Fargo 13

by John Benteen

  “Maybe they didn’t all go under. Maybe some did try to get out. If they did, they got lost in the badlands and died or the Utes killed ’em.”

  “That’s a lie,” a voice said harshly from the willows behind them. They both turned as a stocky figure dressed in khaki shirt and bib overalls emerged from the brush. “My people didn’t kill them, they aren’t murderers.”

  Cord snorted. “Your people, huh, Birdsong? Listen, I know the Utes. Hell, they might not only have killed ’em, they might have et ’em. You damn Injuns’ll eat anything.”

  Fargo heard a short intake of breath. The young man who stepped into the moonlight wore his hair long, falling to his shoulders in a black shag. His face was high of cheekbone, the color, Fargo had noticed earlier, of an old penny. Clyde Birdsong, he called himself, this Indian in his twenties who had grown up wild in the desert, then been wrenched away from his people, sent to school in the East, and who had been interpreter and clerk in a trading post on the Ouray Reservation before being recruited for the expedition. Fargo saw at once that Birdsong’s white man’s education had robbed him neither of pride nor fierceness. Although Cord was nearly twice his size, there was no fear in the way Birdsong confronted him.

  “Cord,” he said. “I’ve heard that stuff from you ever since we came together here at Sheep Creek. I’ve had enough. You’ll apologize, to me and to my people.”

  Cord’s deep laugh rang in the canyon above the sound of rushing water. “Say I’m sorry to a goddam red nigger? That’ll be the day!”

  “Why, damn you—” Birdsong stepped back a pace: his hand dropped to a sheathed knife on his hip. Fargo swung in between them.

  “Stop it, both of you,” he snarled. “Birdsong, you pull that knife, you’re in trouble. Cord. You’ve got a bad mouth. Birdsong’s entitled to that apology.”

  Though Cord outweighed Fargo by more than twenty pounds, their heights were almost exactly the same, and their eyes met levelly. Cord’s lips pulled away from yellow teeth. “Say I’m sorry to a Injun? Fargo, you must be crazy.”

  “Not crazy enough to run a river with two people in the party that hate each other’s guts. If there’s trouble between the two of you, we’ll have it settled here and now, before we shove off.”

  “What are you, some kinda Injun lover?”

  Fargo said, “I’ve been fighting with Pancho Villa’s army. About half of ’em are Indios, yeah. I don’t love ’em or hate ’em, but I’ve seen ’em in action and I respect the hell out of ’em. They’re people like any other people, and—that makes no never mind. This expedition comes first. There ain’t room in it for this kind of stuff. Make your apology, Cord; that’s an order.”

  There was a silence, filled only by the cold, incessant rushing of the river through the canyon’s high stone walls. Then Cord laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. “Fargo,” he said. “You don’t give me orders. I take my orders from Vane, nobody else. When Vane tells me to apologize, maybe, jest maybe, I’ll do it.”

  Fargo sighed tiredly. “Cord, I thought I laid down the law this afternoon. I’m joint commander of this expedition. You’ll take my orders or you’ll head back up Sheep Creek right now.”

  “I will like hell! Don’t get too big for your britches, shotgun man, or I’ll take that double-barrel away from you and wrap it around your neck!”

  “Will you, now?” Fargo said softly.

  “Mr. Fargo,” Clyde Birdsong said, voice trembling slightly. “Thanks, but I fight my own battles.”

  “This ain’t your battle,” Fargo said. He tossed the cigar into the river. “This is a matter of command, of discipline.” Deftly, he unslung the shotgun, jacked it open, pocketed the shells. “Hold this, Birdsong.”

  The Ute took the weapon. Fargo stood there, legs planted, facing Cord. “Now,” he said. “You got a Colt and I got a Colt. You got a knife and I got a knife. And you got fists and I got fists. Apologize to Birdsong and tell me you got the chain of command straight or walk out Sheep Creek or decide which one you aim to use.”

  ~*~

  In the moonlight, he watched the reactions that crossed Cord’s face. First, astonishment: then Cord grinned, and it was the smile of a child given exactly what he wanted for Christmas. “You want to fight me?”

  “If it takes that to prove you got to take my orders.”

  Cord spat into the river. “Well, hell,” he said, “when I git through with you, you won’t give no orders!” Then, in the murk, his big right fist slashed straight for Fargo’s face.

