by John Benteen
Fargo said, “I’ve heard of a couple of boys from Arizona named Kolb who ran the same route.”
“Of course. But they were photographers by trade, not scientists or geographers. They added to our knowledge of the river, yes, but not enough.”
Pausing, eyes gleaming behind thick lenses, the Colonel tapped the map emphatically with a stubby forefinger. “The Colorado, Fargo! It’s one of the major rivers of America and yet so little is really known about it, because it’s one of the wildest, fiercest rivers, too. You could say it begins here, with the Green River draining down from Wyoming through Utah, where it meets the Grand, coming in from Colorado to form the real Colorado. After that, it plunges on through canyons big enough to hide the city of Chicago, down rapids that run faster than a locomotive, waterfalls, whirlpools, until eventually it flows into the ocean near Baja California. And it remains untapped, unharnessed and unused.”
“There used to be steamboats ran up it from the south as far as Needles, California, I think,” Fargo said. “Some placer mining on it, some of it to fair scale, done with dredges. What other uses would you put it to?”
“We can’t say, until it’s thoroughly explored and surveyed by reliable engineers. But there could be plenty. Fargo, the Colorado is one of the great resources of this country. Billions of gallons of water running squarely through the desert and all going smack to waste! If some of that could be used for irrigation, think what it could mean.” The Colonel hit the table with his fist. “But even that’s not the main thing! Electricity, Fargo! Electricity is generated by water power—and the Colorado is pure, racing, untamed water power! It could be dammed and put to work—and who knows what changes that would make in the West?”
Fargo said nothing. The Colonel looked at him wryly. “Changes in the West. That idea doesn’t appeal to you much, does it?”
Fargo said, “A wolf don’t like to see the farmers cut down the woods, if you get my meaning.”
“I know. In many ways I feel the same. That’s why I worked so hard to set up the National Forest systems when I was President. To keep part of the country wild. Besides, don’t worry. I’m not going to put you out of business. There’ll always be a job for a man who can use his guns—in your lifetime and mine and likely far into the future. Anyhow, you need to know the background.”
He turned, went to the window, looked out wordlessly at the little cowtown’s street below. “I built the Panama Canal, Neal, so I guess you could say I’m accustomed to thinking big. The Colorado—the idea of putting it to use has been haunting me. Had I been elected last year, I would have spent government money on a full-scale expedition. Meanwhile, I did spend some money—not government funds—on a smaller one. Do you remember Lieutenant Knight, K Troop, the old regiment?”
Fargo frowned. “Yeah, I remember him. K Troop was all Easterners. We used to laugh at ’em, but they turned out to be as tough as any of us, and Knight was about the toughest of ’em all.”
“Right. Well, Harry Knight stayed in the Army, rose to Colonel of Engineers before he retired a few years ago. But he was just as adventurous as ever. Last year, he came to me with a scheme for another expedition down the Colorado, one composed mainly of experienced scientists and engineers. The idea was to survey the river and all its resources completely with modern instruments in the light of modern knowledge. It was to be a preliminary expedition for a full-scale one later on, if I were elected President. With the help of the Explorers Club, the National Geographic Society, and the Smithsonian Institute, plus some wealthy friends, I scraped up the money Knight needed. Last summer he embarked from below Green River with twelve men and four specially constructed boats and a great deal of valuable equipment.”
The Colonel broke off. After a moment, he turned, and his eyes were hard as he faced Fargo. “Nothing has been heard from them since, none of them. Fargo, the whole expedition has disappeared completely.”
~*~
Neal Fargo chewed the black cigar clamped between his teeth. “Maybe the river ate them.”
“No.” The Colonel’s voice was sharp. “Part of them, perhaps. But not the whole expedition. Those boats were a new type, scientifically constructed for the trip and damned near unsinkable. Every man of the crew was experienced on white water, expert outdoorsmen in all other respects. It’s unthinkable that the Colorado River could have taken all of them and left no survivors, not one to tell the tale.” Carrying his glass, he went to the dresser, poured one more very small drink.
“Sergeant Fargo, I don’t think it was the wild river that got Knight’s expedition. I think it was the wild men along it.”
