by John Benteen
Almost reluctantly, he put the shotgun away in its chamois case and laid it with the other weapons. Then he examined the bandoliers. There were three big cartridge belts; the one designed to buckle around his waist held rounds for the .38 Colt and those rounds were dum-dums, hollow-points that would blow up on impact, creating a fearful wound. A few years before, the Army had discarded the .38 Colt revolver in favor of the .45 Colt automatic. They had found that a heavier cartridge was needed to stop the entranced, kill-crazy, jurimentado Moros of Mindanao in the Philippines, who seemed immortal when they ran amok, Fargo preferred a revolver to an automatic, because the automatic was less accurate. He thought the Government could have saved itself a lot of money by issuing dum-dums for the .38. The hollow points would stop anything.
But that was the Government’s affair. He laid aside the cartridge belt, hefted the shoulder bandolier that glittered with rounds for the .30-30, made sure it was full, and took out the other belt, designed to crisscross it over his torso, that carried fifty rounds of ten-gauge, high velocity shotgun shells, each loaded with double-zero buckshot. One of the rounds had worked loose and lay in the bottom of the trunk; he put it back. A single round could make the difference between life and death.
There was more ammunition in the bottom of the trunk, along with his work clothes: in this case, lightweight khakis. Through hard experience, Fargo had worked out preferences in loads and bullet-weights, and what he liked was not available everywhere, so he carried as much with him as he could. The first rule of survival for a man in his business was: Never get caught short of ammunition.
Satisfied that all was in order, Fargo returned everything to the trunk. Just as he locked it, there was a knock at his stateroom door.
He put the trunk on the floor. Then he went to answer it. When he opened the door, she was there.
Her name was Myra Kane, and she was twenty-four years old, with black hair piled in a lovely glittering heap atop her head, features as clean-cut as those on a cameo pin, enormous violet eyes, big breasts that stood high and firm without support, with nipples the size of quarters, a body that was all ivory from head to foot and smooth as silk, and a liking for men who were all muscle and who bore the scars of old wounds. Fargo knew all this about her because he had made love to her four of the seven nights they had been at sea, even though she was another man’s wife.
Now, in a trim linen traveling dress that emphasized the swelling curves of breasts and hips, she looked at Fargo with those enormous, sultry eyes. “Fargo,” she said, her voice deep and husky. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”
Fargo smiled down at her. “Yes,” he said.
She put out a hand, touched his big wrist. “In Panama—Balboa—will I see you?”
“You’ll be living with your husband then,” Fargo said.
She grimaced. “Yes. Ward. That fool.”
“Maybe he’s a fool,” Fargo said. “He’s also one of the chief engineering officers on the Canal. He throws a lot of weight around down here.”
“I told you—they almost forced me to marry him. He’s years older than I am. Forty—and still a captain.” Her voice was full of contempt. Then she caught his wrist in her other hand, too. “Fargo, I can’t bear to give you up, Come to Ancon, on the Pacific side, the military settlement. Find me there. Ward will be out at work for days at a time, if he runs true to form. I’ll be lonely—so lonely.”
Fargo laughed softly. “Will you really, now, Myra?”
“Fargo, don’t talk to me like that, please. You know how much I need you.”
Yes, he thought, looking down at her. I know how much you need me. I know how much a mare needs a stallion, too, when she’s in heat. The only difference is, you’re always in heat ... Nevertheless, he would need every contact, every source of information, that he could get. The Colonel, of course, would strongly disapprove of such tactics—but then, the Colonel had hired him in the first place because Fargo could do whatever was necessary, unhampered by such things as morals.
‘Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll find you.”
She came into the cabin, shut the door behind herself. Her nails dug into his biceps. “Fargo,” she whispered, “kiss me one more time before we get off.”
“All right,” Fargo said, and he pulled her to him, bent his mouth to the hungry softness of hers ....
The first night out, he had seen her eyeing him from across the tiny dining salon, where she sat at the Captain’s table. Of course, he had already spotted her; he never walked into a room with women in it without sizing them up, ranking and grading them as prospects in his mind. But the unabashed interest, even lust, in her eyes had startled even him. He had not been vastly surprised when, alone at the bow rail that night, he had become aware of a breath of perfume mingled with the salt and had turned to find her there.