  Which wasn’t there anymore. It was what Fargo had expected, and he reacted like a panther, all the old skill and reflexes learned in the prize ring triggered by the movement. He heard Cord’s fist rip past his cauliflower ear, dropped into a crouch, as Cord’s left came at him, wheeled slightly, went under it and hit Cord in the gut. Cord rocked back, and Fargo shifted balance and came in and hit Cord in the throat. Cord gagged, stepped back off the sandbar into the shallows of the river, and Fargo, following every advantage, came after him.

  And would have ended it there if his right boot had not sunk almost to its top in the sand. He was thrown off balance at the river’s edge, and then Cord had recovered and as Fargo, anchored, tried to move, sand sucking at his boot, Cord hit him on the jaw.

  In his time, Fargo had been kicked by both horses and mules, but Cord’s blow was harder. It literally dragged his foot from the sand and lifted him and sprawled him on the bar. Cord came at him, as Fargo tried to rise, dived, and landed on him with crushing impact. Fargo’s breath went out, his head rang, but instinctively he seized Cord’s body, hugged it to him so tightly the man had no room to move, clamped his legs around Cord’s hips. Locked together, they rolled over and over, as Cord got his splayed hand on Fargo’s face, fingers searching for the eyes.

  “Damn you, shotgun man,” Cord husked. Then they had rolled into the river.

  They struggled together there in the shallow water at the bar’s edge, and as Cord went under, his clawing hand came away just in time from Fargo’s eyes. He surged under Fargo like some giant fish, the current did its part, and the two of them revolved, and now it was Fargo under water, pinned there by Cord’s massive weight.

  He tried to jerk his head up, gasping for air, but Cord’s arm forced it down. Fargo let go of Cord, slugged the big man with both hands in the kidneys, to no effect. Cord bore him down and the river rushed coldly over his head, and he knew now that Cord meant to drown him in a foot of water. He had no reserve in his lungs, and what he did must be done quickly. He twisted his head, sank his teeth in Cord’s thick wrist below the sleeve. He felt them go through flesh, hit bone. He was aware, vaguely, that Cord howled, and in that instant of pain, Cord’s body went briefly slack, and Fargo put all his strength into a roll, teeth still locked, tearing, in Cord’s flesh. They wallowed furiously, like stranded whales, and then Fargo was on top and it was Cord beneath him as Fargo came up, released his grip, spat blood—Cord’s—and sucked in blessed breath. In that moment, Cord got his left hand between them and with a mighty effort—he had the strength of a moose—lifted Fargo and shoved him back and Fargo came up and fell on the sandbar. Cord reared dripping from the water and came at him, but Fargo was on his feet before the panting bear of a man in his buckskin shirt got to him. Cord’s right wrist, torn, poured blood, and Fargo dodged in beneath the left and hit Cord between the eyes. That was his own right, and his left followed. He felt the impact all through his body as it connected solidly with Cord’s chin. Cord said something thickly, swayed like a tree cut nearly through. Mercilessly, as his left hand dropped, Fargo finished it. His fists made the sound of a dull ax sinking into hardwood as he rocked Cord’s big head back and forth with savage skill. Cord’s knees buckled. Fargo hit him one more time, squarely on the jaw. Cord sighed, crumpled to the sand. Fargo stepped back, soaked, panting, bruised. “Gun and knife,” he breathed. “Take ’em, Birdsong.”

  The Ute moved quickly, deftly, shucked Cord’s Colt and Bowie from their sca
bbards. “Mr. Fargo,” he said in an awed voice. “You beat the living hell out of him.”

  “Somebody comes at you,” Fargo managed, “that’s the only way to go.” Then he sat down on the sandbar, exhausted. He was aware of noise behind him, the fight had been heard. Then Michaelson was on one side of him and Captain Vane towering over him on the other. “What the deuce is this?” Vane rasped.

  “Shut up,” Fargo said, with the last of his breath. “We’ll talk about it later. Michaelson, get Cord up to camp and give him first aid. He’s got a hand that’s gonna hurt him for a while.”

  “Fargo, I demand an explanation!” Vane snapped, as Michaelson and Birdsong hoisted Cord’s inert body, with help from Clell Yadkin, the rangy geologist and mining engineer.