For a moment Fargo was silent, assessing old rumors and campfire stories. “That’s not impossible.”
“No, I don’t think it is. You talked about wolves and woods a few minutes ago. In a sense, what you said applied to the Colorado in spades. It’s wild, remote, and unexplored. You could call it the last big patch of woods for the wolves to hide in—and I think plenty are still hiding there. You know about the Old Outlaw Trail.”
“Sure,” Fargo said. “Ran from Canada to Mexico. The Owlhoot Trail they called it sometimes. Touched at the Colorado half a dozen different places.”
“Exactly.” The Colonel went to the map. “The parks and holes and badlands along the Colorado made a fine series of stopovers for badmen on the dodge and rustled stock. Take Brown’s Hole, for instance, not far from here, where the Wyoming, Utah and Colorado state lines all come together.”
Fargo grinned. “Yeah. In the old days it drove the lawmen crazy. A wanted man could skip back and forth across state lines with no trouble at all. And, of course, there’s Robbers’ Roost, over in the San Rafael country in Utah, not far above the Dandy Crossing.”
The Colonel looked at him narrowly. “I won’t ask if you’ve ridden that trail yourself,” he said, grinning faintly.
“I’ve been a lot of places. And I know a lot of people who have been a lot of others. In the old days ...”
“The old days,” said the Colonel with irony. “Fargo, it’s only nineteen-fifteen. You talk as if the West were tame.”
“Not where I’ve been,” Fargo said.
“You mean along the border. Well, it’s not all that tame in this country, either. It’s only been five or six years since Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch broke up and he and the Sundance Kid were killed down in Bolivia. But … until recently there were still plenty of wanted men in circulation. I’ll grant you, their pickings have grown thin: bank and train robberies have tapered off and fences have cut down on rustling—but there are still a lot of hard cases who’ve never been accounted for, men with their pictures still on the post office walls. Some have gone to Mexico or South America, true; some have changed their names and settled down. But others have simply disappeared. And I think you and I both know where they have gone. I think they have holed up along the Colorado. And I think I was a fool to send Knight’s expedition down there unprepared to meet them. Because, Fargo, I think there are still plenty of men along that river who would kill to keep their presence there a secret and maintain their hiding places. Men who, the last thing they want is to see the Colorado opened and surveyed and explored. And I blame myself for having sent Knight’s team into such a pack of wolves without proper preparation.”
He paused. “Anyway, that’s the background, Neal. Now. There’s a second expedition waiting, hidden, to shove off from downstream on the Green in a week. Its mission is to search for any trace of Knight and his men, as well as carry out certain scientific projects. And I don’t want to see it fall prey to the human wolves along the Colorado. It’s your job to see that doesn’t happen—if you’ll take it. And before I have your answer, I’ll add this. Bring it off and there’s a minimum of fifteen thousand in it for you.”
Neal Fargo was silent for a moment. Presently, he said: “I never refused you anything yet. And Knight was a friend of mine in the old regiment. But if the money’s out of your pocket, I can’t accept it.”
“It’s not out of mine. I’ve raised funds from the same sources that financed Knight’s group. Included in the budget is the sum for you—if you bring back positive proof of the fate of every member of Knight’s team, or if—”
He broke off.
“If?” Fargo said quietly.
“If any of them are still alive, you’ll be expected to find them and bring them back. Rescue them if they’re held captive. No matter what you have to do.”
“Or,” said Fargo, still very quietly, “who I have to kill?”
“Once I gave you a shotgun,” the Colonel said.
“I still have it,” Fargo answered.
“It was presented to you to be used when needed,” the Colonel said. “If Knight and his men are still alive, I want them back. If they’re dead, I want justice done.”
“A tall order,” Fargo said.
“Which is why that part of the budget’s the biggest. You’ll take the job?”
“If I can do it my way.”
“You’ll have a free hand. That’s already been arranged.”
“Then, good enough,” said Fargo.
