Fargo (A Neal Fargo Adventure #1)

by John Benteen

  “His wife?” Fargo cut in.

  “Crystal Delaney; yeah, she’s down there with him. They’ve both got to get out before the roof falls in. But that ain’t all.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Fargo, we got a quarter of a million dollars in silver bullion already smelted and stored at the mine! A quarter of a million we haven’t dared try to ship out! Now—now, do you see? Do you see why I need you? And why I had to find out if you were tough enough to do the job?”

  Fargo was silent for a moment, beckoning absently to the waiter for more coffee. He looked at Meredith. “You want me to go down there, bring Delaney, his wife, and the silver out? Through Pancho Villa’s army?”

  “We’ll go down there and do it!”

  “We,” Fargo said. “We?”

  “You and me,” Meredith said.

  “You’re out of Mexico and safe. You’d better stay that way.”

  “Listen.” Meredith’s eyes were hard. “Half that silver’s mine. I’ve worked and I’ve sweated and I’ve slaved; I walked all over the whole goddam Sierra Madre before I made that strike. I dodged Indians and I dodged bandits; I lived like an animal out there in those mountains. Now, just as I start to make it, the roof caves in! I want my half of that silver, Fargo—and if you think I’m gonna sit on my hind end here in El Paso wonderin’ where it is, if I’ll ever see it again, you’re crazy. I’m going back to the Sierra Princess—and when that silver comes back out, I’m gonna be riding right alongside of it with a gun in my hand! You understand?”

  The coffee came. “I understand,” Fargo said. He laid his cigar aside. “The job sounds interesting, Meredith. But it’s pretty big for three men—you, me, and Delaney. And with a woman mixed up in it, too. A quarter of a million is a lot of silver. You don’t just tote that in a bedroll tied behind your saddle. It’ll take a mule train that’ll reach from here to yonder. You won’t be able to use the railroad, not if Villa is out to get you. After all, he controls ‘em. You’ll have to sneak and fight your way out—and that’s going to take just about what amounts to an army.”

  “I’ve got an army,” Meredith said promptly. “I’ve got the mules, too.”

  “Where is your army?”

  “At the mine. Twenty good fighting men, most of ‘em. Anglos. We hired ‘em to protect us against Hernandez.

  “Who’s Hernandez?”

  “Villa claims to control all of Chihuahua, but he don’t. There are plenty of one-horse gangs of bandits claiming to be revolutionaries all across the state—like wolf-packs. Hernandez leads the one operating in our territory. So Sam and I hired us a mine-guard of the meanest, toughest bastards we could find. They’re still down there—and they’ll help us bring the silver out.” His cigar had gone out; he scratched a match. “What I’m hiring you for, Fargo, is this. You ride with me, help me get back to the Sierra Princess. The two of us alone; we’ll have to dodge and sneak and maybe fight to make it. Then you take charge of the fighting men, the pack train. You bring us all back out of Mexico—including the silver.”

  Fargo was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Tall order.”

  “Yeah. I’ve combed this town looking for a man I thought could do it. From what I’ve heard and seen of you, I figure that if you can’t pull it off, nobody can. You want the job?”

  “Depends on what it pays;” Fargo said.

  “It pays ten per cent of all the silver we get across the border.”

  Fargo said, “Sweet.”

  “You’re goddam right,” said Meredith.

  Again there was silence. Then Fargo said: “You’re on. I want a thousand in advance. You buy the horses and supplies. I’ll want to pick out the horses myself. I’ll furnish my own ammunition.”

  Meredith looked at him. “Hell,” he said, “a thousand dollars is a lot of cash.”

  “So’s a quarter of a million,” Fargo said and looked back at him steadily.

  Meredith bit his lip. Then he let out a long, gusty breath. “All right. You’re on.” He pushed his coffee cup away. “Let’s go to my hotel. My money’s in the safe.”

  “I’m with you,” Fargo said and he got up. “When do you want to leave?’

  “As soon as we can. There ain’t a minute to lose.”

  “All right,” said Fargo. “Then we’ll cross the Rio tomorrow night.”

  The Rio Palace went full blast on Sunday night, too.

  Fargo sat down, bought three hundred dollars worth of chips. His eyes watched with professional interest as Tess shuffled and dealt. No tricks; she played an honest game.

  One of the army officers dropped out, tapped. The deal passed to Fargo. As he shuffled the cards, Tess’s brows went up. She recognized the hand of the professional.

  Fargo played as if he had the House behind him. That meant he played the percentages, took no long chances—and he knew the odds by heart. So did Tess. With two such players in the game, within an hour the money had split itself two ways across the table. One by one, the other gamblers quit in disgust. Now there was better than two thousand dollars in front of Fargo.

  Presently she and Fargo were the only two at the table. But a crowd had gathered around them now, watching. Word had run through the room of the duel between the two pros. Apparently it was not often that Tess ran into real competition.

  Fargo looked at her across the table. “It’s nine-thirty,” he said. “What time does your shift end?”

  “Twelve, like last night.” She was looking at him curiously with those deep blue eyes.

  “We’re about even; maybe you could knock off early.”

  “No,” Tess said. “I don’t do that for anybody.”

  Fargo rolled his cigar across his mouth. “Not for anybody?”

  Her voice was soft. “Not even for you.”

  “I see,” Fargo said. “Well…” He looked down at the stack of chips before him. Then, decisively, he shoved them forward. “Showdown,” he said. “One hand.”

  “Oh,” Tess said. “Well—” She reached for her own stack.

  “Wait,” Fargo said. “You haven’t heard the rest of it.”