  “You’ll get it,” Fargo panted, “when I get my breath back.” He scrambled to his feet. The shotgun lay in the sand; he snatched it up, instinctively cramming two shells from his pocket back into it, hoping they weren’t water soaked. It was good he had not worn his bandolier. He drew his Colt, spun the cylinder to make sure it had not been clogged with sand. Right now, he needed a drink, and there was bourbon in his bedroll. Ignoring Vane, he followed the men carrying Cord’s limp body into the willows and cottonwoods that concealed the camp.

  ~*~

  He had his drink, changed clothes—it was chill down here in the canyon by the river—and as Vane buzzed around him like an insect, stripped and cleaned his guns, which he could do in darkness without any trouble, since he could, for that matter, detail strip and clean and reassemble a Colt machine gun or a Lewis gun blindfolded if it came to that. Finally he was ready to talk to Vane. He told the Captain what had happened. “A matter of discipline,” he finished flatly. “You ought to be able to understand that.”

  “I’m responsible for the discipline in this camp. You should have reported it to me.”

  Fargo raised his head, looked at Vane. “We’re both responsible for discipline.”

  “I am the ranking man here,” Vane almost snarled.

  Slowly Neal Fargo got to his feet. His voice was curiously mild as he said, “We are the ranking men here, Captain. And it’s up to us to get along together. Now, I’m going to tell you something, and I think you had better understand it. You are a captain in the United States Army and I am an ex-sergeant, an enlisted man, and that is something you can’t stand, sharing command with an enlisted man. So maybe what I will say will make you feel better. First of all, do you know about Samar?”

  Vane sucked in breath. “It was the roughest campaign in the Philippines during the Insurrection.”

  “That’s right,” Fargo said, “and there’s a little custom in the Army that maybe you’ve forgotten. It was so bad on Samar that the Army thought every man there deserved the Congressional Medal, but couldn’t get it for all the survivors. But it honored them in another way. Even right now, when a man, the lowliest private, who was there, walks into a room, every soldier in it, up to full general comes to attention. Maybe you’ve seen it happen: ‘Rise, gentlemen; he served on Samar.’”

  Vane’s voice changed. “You were on Samar?”

  “Where,” Fargo asked with wry bitterness, “do you think I got this white hair?” Then his teeth gleamed in darkness as his wolfish grin split his face. “When I walk into a room, Captain, it’s up to you to come to attention—unless you were there, too.”

  “I didn’t know that. The Colonel didn’t tell me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t tell you, either, that I held the rank of General in the Panamanian Revolution that set up the change of government that made it possible to put through the Canal. Maybe he didn’t tell you that I hold the rank of Colonel in Pancho Villa’s Army of the North. Maybe he didn’t tell you that I was offered a field commission as a brevet Major by Pershing if I’d signed up for another hitch in the Cavalry in the Philippines. I turned it down, because I knew there was no future for a mustang officer that hadn’t been to West Point in the Army, and because I could make more money on my own hook. But if it’s rank that’s bothering you—” He bit the end off a cigar. “You name it, I’ve led it in combat, one little war or another, from a platoon to a division. There’s some pretty pieces of paper with lots of official seals in my trunk back in Green River. I’ll be glad to let you look at ’em any time.”

  “Sergeant Far—I mean, Fargo.” Vane’s voice was a little shaky. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. The ... the Colonel should have told me.”

  “The Colonel and I’ve got an understanding. He don’t talk about what I’ve been up to and I don’t talk about what he’s been up to. Neither one of us gets the other in trouble that way.”

  “Well, of course. I … this makes everything different. Ser—Fargo. Colonel ...”

  “Try Neal,” Fargo said.

  “Neal, I’m proud to share command with you.”

  “And it works the other way,” Fargo said. “Me, I didn’t have the guts to tough it out in the Army. I always admire a man who did.”

  Vane was silent for a moment. “Maybe I wasn’t so wise. I’ve spent my whole career running rivers and mapping their courses. They don’t give you medals for that, or even promotions. I … Neal, it’s a hard thing for a soldier to admit. But I have never been tested under fire. I have no combat experience.”

  Fargo drew deeply on the cigar. “Running a bad river calls for just as much guts. Anyhow, Captain, I’ve got a hunch that, if it’s combat you want, you’ll have it before this shindig is over. And likely with the toughest enemy anybody could run up against, the owlhoot bunch. I—” He broke off, as he heard the sound of someone coming through the bush.

