by John Benteen
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
A kill-crazy soldier of fortune named Cleve Buckner was recruiting an army of murderers, gunmen and deserters from all over Central America. With foreign money behind him, Buckner’s job was to wreck the Panama Canal before it could be completed. Fargo’s mission was to stop Buckner and eliminate him and his army once and for all. It was a tall order … and probably the toughest mission Fargo had ever undertaken. But for $20,000, he decided to take the risk and see if he really could do the seemingly impossible.
PANAMA GOLD
FARGO 2
By John Benteen
First published by Belmont Books in 1969
Copyright © 1969, 2013 by Benjamin L. Haas
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: October 2013
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Cover image © 2013 by Edward Martin
edwrd984.deviantart.com
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.
Chapter One
“Fargo!” the Colonel said. “Thank heaven you finally got my message! Come in, come in!”
“Thank you, sir,” Fargo said, unconsciously military in his response to this man under whom he’d served in Cuba, perhaps the only man in the world whom Neal Fargo admired enough to pay such deference to. He went past the Colonel into the foyer of the big house called Sagamore Hill, on a ridge near Oyster Bay, Long Island.
The Colonel was a bulky man of medium height, with a bristling mustache and eyes that were keen, alert, behind thick-lensed glasses. Despite his age and weight, moved springily, with the gait of an outdoorsman. He led Fargo down a long hall decorated with game heads from all over the world, and into a library crammed with books and more trophies of the hunt. Carefully he shut the door behind them, locked it, and then turned to Fargo. “Well, Sergeant,” he said, “it’s been a long time.”
“Yes, sir.” Fargo was a tall man, very wide of shoulder and slim of hip, with a hard, scarred face so ugly that it was almost handsome. His eyes were like chips of gray ice in its tanned and weathered surface, with little fans of wrinkles at their corners. He wore a battered Army campaign hat, its brim pinned up on one side, and the close-cropped hair beneath it was snow-white—prematurely so, for he was only thirty-six in this summer of 1912. His corduroy jacket over white shirt and tie, was especially cut to conceal the .38 Army Colt revolver in the shoulder holster beneath it. His trousers were whipcord, the calves of his long legs beneath them encased in brown leather cavalry boots. In appearance, he could have been one of the Colonel’s prosperous cattlemen friends, here on a visit from the West. He was not: although he had grown up on a ranch in New Mexico and had punched cows, just as he’d also been cavalryman, gambler, South American revolutionary, oilfield roughneck and prize fighter, he was a soldier of fortune, a man who went where there was money to be made at his hard trade of violence and fighting.
The Colonel gestured him to a chair in front of a big, mahogany desk piled high with papers and maps, then opened a humidor. Fargo took a cigar and the Colonel also clenched one between his teeth as he poured bourbon. “Good trip East?”
“All right,” Fargo said. “I would have been here sooner, but I was up in Alaska. I’d just got back as far as Portland when your Pinkerton man found me.”
The Colonel nodded. “Yes. His report said he’d trailed you over half the world before he caught up with you.” Then the Colonel raised his glass. “Well, Sergeant Fargo, to your health.”
They drank; and then the Colonel put his glass aside and sat down behind the desk. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts; and Fargo looked at him, noting that he was aging. He had also been rancher, police commissioner of New York City, vice-president and then President of the United States; but Fargo always thought of him as the Colonel. That was what he had been when he had led the Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War.
Then the Colonel said, “How would you like to go back to Panama?”
Fargo took his cigar from his mouth. “If that’s where you want me to go.” Only from this man would he accept a job in such a manner, without even talking about price.
“It is. Panama. The Canal ...” Suddenly the Colonel got up, began to pace.
“I’m out of power, now, Fargo; I can’t send you in any official capacity. I’m an outsider—as the leader of a third-party movement, I have no real communication or influence with the present Republican administration. What I’m about to tell you is supposed to be most secret—it wasn’t told to me, I had to learn about it through my own sources.” He grinned. “My spies, if you will.” Then the grin went away. “I think the Canal is in danger, Fargo.” Fargo said nothing, only sipped his drink. The Colonel went on pacing. “The Panama Canal, Fargo! The biggest construction job this country’s ever undertaken—and the most important! The French tried to dig it, and they failed. And yet, the Spanish-American War proved that such a Canal was absolutely necessary for America’s security. We have possessions in the Pacific, now, and if we need to send warships to guard them, we can’t afford the extra time for them to steam around Cape Horn. So I made the Canal the keystone of my administration. When I die, even if I’m remembered for nothing else, so long as the Panama Canal exists, my name will live!”
“Hell, Colonel, they’ll remember you for San Juan and Kettle Hills, in Cuba.”
The blocky man shook his head impatiently. “I’m concerned with this country. I’m looking ahead-Japan’s a real Pacific power now that she’s sunk the Russian fleet, and she’s building more warships. If we lower our guard, the time will come when she’ll make a try for the Philippines, maybe Hawaii. And in Europe—mark my words, there’ll be a war there within another five years. A big war—we might be drawn into it. If we are, the Canal will be indispensable.”
