ll have fifty men. Top guns. I know the man who’s leading them. He’s been around a long time and knows his business.”
Roaring Tom spat on the dirt floor, rubbed it with his boot. “They cain’t get through thet pass.”
“I didn’t come through that pass.” He reached for the jug. “If I can take your guard out, what makes you think Steed’s men can’t do the same?”
“Hit won’t happen twice. If hit does, I’ll have some hides around hyar.”
“You’ve got thirty men; Steed’s got fifty, maybe more. And there’s law coming on top of them—the Texas Rangers. If Steed’s men don’t get you, the Rangers will.” He drank, set down the jug, looked at Roaring Tom directly and with unwavering eyes. “Because Jess killed a Ranger.”
Tom’s eyes shifted. “He didn’t know hit was a badge-toter.”
“He didn’t know that man of Steed’s he killed was just a cowboy, either, huh? It don’t make much difference to Jess who he kills, does it?”
Tom was silent for a moment. “Hit’s his mother’s blood,” he said at last, almost wearily. “She was my second wife. Ye seed her in Fort Davis.”
“Yes.” Fargo remembered the old crone.
“She was always ... a little peculiar. She … died last month.”
“I’m sorry,” Fargo said.
Tom shrugged. “My first wife birthed the other boys. She borned Bonnie and Jess. Bonnie is wild and so’s he. But he’s a different kind of wild. Mean wild.” He grabbed the jug, drank long and deeply. “All us Canfields is wild, but Jess is the onliest one thet’s mean.” Dragging his hand across his beard, he went on. “Thet’s not yer affair, though. Let ’em come. Let ’em all come. We’ll stand ’em off.” But that weariness lingered in his voice, mingled with a kind of sadness. “I tole Jess never to shoot without he challenged a man first and made him state his business, but … well, no matter. We’re in hit, now; we’ll fight our way out. Or go down trying.”
“You’ll go down,” Fargo said. “You might beat Steed’s men, but you can’t lick the Rangers.”
“Goddamn it,” Canfield burst out, “whut else is thar? We run out of the Smoky Mountains on account of the Whipples went to the law and sent it agin us. We come to these damned hills thet ain’t nothin’ like the ones we’re used to, but we’re tryin’ to make do in ’em, if folks would only let us alone. I’m tired of fightin’. I been fightin’ Whipples all my life, like my pappy and his pappy before me fit ’em. All the same, thur’s fight left in me. Plenty of it. Besides, if we git run outa hyar, we got nowhur else to go.”
“Maybe,” Fargo said. “Maybe not.”
He got up, thrusting a cigarette into his mouth. Bonnie looked up at him as he bent, seized an ember, lit it. He disregarded her, turned to face Roaring Tom.
“I’ve been in the Smokies where you come from,” he said quietly. “I know what they’re like. The big woods and the water runnin’ outa living rock, the fog on the mountains in the morning, the land all straight up and down, lonesome and wild. Trees everywhere, dark woods, spruce and poplar and hickory and oak...”
“Shet up,” Tom said. “Ye’re makin’ me homesick. I love thet land. It tore my guts to leave it.”
“The Davis Mountains aren’t much like the Smokies,” Fargo said. “Scrub juniper and cactus ain’t much like big timber. It’s good grazing land for cattle, but not much for farming.”
“Don’t I know it. But, like I said, thar’s no whur else to go.”
Fargo blew a plume of smoke. “You ever been down in the Sierra Madre?”
“Whar’s thet?”
“Mexico. Sonora, Chihuahua, Durango. Mountains that run on for a thousand miles. There’s places in there never been explored, canyons you could put this whole range of hills in. Peaks high enough so there’s snow year round, valleys low and fertile. Big timber and game, lots of game. Deer, cougar, bear, wild turkey, quail, wild hogs.”
“Man,” Roaring Tom said. “Man alive.”
“A whole world of mountains. And nobody in ’em except a few Mexicans and some harmless Indians. There’s silver in there, and gold. Water, plenty of it … ”
He came to the table, bent low, face close to Roaring Tom’s. “I know a valley down there just made for a family like yours. It don’t show up on any maps. I think I’m the only white man that’s ever seen it.” His eyes gleamed, his voice was earnest, intense. “There’s big timber, pine and oak and pinon, all up the slopes. Good, rich bottomland that would grow fine corn, and a fast, cold stream runnin’ through it. There’s range, too, for sheep and cattle, and you could fatten hogs up in the pinons and the oaks. And the wild turkeys are thick as fleas. There’s signs of silver on one wall, and a coal outcrop on the other. Everything a clan like yours could want. Coffee, sugar, flour and bullets, that kind of s
tuff—one trip outside every six months, no more...”