She had said: “Good evening. Isn’t the sea lovely?” A phosphorescent bow wave roiled and gleamed in the darkness. The cool breeze whipped the chiffon of her dress, molded it to the bold outlines of her body. A moon like something made of hammered silver rode high above, streaked with tattered clouds.
They had talked for a while, introduced themselves. Fargo had taken out a package of cigarettes, thrust one between good, white teeth that he took care of. (Nothing was worse than being stranded in a remote place of the world with an abscessed tooth; that could lay the strongest fighting man low.) When he lit the cigarette, she asked for one, too. It was a time when only a certain kind of woman smoked; and she could not have been more obvious if she had taken off all her clothes. A half-hour later, they were in his cabin.
It was a pattern that had repeated itself as often as they found the opportunity. Fresh and lovely as she was, she would do anything in bed, and do it with savor and experience. Fargo even felt a certain pity for the cuckold who awaited her; obviously she had been instructed by multitudes of men. But the pity was short-lived; a man who could not take care of his own wife deserved none. Besides, he had enjoyed her.
“Yes,” he whispered. ‘When I get a chance, I’ll come to Ancon.” Then the ship had rounded the breakwater; it shuddered to a slower pace. Fargo slapped her on the rump. “Now, you’d better go get ready to meet your dear, impatient husband.”
Her violet eyes stared into his. “All right. But... I’ll be waiting.” And she went out. Fargo watched her go, admiring the sway of her hips. Then he turned back to the trunk and double-checked its locks.
His hectic, dangerous career had taken him from New Mexico, where his parents had been killed by Apaches and a foster family had raised him, through most of Old Mexico, South America, Alaska, the Philippines and Cuba. He was, of course, an old hand in Central America, too; but he had not been in Colon in a long time; and now, in the horse-drawn hack that carried him to the Washington Hotel, he was amazed at how the city had changed.
The last time he’d seen it, the place had been a sprawling, stinking conglomeration of muddy streets, rotting garbage and open sewers, lethal with yellow fever, malaria, dysentery and cholera, its only sanitation provided by the vultures that fed openly on the carrion in its thoroughfares. Now, by comparison, it almost glistened with cleanliness. Like the City of Panama on the Pacific side of the Isthmus, it remained under the jurisdiction of the Panama Government. But it lay within the Canal Zone and, by treaty, the American Corps of Engineers had the responsibility for cleaning it up. Now the streets had been paved; the all-pervading stink was gone, a sewer system installed. The disease-carriers had been eliminated, too—mosquitoes and their larvae wiped out by spraying, drainage, and the filling of backwaters and swamps with the dirt removed from Culebra Cut. In the old days, the sight of an American had been rare; now the sidewalks swarmed with them: soldiers; tough-looking, sun blackened construction workers; even women and children, for the Army and civilians alike were encouraged to bring in their dependents. They seasoned a crowd already colorful with Spaniards, mestizos, Indians, mulattos, Jamaicans, and even a few remaining French fro
m the days when de Lesseps, who had dug the Suez Canal, had tried and failed to cut across Panama.
The Washington Hotel was a big, spacious structure on the beach, constructed by the Zone authorities and furnished with every luxury. For five dollars a night, Fargo got a luxurious room overlooking the ocean. Again, in its privacy, he checked his weapons. Then, still wearing the shoulder-holstered Colt under his jacket, he went downstairs to the dining room for coffee.
All its tables were crowded; but, as he stood with eyes searching for a place, he spotted a beckoning, upraised hand. Again his mouth twisted in that wolf’s grin: Myra Kane. She sat with a man in the tropical dress whites of the U.S. Army, but her efforts to catch his attention were frantic and unabashed.
He went directly to her. “Good morning, Mrs. Kane.” They might have been the most distant, correct of acquaintances.
“Mr. Fargo. How nice. I’d like you to meet my husband. Ward, darling, Mr. Fargo was one of the passengers on the ship.”