He paused, took another sip of bourbon. “The construction of it is proceeding well. We had to dam the Chagres River at Gatun on the Atlantic side, and that’s been done; we’ve created Gatun lake, the biggest manmade lake in the world. We’re digging out the Gaillard Cut—Culebra Cut, they call the worst part of it—gouging a hole right through the heart of the Cordillera at Culebra Pass. We’re building locks, and we’ve rebuilt the Panama Railroad the whole fifty-mile width of the Isthmus. We’ve cleaned up the yellow fever and malaria in the Canal Zone and built whole new towns to house our construction and Army personnel. The original schedule called for the Canal to be opened in 1915; now it looks very like it might open a whole year earlier.”
Fargo took his cigar from his mouth. “Then what’s the trouble?”
The Colonel sat down. “A man named Buckner,” he said.
Fargo sat up straight. “Cleve Buckner?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“I’ve heard of him. He fought for the Government side in the Revolution in San Salvador a few years ago. I was on the other side ... He managed to get out of the country when we won—lucky for him he did. He was scheduled to be ’dobe-walled.”
“What do you know about him?”
“A smart soldier, a hell of a
fighter—and a damned rattlesnake. He’s got the guts of a brass monkey and he’d cut his own mother’s throat for fifty cents.”
“That’s the man, all right.” The Colonel nodded. “Fargo, he’s in Panama, and he’s building an army. And the only possible target for that army’s the Canal!”
He paused, took a swallow of his drink. “Let’s go back a bit Originally, there was a controversy over the site of the Canal. One faction wanted to build it through Nicaragua. Another one, mine, wanted Panama. But Panama at that time was ruled by Colombia. We couldn’t come to terms with the Colombian government.”
Fargo grinned; it was like a wolf showing its teeth. “I know. I was there—remember?”
The Colonel grinned back. “Indeed I do. You served as my agent to help foment revolution, to persuade the people of Panama to rebel against Colombia. And when that happened, it gave me an excuse to send in the Marines.” He laughed softly. “I took Panama and let Congress debate it afterwards. We set up an independent Panama Republic and concluded the Canal Zone treaty with it, bought out the French interests and went to work ourselves. And—we’re fortifying the canal with long-range guns at either end.”
All the mirth went out of his fleshy face. “But it’s still vulnerable, Fargo. The Canal Zone is only ten miles wide, five on either side. It’s vulnerable from the flank, from an attack overland from the interior of Panama. And ... I have reason to believe that sooner or later that attack will come. When it does, Cleve Buckner will probably lead it. And if they hit the Zone, Fargo, if they get through to the Canal long enough to use some dynamite here, some dynamite there—the locks could be blown out. Or tons of dirt dumped into Culebra Cut. Or any other of a half-dozen things done to put the Canal out of action ...” He laid his cigar aside. “Even though we keep strong forces in the Canal Zone, five miles isn’t much room to maneuver. A flank attack could do tremendous damage, delay the opening of the Canal for months, years. And who knows what would happen in the meantime? Maybe Japan would strike at our Pacific possessions . . . and it would take us forever to get enough reinforcements around the Horn to defend them. Maybe that would be the moment the Germans struck at England—and the British couldn’t get their fleet or fighting men from the Pacific without tremendous delay. That delay might make the difference—and we’d face a Europe under the domination of the Kaiser.”
He arose, began to pace. “Anyhow, deep in the heart of Panama, Cleve Buckner is putting together an army. He’s headquartered at a place called San Fernando, a stinking little hellhole deep in the jungle. We have no authority to move in; the Republic of Panama is sovereign over that area, and an attempt to encroach might start another Revolution, jeopardize the Canal.”
“Can’t you get the Panama Republic to move in on Buckner? Wipe him out?”
“No. You know how these South American governments operate. Graft, corruption. Buckner’s paying off somebody in the Panamanian Government, or the Army. They won’t move against him.”
“I see. Where’s he getting his soldiers?”
“Most of them are Americans. Many of them are deserters from our own Army. Others are civilian employees who got into trouble in the Zone. I suppose there are some natives, maybe some soldiers of fortune like yourself, according to the information I’ve obtained, the general American scum and riffraff from all over Mexico, Central and South America. What we used to call out West owlhooters.”
“Right,” Fargo said.
“It’s my theory that, when Buckner has this army ready, he’ll sell it to the highest bidder. That might be Japan, it might be Germany, it could be Colombia, which has still got a score to settle with us and which wants to get its hands on Panama again. Whoever it might be, so long as that army exists, it’s like a knife at our throat. Something has got to be done about it, Fargo. And that’s why I called you here, from halfway around the world.” He paused. Looked at Fargo.
‘That army has to be broken up. And Cleve Buckner has to be ... eliminated.”
The room was silent for a moment. Fargo drained his glass. The Colonel served good whiskey. Fargo made no protest when the Colonel took the glass and began to refill it. Then Fargo said, “It sounds like a tall order for one man.”
“It is,” the Colonel said. “I know of only one man who might have a chance in Hades of doing it.” He gave Fargo the drink. “You.”