He straightened up. “The mountains around it are high and lonesome, like the Smokies. Hot in daytime, chilly at night. There’s a waterfall two hundred feet high at one end, and a big pool where it hits, and a grove there to shelter houses. You could climb up on the peaks and look down on the clouds. The fog hangs low there until ten o’clock, and you can hear sounds from twenty miles away. It’s a fine place, Tom Canfield—and I could lead you there, you and your family.”
The old man stared at him. “Lord God Almighty,” he whispered. “It sounds like the promised land. Who are ye? Moses?”
“Only Fargo.” He hoisted the jug, drank, smacked his lips. “And the Mexicans, the Revolutionists, know Neal Fargo. I’ve sold them guns and ammo, hauled out their silver to market, trained their troops. And they’re gonna win, Canfield. Villa, Carranzo, Obregon and the rest. They’re gonna lick the government and take that country over. And they owe me favors, lots of favors. I could collect. By making sure that the Canfields could settle in the Sierra under their protection.”
The old man just kept on staring at Fargo. Then Bonnie put down a plate and cup beside him on the table. “Here’s ye vittles, Mr. Fargo.” She bent, turned away from her father as she served him. Roaring Tom could not see how the neck of the gown fell away, revealing her breasts in total, lovely nakedness. But Fargo could.
He glanced, then coldly turned his face away. She straightened up, cheeks reddening.
“Man,” Roaring Tom whispered. “Man alive, this place, Fargo, this valley. Ye ain’t lying?”
“I don’t lie,” Fargo said. “It’s exactly like I described.”
Canfield licked his lips. “And what would be yer price for leadin’ us thar before Steed or the Rangers could hit us? Showin’ us thet place and arrangm’ with the Mexicans for us to settle hit.”
“My price?” Fargo said. He glanced at Bonnie, then jerked his thumb. “Send her out of the room so we can talk private.”
“Get to bed, child,” Roaring Tom rasped, not even looking at her.
“Pappy—”
“I said git to bed or I’ll strap ye good!”
She hesitated, shot Fargo a resentful glance, then flounced out, buttocks shifting exaggeratedly, deliberately, beneath the robe. She slammed the door behind her.
Now they were alone in the big room. “Well?” Tom stared at Fargo. “The price? What is it?”
Fargo took the cigarette from his mouth.
“I want Jess,” he said.
Chapter Six
Except for the popping of the fire in the hearth, the big room was silent.
“Jess,” Roaring Tom said at last, his craggy face seemingly frozen, his eyes gone icy. “Whut do ye mean, ye want Jess?”
“I want to take him into Fort Davis for trial for killing that Texas Ranger.”
Tom looked at him blankly for a moment. Then he stood up slowly. “So thet’s it,” he grated, and he swung the Kentucky rifle and eared back the hammer. Its muzzle pointed at Fargo’s belly. “So all this time, a guest in my house, ye was nothin’ but a stinking lawman, come under cover of my friendship! Abusin’ the hospitality and trust! The law—”
“No,” Fargo said, not moving. “I’m not the law. But I’m doing a job for the law.”
“It makes no difference. No never-mind at all. Ye want to take my baby boy down thar whur they can hang him.” Canfield’s voice trembled with growing fury.
“Canfield,” Fargo said, still immobile, displaying no fear. “Listen to me.”
“I don’t listen to sneakin’—”
“You listen.” Fargo’s voice was flat, commanding. “Your son Jess killed a Texas Ranger. He would have done better to climb the tallest tree on the highest peak out yonder wearing a copper hat and copper boots in the middle of a thunderstorm, because he’s drawn down the lightnin’ on himself—and on you. The Rangers will never rest until they’ve had him. And if they have to kill you all to get him, they will.”
“Then let them come,” Tom grated. “Lotta good it’ll do ye, ye stool pigeon—”
“I’m no stool pigeon. I’m the only man who could have walked in here and talked to you like this, made you this deal that will save you and your family from being wiped out—and will save a lot of Rangers, too. The Rangers are tied up now, they can’t come now, but they will, sooner or later. And if you don’t deal with me, you ain’t got a prayer. Not you nor any of your other sons, nor your brothers nor your nephews. You came here to escape the Whipples. But what the Rangers will do to you will make the Whipples look like old ladies at a tea party.”
“No Canfield’s goin’ before no court of law! Whut we came hyar for was to get away from law—”
“Well, you can’t do it. There’s nowhere you can, except down in the Sierra Madre—”
He sucked in a deep breath. Canfield’s face was still twisted with rage; his finger was on the trigger.
“Let me take Jess in. He’ll have a fair trial.”
“And they’ll hang him.”
“If he shot a Ranger in the back, yeah.”