“That’s bully, simply bully,” the Colonel said, and Fargo saw the relief spread across his face. It was obvious that the Colonel’s conscience had been riding him. Fargo had never served under an officer who had felt such responsibility for his men, and the Colonel had not changed in that respect over the years. For a moment, the older man turned away. Then he said, “You’ll want the details.”
“Yeah,” Fargo said.
“Very well. Here they are in a nutshell.” His voice normally brisk again, the Colonel faced Fargo once more. “First of all, Knight’s expedition was totally secret. We decided to do it that way for fear that word that the Colorado was being re-explored might open up a false land boom. You know yourself how many unscrupulous operators would leap at the chance to unload acres of useless badlands on suckers at the least excuse.”
“Yeah. And the world is full of suckers.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. Anyhow, no word of the expedition—or its fate—has ever leaked out. This second expedition will be equally secret, partly for the same reasons, partly not to alert any of the … wolves ... along the river.”
“Good,” Fargo said.
“Three boats of the same design as Knight’s and eight men are waiting at the mouth of Sheep Creek, which comes in from the west, just below Horseshoe Canyon. They were brought in by pack train with all the equipment and assembled on the spot to preserve the secrecy. You’ll join them there and as soon as you arrive the expedition will take to the river.”
Fargo nodded. “And who’s in charge of this outfit?”
“Captain Charles Vane of the Corps of Engineers, who served under Knight for years, volunteered to take overall responsibility. I’m not well acquainted with him myself, but he seems sound, and he’s an experienced river man. He was recommended by people in Washington who know about such things. He has overall responsibility for navigation, supply, discipline. But—you are to serve as his co-commander. Vane’s authority extends to ordinary operation: you are to take full responsibility for the security of the expedition. Vane knows this, and I have prepared additional orders to him to that effect. For instance, it works like this. If he says run some rapids that you think should be portaged, or vice versa, Vane’s word is law. But if you say to stop the expedition because you need to scout, or make camp in a certain place because of danger from human enemies … your decision rules.”
Fargo frowned. “You said I’d have a free hand.”
“You do, when it comes to fighting or to searching out the fate of Knight’s men.” He paused. “All right, Neal, I know that’s not much to your way of thinking. You like to hold all the reins in your own hands. I know, too, that you’re a fairly experienced river man yourself: after all, you’ve been a lumberjack and on log drives. But one man can’t do everything, and there’ll be plenty to keep you and Vane both busy. As long as you work as a team, you should have no trouble.”
Fargo shook his head. “I’m still not crazy about an arrangement like that. But … all right, I’ll give it a try.”
“You’ll have to. It can’t work any other way. And ... it will be a personal favor if you bend every effort to work with Vane.”
“Put that way, I’ve no choice. Who else have we got?”
“All picked men, each a specialist, each an expert river man, and each with experience as a fighting man. First, your guide. I selected him myself. His name’s Tom Cord, and lately he’s been living in Yuma, Arizona. But he’s spent years along the Colorado—trapper, miner, cowhand … everybody says he knows the river as well as any man.”
“I’ll size him up,” Fargo said. “And keep an eye on him. If he’s been along the river that long, he’ll probably know who’s hiding out there now and where. The question is, which side of the fence will he be on?”
“I expected you to take that attitude. Of course, watch him. He stacks up as hard as nails, but that’s the kind of man that’s needed. The others ... well, you’ll meet them when you reach Sheep Creek. They cover a pretty wide range. John Michaelson’s been a surveyor working on the Alaskan Railroad. They don’t breed soft men up there. Clell Yadkin’s a trained geologist, an experienced hardrock miner. He’s worked at the home stake in South Dakota and the Benguet on Luzon in the Philippines. Then there are a couple of non-coms from the Corps of Engineers and a sailor from the Coast Guard, his name’s Randall. There’s a young zoologist and forester from Oregon named Ward, and a Shevwits Ute who’s had a few years in Carlisle Indian School, but who’s an expert in survival in the kind of desert and badlands along the river. Nothing has been left to chance; every man, every weapon, every piece of equipment is the best available. Not a man there you wouldn’t want to ride the river with—literally speaking.”