Once more, Fargo’s lips twisted in that wolfish grin.
“Look,” the Colonel said. “President Taft knows of the existence of Buckner and his crowd. So does the Army. But they won’t do anything about it.” His mouth twisted contemptuously. “They’re like a bunch of old women. They’re afraid of Congress, they’re afraid of stirring up trouble with Panama, they’re afraid of taking any action at all.” His eyes glittered. “But you know me, Fargo. I believe in action.”
Fargo’s grin widened, and he nodded. “You sure as hell do.”
“That’s right. We understand each other. We always have, since that time you saved my life under fire in Cuba. We understand people like Buckner, too! But these old maids here in the East—” he shook his head disgustedly.
“Anyhow,” he went on, “the Canal is really mine. It means too much to me to see it jeopardized because the Administration knows how to do nothing but shilly-shally! I want this threat eliminated, and I want it eliminated once and for all.” His eyes met Fargo’s. “You understand exactly what I mean.”
Fargo nodded again. “Exactly.”
“A private individual like you can go down there, move around freely, and take whatever action’s necessary without a lot of hampering foolishness about diplomatic relations, Army regulations, and that sort of nit picking. Like you, I know something about prize fighting. But when I went after horse thieves in the Dakotas, I didn’t worry about Marquis of Queensberry rules. I used a shotgun.” He grinned coldly. “You’ve got a shotgun, too.”
“That’s right,” Fargo said. “I have.”
“Then you’ll take the job?”
“I said I would.”
“Bully!” The Colonel’s face brightened. “By Jove, simply bully!” He reached inside his coat. Then a thick packet of currency landed on the desk before Fargo. “There’s ten thousand dollars. I can get more if I have to. You may need it to hire men, buy equipment ... When you come back and tell me Buckner’s dead, there’ll be another ten thousand. Or whatever you ask.”
Fargo looked at the currency, and something stirred within him. It always did, at the sight of money. That was what he fought for. But, after a moment, he shoved it back. “I can’t take that from you, Colonel.”
“You’re not taking it from me. You’re taking it from a ... well, a syndicate of wealthy men who see the danger as clearly as I do. They merely designated me as spokesman.”
“Oh. In that case ...” Fargo picked up the money; his fingers caressed it lovingly. “This ten thousand and another ten when I bring you Buckner’s ears.”
“You don’t have to do that literally. I trust you. If you say Buckner’s dead, he’s dead.”
“Right,” said Fargo and he put the money in his coat. “And if I don’t come back, you’ll know I am.”
“I’m not worried about that,” the Colonel said. “I know you too well. You’re worth an army.” His face flickered with impatience. “When can you leave for Panama?”
“When’s the next ship?”
“I understand there’s one sailing tomorrow night from the North River in Manhattan.”
Fargo patted the money, adjusting it so that it did not interfere with the shoulder-holstered Colt. “Why, then,” he said, “I’ll leave tomorrow night.”
Chapter Two
It was hot in the stateroom. Almost no breeze at all came through the porthole, through which Fargo watched the green line that was the coast of the Isthmus of Panama seemingly move toward the ship across the water. Sweat stood out on Fargo’s forehead as he turned away from the port and went to the bed, on which sat a large trunk made of heavy leath
er and securely padlocked.
Fargo took keys from his pocket and opened the locks, lifted the trunk’s lid. It held the tools of his trade, and now, one by one, he examined them to make sure they had survived the trip intact.
First, there was the Winchester .30-30 carbine in its ornately tooled saddle scabbard. It was all right, and Fargo reholstered it and laid it aside. Next came a sheathed knife of peculiar shape. He had got it in the Philippines—a Batangas knife, it was called; and its ten-inch blade was razor keen, of a steel strong enough to be driven through a silver dollar at one blow without dulling. Its handles were made in two separate sections of water buffalo horn that folded forward over five inches of the blade. Fargo slipped a catch, flipped his wrist, and the handles snapped back into his palm, baring the full ten inches of shining, deadly steel. He closed the handles, sheathed the knife, and laid it with the Winchester.
Then he took from the trunk a gun case made of the softest, most durable chamois. He opened it and withdrew a ten-gauge shotgun, a hammerless Fox, its receiver chased, engraved and inlaid with silver by a master craftsman. Worked among the inlay was the inscription: To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt. The gun had come with 30-inch barrels, a fowling piece. Fargo had sawed off seventeen inches of those barrels, thus producing one of the deadliest short-range weapons in the world. Eighteen buckshot, sprayed nine each from those wide-open bores, would mow down everything in a path yards wide.
Fargo checked the guns oiling, making sure the coating was neither too light nor too heavy, broke it and closed it; and then he slung it over his shoulder by the leather sling he had added to it. He wore it muzzles down, stock up, and when he had checked the sling’s adjustment for his right shoulder, he transferred it to his left and made sure it fit equally well there. He could shoot with either hand; he had been born with the gift of ambidextrousness, and there was nothing he could do right-handed that he could not do with equal speed and accuracy with his left. It was a knack that had saved his life more than once.