Kane stood up, put out a big, stubby-fingered hand. Not tall, heavy, thickening at the waist, hair graying, face lined and sun blackened, he gave the immediate impression of stodginess, dullness. Fargo was not surprised: Kane was regular Army, and in the tiny service of that day, people who rocked the boat did not attain the comparatively exalted rank of Captain. Even Goethals, who commanded the whole operation here, was only a Lieutenant Colonel.
“Mr. Fargo. Glad to meet you, sir.” His voice was heavy, too. They shook hands. “Won’t you join us?”
“Thank you. I only want coffee.” Fargo took a chair. He had barely seated himself when he felt Myra’s foot rubbing against his booted ankle. Fargo frowned slightly and drew his leg away.
Kane summoned a waiter; then he asked: “What brings you to the Canal Zone, sir?”
Fargo allowed that wolf’s grin to spread across his face. “Seemed like a good place to be. I read in the paper where every month they pay off with twenty-four tons of silver and three-quarters of a ton of gold. I always like to be around a place where there’s that much money in circulation.”
Ward Kane’s face creased in a slow frown. “I don’t understand. What is your business, Mr. Fargo?”
Fargo slipped a thin cigar between his teeth. “Making a buck, Captain Kane. Just making a buck.”
“I see ... An adventurer, eh?”
“You could call me that,” said Fargo jauntily.
Kane looked uncomfortable. Disapproving. That was exactly the way Fargo wanted him to look. “Ummm. I feel there’s something I ought to tell you.”
“Go right ahead,” said Fargo casually.
“We expect everyone in the Canal Zone to be … productive. At useful work. I mean ... there’s no place here for people who aren’t. Gamblers, profiteers, ah, parasites—they’re frowned on. Colonel Goethals is very strict—”
“Oh, sure,” Fargo said. “But Colonel Goethals doesn’t control Colon or the City of Panama. If the government of Panama has no objection to me, it ought not to be any skin off of Goethals’ nose. And if I want to set me up a nice little faro layout and skim some of the payday cream, that’s my business.”
Slow anger spread on Kane’s features. “Maybe, Mr. Fargo; maybe not. Our people are a long way from home. We try to minimize the temptations. We’ve set up excellent YMCA’s and provided all sorts of spare-time recreation to enable our workers to live the same sort of God-fearing, orderly lives as they would in the States. I would really suggest, sir, you find, another way of making a living.”
Fargo laughed coarsely, directly at the Captain. “What do you want me to do, take in washing?”
“We’re hiring men for work on the Canal. I’d be glad to put in a word ...”
Fargo raised a lip in a sneer. “No, thanks, Captain. Only suckers work for wages. My trade is trimming suckers.”
Now Kane’s sun reddened features were even redder. “Mr. Fargo, I’ll not allow the men under my supervision to be insulted. Moreover, I can assure you, sir, that your presence in the Zone will be reported. You may count on being watched. And I think Colonel Goethal’s word will carry some weight with the Panamanian authorities.”
Fargo laughed. “Unless Panama’s changed a lot, I expect a little rake-off from the top will carry more.”
Kane shoved back his chair. “All right, Mr. Fargo. You’ve been warned. I’m not without a certain amount of authority myself.”
Fargo also stood up. “Why, you pipsqueak. Are you threatening me?”
“Pipsqueak?” Ward Kane’s face turned dark. Myra giggled, a thin, involuntary sound, with mockery in it. Kane’s fist clenched, he swung, an awkward, slow roundhouse. Fargo laughed, caught it, and women screamed as he punched Kane hard, solidly, with a short left. Kane went over backward, sprawled across the chair, hit the floor with a thump that jarred china and silver.
Myra stared at Fargo. Fear and desire warred in her eyes. “Fargo,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I felt like it,” Fargo said. Then, his own voice cutting, he said, “Don’t you want to check and see if he’s hurt? He is your husband, you know.”
As if it had taken that to remind her, she wrenched her gaze from his, dropped to her knees beside him. “Ward. Ward, are you all right?”