“We’ll see,” Fargo said. “Going down the Colorado’s riding a different kind of river. But—give me orders to Vane and make them clear; along with him, I have the whip hand, and when it comes to fighting, I’m in charge.”
“You shall have them. Can you leave tomorrow to join the party?”
“I’ll strike out at sunrise.” Suddenly Fargo grinned. “Well, Colonel, I can always leave it to you to cook up somethin’. I figured someday I might have to ride the Old Outlaw Trail. But I never counted on doing it in a boat.”
Beneath the thick mustache the bucktoothed mouth grinned. “Neal, good luck. And … thank you.” He put out his hand. Then he was dead serious. “And remember—I want Knight and his men brought back. Or, if they’re dead and there’s been foul play ...”
Fargo said, “Don’t worry. Like I told you, I still got the shotgun.”
And then, understanding one another totally, they had another drink and spent a long time studying the map.
~*~
Except for the bulkiness of the bedroll carried by the tall sorrel the Colonel had provided, he could have been a cowboy headed back to work after a spree in Green River, as his mount singlefooted out of town just as the sun rose above the barren, yet colorful eastern hills. He had been careful not to attract too much attention to himself; but when Fargo reached the shelter of thick cottonwoods down by the Green River, he tied the horse, unlashed the roll. From it, he took the sawed off shotgun and his bandoliers, as well as the cartridge belt and hip-holster for the Colt. When the bandoliers were crisscrossed over his torso, their massive weight of ammunition seated firmly in place, the Colt strapped around his waist, and the shotgun riding muzzles down on its sling behind his right shoulder, Fargo felt whole and confident again. With a slimmer roll lashed behind the cantle—save for guns and ammunition he always traveled light—he rode on, and now he kept to cover.
That was something he was expert at—avoiding roads and using every bit of shelter and concealment. Considering what lay ahead, it was just as well if such a traveling arsenal did not advertise its presence. He followed draws and gullies, kept off the skyl
ine; and he made good time. He encountered no one except a few cowhands, and he always saw them before they saw him. By nightfall, when he built a nearly smokeless fire, he was in rough country, where it was unlikely that he would meet anyone. Nevertheless, he took no chances, put out the fire as soon as he’d had his coffee, beans and jerky, and when he slept, the shotgun was cradled in his arm beneath his blankets and the Colt was draped around the horn of the saddle he used for a pillow.
Smoking a final cigar and watching the stars wheel overhead, he thought about the assignment he’d just accepted. The Colonel had been right—it was dangerous and doubly dangerous. He wondered if Roosevelt really comprehended completely the risks involved.
First, of course, the river itself. As he had said, no one really knew the Colorado. But the Colonel had not exaggerated in terming it the wildest, fiercest river in the country. You could count on less than the fingers of both hands the number of men who’d survived a trip of any length down that stream; the way Knight’s crew had vanished was a fair example. Just staying alive on the water itself, with its endless cascading rapids through vast, sheer-walled canyons where, if you were wrecked, there was no place to come on shore, would take a lot of doing and a lot of luck.
And then, the men. The wolves, Roosevelt had called them, who hid out in the river wilderness. Fargo knew considerably more about those men than he had let on. There were still plenty of old-time gunfighters and desperadoes left alive, and, as civilization closed in on them, they had to find someplace to hide. There were two places in the west which were almost like game preserves for them, the fierce breed which still acknowledged no authority save a faster draw: one was in the wild country along the Rio Grande, and the other was in the even wilder jumble of parks and holes and benches and hidden valleys and sun blasted badlands along the Colorado. From there they could strike out occasionally to rustle horses or lift some cattle, or even rob a bank or train occasionally, though the latter was becoming rare. Mostly, they lay low, hating the modern world that had driven them into exile there and desperate enough for money to kill any passing stranger for his horse, gun, watch or, if he came down river on the water, boat. Surely Knight’s expedition would have tempted them; and almost certainly the Colonel was right that men and not the river had claimed their lives. It was damned unlikely, Fargo thought, that Knight or any of his crew still lived. But if they had been murdered—well, he had made a promise and he would keep it. His hand caressed the shotgun. Then he put out his cigar and slept.