  Then he recognized the silhouette of Clyde Birdsong, the Ute. “Mr. Fargo. It’s Tom Cord.”

  Fargo said harshly, “What about Tom Cord?”

  “One of those soldiers is a medic, he bandaged Cord’s arm. Cord’s awake now and wants to see you.”

  “About what?”

  Birdsong hesitated. “Well, first of all, he apologized to me. I’m satisfied. Now he says he wants to apologize to you.”

  Fargo shifted the cigar across his mouth. “Then bring him on.”

  “I’m already here,” Cord’s deep voice said as he stepped out of the brush. His big body swayed slightly. “Fargo, I got some crow to eat. You took me, and you took me fair and square. When somebody does that to me, I don’t hold a grudge. I’ll say it now, hope you’ll accept it. I was wrong to bad-mouth Birdsong and wrong to come at you. I hired on to do a job, and I’ll do it. And if you give me orders, I’ll see they’re carried out.”

  Fargo looked hard at him, but Cord’s face was masked by darkness. “All right,” he said. “Apology accepted. We’ll forget the whole thing.”

  “That would pleasure me,” Cord said. “Maybe you’d shake hands on it.” He put out his left.

  Fargo took it. “This ends it, Cord.”

  “As far as I’m concerned it does.”

  “Me, too,” Fargo said. He let go Cord’s hand. The cigar had gone out and he dropped it and ground it underfoot. “Now,” he said, “let’s all get some sleep. The way I understand it, tomorrow we shove off, and, gentlemen, we’ve got one hell of a lot of bad river to run before we’re through.”

  Chapter Four

  Morning sun rayed down between the canyon walls, and mist rising from the water became a miniature rainbow. And now, Fargo thought, as the men readied the three boats at the mouth of Sheep Creek, it was time to go. The Green, the Grand, the Colorado. Far and lonesome places, challenge, danger. He felt totally alive, full of eagerness as he and Captain Vane held a final conference.

  “You and Cord will lead the way,” Vane said, “with Birdsong as the third man in the boat. We can’t have both commanders in the same craft, and you’re the one who has to see any trap before we spring it. I’ll follow in the second with Michaelson and Corporal Grant. Clell Yadkin, Corporal Thomas, and Randall from the Coast Guard bring up the rear. If you think we should halt, or if you need time to scout, g
ive the signal. You’ll also be responsible for picking places to camp. We have scientific work to do along the way; we’ll depend on you to cover us while we do it.”

  Fargo nodded. “Fair enough. I want each man to be armed at all times, pistol and rifle within his reach, fully loaded. Spare ammo’s to be stowed in the watertight compartments.”

  “Including your bandoliers? You fall in with those on and you’re finished.”

  “Where I go, they go,” Fargo said. “I can get out of ’em in a hurry if I have to. Captain Vane, I’m ready if you are.”

  “Yes,” Vane said. His eyes flared with excitement. He turned, looking at the boats fully loaded and waiting at the water’s edge. His voice rose above the pounding of the current. “Gentlemen, take your places! Let’s shove off!”

  ~*~

  Cord took the bow of the first boat, disregarding his wounded, bandaged arm as he picked up a paddle. Fargo seated himself on the center thwart, rifle cradled across his knees, shotgun slung. “Birdsong,” he ordered, “put her in!”

  The Indian shoved the stern, and the boat floated free, swung downriver. Nimbly, the Ute leaped in, seized his paddle. Behind, the other craft moved out. Then the current of Green River caught them and they were on their way.

  It, the rush of water, was like a living thing, and in its grasp the boat was like a young horse on a frosty morning, eager to run. It swept smoothly into midstream and a single deft stroke of Birdsong’s paddle lined it properly. Fargo watched the canyon walls above them, eyes sweeping their rims and all the jagged ledges, outcrops, clefts and cracks.

  The river here was less than a hundred yards in width, comparatively placid, and blue birds swooped back and forth across it, giving strange ratcheting calls: this was known as Kingfisher Canyon. Fargo, veteran of plenty of white water in his logging and prospecting days, judged they should have no trouble here, but he had memorized the map, and he knew things would be livelier when they left this canyon and entered the next one. Meanwhile, he admired the skill with which Cord set their course, and if the big man’s injured wrist hurt him, he gave no sign of it.