Kane slowly opened his eyes. “I’m all right,” he said. Fargo stood loosely as Kane got awkwardly to his feet, staring at Fargo with hatred. “You realize I could have you arrested,” he whispered. “A word from me and you’d wind up in the stockade.”
“Go ahead,” Fargo said. “Try it.” The look he gave Kane was one of utter contempt. “It’ll be a lot safer for you than taking another swing at me.”
Kane just stood there, breathing hard, for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, waving away a waiter with a towel. His broad hand stroked his sore chin. “No, I’m not going to try to hit you again. I wouldn’t lower myself to brawl with you in a public place, especially in front of women. I’m not going to have you arrested yet, either. But if you’re not either hard at work on the Canal or out of the Zone on the next ship ...”
“Go to hell,” Fargo said. Then, with a display of complete disregard for the man, he turned on his heel and strode out, aware of dozens of pairs of eyes on his ramrod-straight back. He felt sorry for Kane—the poor bastard—but he felt a certain glow of satisfaction, too. The word would get around. They would know soon that he was in the Zone.
Chapter Three
Charge it up, Fargo thought, to necessary expenses. He meant the two hundred dollars he had just paid the Commandant of the Colon Police.
That had not been a difficult arrangement to make. It had been necessary only to go to the Police Station and ask for an interview. The Commandant’s name was Barrientos; he was a lean, saturnine man with dark skin and a delicate air of foppery, immaculate in white uniform. Twenty minutes’ circuitous conversation in the Spanish manner of never calling a spade a spade and Fargo had him in his pocket, with the promise of a minimum payment of another hundred every other week, in return for freedom of arrest for anything short of murder—and in return for Barrientos being unable to honor any request from the American authorities to bring Fargo in or turn him over to them. “And,” Barrientos purred, “you shall be staying at the San Leon Hotel?”
“That’s right.” Fargo’s grin was crooked. “I don’t think I’m welcome at the Washington Hotel any longer.”
Barrientos laughed softly. “No. After hitting the American captain, I should think not. Very well, Senor Fargo. So long as you keep your end of the bargain, I shall keep mine. Colon is yours—so far as my department is concerned. Of course, you understand that I cannot speak for the Army.”
“Of course not,” Fargo said. “But I was planning to drop around to the barracks and see the Commandant there, too.”
Barrientos laughed again. “He will ask for more than I did. I can assure you, he will settle for exactly the same. Inquire for General Morales.”
So that
was done, too. Now his flank was protected. His plans did not include being arrested by the Panamanian authorities, thrown into a Panamanian dungeon. He needed elbow room in which to operate.
The Hotel San Leon was a dump; but it was comparatively free of bedbugs and fleas. Fargo went back to it through streets barely wide enough to permit the passage of two burros; women swarmed and chattered and hung out wash on the galleries of the two-story tenements on either side; and naked children played in the gutters. It was the dry season; but the heat was stifling.
Adjoining the Hotel was the Cantina San Leon, and this was really the reason Fargo, after a careful search of the various quarters of Colon on his second day in Panama, had picked the place. It was in the very heart of a section packed with bars, cribs and brothels, not far from the terminus of the Panama Railroad, and when the construction workers swarmed in from the Canal at night, this, he had learned, was where they headed. It would, he thought, make an excellent base of operations. He had already made the appropriate arrangements with Angel Vargas, the owner of the establishment—another outlay of money—and now he was ready for business, or would be tonight, when the action started. Meanwhile, there was the long, brutally hot afternoon to kill.
It was cooler in the thick-walled cantina, but not much. At this time of day, the place was nearly deserted; Vargas, fat and perspiring, tended bar in a greasy apron. He shoved a cold beer toward Fargo. “Well, Senor, you have completed everything?”
“Everything, Angel.” It had been a stroke of luck that Vargas had turned out to be the proprietor of the very place Fargo needed as a base. There was old, if slight, acquaintance between them: years before, Vargas had been forty pounds less in weight, slim and fiery, a dedicated revolutionist. Fargo’s first mission to Panama for the Colonel had brought the two of them together in a certain amount of plotting during the almost bloodless rebellion against Colombia.