Roaring Tom shook his head savagely. “No! Even if he did, I’ll not see him hanged like some damned chicken-killin’ dog! Not a Canfield man!” His voice rose. “What do ye think I am, Fargo? Ye think I’d trade off my own son for a piece of land, some lousy valley in the Mexican mountings?”
“It’s the only way, Tom Canfield. Give me Jess, that takes care of the Rangers. Once he’s in Fort Davis, I’ll move you out before Steed’s men come and you won’t have to fight ’em. Or if they hit before you leave, I’ll fight alongside you against them, if it comes to that. I know Lin Gordon, the man who leads them. I know how he operates. I can outguess him in a way you can’t.”
“Ye got the brass of a Goddamned monkey,” Canfield whispered.
“No,” Fargo said. “If I had any sense, I would have Injuned in here and holed up in the brush and waited for my chance. I would have picked off Jess from ambush and as many other Canfields as it took to get clear again, and you’d never have even known who the killer was. And whatever was left of your family then could have faced Steed’s men without any advance warnin’ at all.” He paused. “Don’t pull that trigger. I want another cigarette.”
“Take hit,” Canfield rasped.
Fargo did, and lit it from the candle. “That’s what I would have done if I’d had sense. But the trouble is, Tom, in a way, I’m a Canfield, too. The less law around me, the better I like it; and I’m more comfortable in the lonesome places in this world than I am in the biggest cities. I’m just enough Canfield myself so that I don’t feel that people like you ought to be stamped out just because one of you has turned rogue and started backshootin’...”
“Backshootin’s the way it’s done back home.”
“Not out here. It makes no difference, now. I reckon I was a fool for wantin’ to save this wild-assed family of yours from being rubbed out to the last man. All right,” he said. “I’ll make you another proposition.”
“Whut?”
“Jess wants to fight me again. Let him try it. Any way, with any weapon. Pistols, knives, rifles, it makes no difference. Let him fight me, square on and man to man. And let it be like the last time in Fort Davis: win or lose, there it ends.”
“No,” Tom said. His eyes ran over Fargo’s guns. “No. He’s tough. But not like ye. Ye’ve been around, ye’re older, smarter. Ye’d kill him.”
“I could have killed him in Fort Davis. If I kill him now ... at least he’ll have had an even break. And that will satisfy the Rangers. And then I’ll take the rest of you to the Sierra Madre.” He smiled wryly. “If I’m still alive.”
There was a long moment, then, when Roaring Tom stared hard at him. The candle flames on the table wavered, flickered and reflected in the old man’s eyes; and in that interval Fargo knew he was as close to death as he had ever been. Not even he could unlimber one of the weapons that hung on him before the ball from that lo
ng old flintlock plowed through his belly, if Tom Canfield squeezed the trigger one ounce harder.
Their eyes locked, his and those of the old patriarch of this wild clan. Then, after what seemed years, Canfield let out a long breath that fluttered mustache and beard.
“I ain’t goin’ to kill ye now,” he said. “The reason I ain’t is because ye let Jess live when ye had him at yer mercy in Fort Davis. But I’m goin’ to tell ye to take off all them guns. Slow and easy. And no tricks. This gun’s been used a long time, and its trigger-action’s slick and easy. The fustest trick, and ye’re a dead man fer shore.” His voice crackled. “Take off them guns.”
“All right,” Fargo said. He did so, very carefully. He unslung the shotgun, laid it on the table. Then the rifle. He unstrapped the cartridge belt, put the .38 beside the long guns. Fishing out the Batangas knife, he laid it beside them. “That does it,” he said. “I’m slick.”
Holding the rifle level with one hand, Tom scooped up each weapon in turn, backed across the room, laid it in a corner. “Now,” he said, when the table was clear of guns. “Set down and eat.”
“Sure,” Fargo said. He lowered himself to the bench, attacked the food with gusto.
Roaring Tom kept the rifle pointing at him, but when the old man spoke, it was almost as if to himself.
“A hunderd years,” he said. “Thet’s how long the feud went on, how long we fit the Whipples. Whut started it? Nobody remembers now. The story is a Whipple dawg killed my great-gran’pappy’s chickens. My grandsire killed the dawg. The Whipple it belonged to bushwhacked him for thet. And my own daddy killed the Whipple thet done it.
“And so it went on,” he said wearily. “A life fer a life, a man fer a man, like an endless circle, a snake swallowin’ itself, nowhar to break hit, end hit. Until hit warn’t safe to ride a road through them mountains. The Whipples got my two youngest brothers and I shot two of them myself from a laurel hell whar I was holed up, knocked ’em over while they was cuttin’ wood, their guns laid aside. And then they killed my older brother and ... and on and on ...