  Her hand froze. “What’s the rest of it?”

  “My pile,” he said, “against two-and-a-half hours of your time.”

  A murmur went around the table. People stared at one another. Tess shook her head uncomprehendingly. Then a smile touched her lips. “Fargo, Fargo,” she said. “Not even I’m worth that much an hour.”

  “You are to me,” Fargo said. “I don’t have that many hours left. Well?”

  Still smiling—it was the same smile he’d seen on prints of a painting called the Mona Lisa—Tess nodded. “I’ve never played for stakes like this before. But—okay, it’s your money.”

  “Only three hundred of it,” Fargo said.

  She handed him the cards. “It’s your deal.”

  Fargo shook his head. “Pass the deal.”

  She looked at him in surprise. Then she shrugged, opened a new deck. She shuffled and reshuffled, passed the cards to Fargo. “Cut?”

  “Run ‘em,” said Fargo.

  Tess dealt. Fargo’s first card was a ten. Hers was an ace.

  Again a whisper ran through the crowd. “Hell,” a man said, “She’s got him high-carded already.”

  Tess dealt again: Fargo sat relaxed, watching the cards through smoke. He got a six, she caught a nine. “You’re still high,” he said.

  Two more cards flipped down. His was another ten, the crowd murmured. When Tess’s card landed the murmur was a clamor. She gave herself another ace.

  “You’re beat,” somebody said behind him.

  Fargo did not look around. “Not yet,” he said. “Two cards still to go.”

  His next was a deuce. Tess gave herself a ten ... Fargo’s ten. A kind of sigh of disappointment went up from the men behind Fargo.

  “Well,” Tess said, her voice tense. “This one tells the tale.” Her slim, white fingers were steady on the deck.

  “Right,” Fargo said easily. “Deal.�
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  She nodded. “Here goes.”

  She flipped a card across the table. It landed accurately on Fargo’s hand, face up. It was the fourth ten—and now he had three of a kind. Quickly Tess dealt herself a card, the trey of diamonds.

  A shout went up from the onlookers. Somebody pounded Fargo on the back. He grinned, raking back his chips. “Three tens beat a pair of aces.” And his eyes met hers. “Don’t they?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Fargo grinned wickedly. He’d seen her deal him that last ten off the bottom of the deck.

  Chapter Three

  Fargo reined in, sat patiently, looking for motion, life. One hand was under his coat, on the butt of the Colt. Then something stirred in the brush.

  A voice said, softly: “Fargo?”

  It was Meredith. Fargo said, “Here,” and eased the bay forward.

  Meredith waited in the shadow of the shack—once it had housed a shoestring rancher. Now his acres were grown up in mesquite and brush. As Fargo swung down, Meredith let out a breath of relief. “You’re right on time.”

  “I always am,” Fargo said.

  “This hanky-panky sure is a lot of trouble.”

  Fargo said: “All right. You want to publish in the newspapers that we’re crossing into Mexico, heading for the Sierra Queen? For God’s sake, don’t you think every bandit gang in Chihuahua, not to mention Villa, has got spies in El Paso?”

  “Maybe you’re right…”

  “I’m right,” Fargo said. “Not to mention the fact that we got to get through the Army patrols, too.”

  “Well, hurry up, let’s get going.”

  “Keep your shirt on. I’ve got to change clothes.”

  “Change?” Meredith sounded disgusted.

  “Look,” Fargo said. “I couldn’t be seen running out of El Paso with all my war paint on. Either we do this my way or we don’t go.”

  Meredith grunted something, then was silent. Nevertheless, Fargo could understand his impatience. That was the difference between an amateur and a professional. A professional was never impatient; when your life hung on details, you took your time about them.

  He had taken his. Had nearly driven Meredith crazy looking at horses until he had found the two he wanted— the exact combination of speed and endurance that was best suited to what lay ahead. Then the mule: the mule was just as important. It had to be strong, yet fast and well broken to riding in case anything happened to the horse.

  Then Fargo had made a list of supplies. He’d bought half, Meredith half. That way, there would be no suggestion of an expedition setting forth. Meredith had packed his half out here on the back of his saddle horse. Fargo had brought his along the same way—plus the water goatskins, which he’d filled at a spring en route and packed on the mule.

  Now it all had to be reorganized, repacked. On this journey, their lives depended on four things: the horses, their guns, water—and luck. Fargo was not one to leave anything to luck which he could handle himself. While Meredith grumbled, he repacked the mule. Its burden consisted mainly of water and canned food that could be eaten without cooking. The more they could stay away from waterholes, the fewer fires they had to build, the safer they would be.

  He buckled a cartridge belt around his waist, transferred the Army Colt to a holster on his left hip, the gun’s butt pointed forward for a cross draw. The .30-30 was already in his scabbard. The Batangas knife rode on the belt at his right hip. He took the bandoliers out of the bag, draped himself with the one holding rifle ammunition first, crossed it with the one that carried shotgun shells. Then, finally, he took out the sawed-off shotgun, slung it over his right shoulder, again butt-up, muzzle down behind his back.

  “Jesus,” the mine owner said. “You look like a walkin’ arsenal.”

  “Tools of the trade. You’re heeled?”

  “Colt .45 and a Winchester.”

  “Then we’re set,” Fargo said. “Mount up.”

  “Yeah,” Meredith said. He went to his horse, hesitated. “What you got there, anyhow? A shotgun?”

  “Right.”

  “What the hell you carry that thing for?”

  “Don’t worry,” Fargo said. “It pays its way.” And he swung into the saddle. He gathered up the mule’s lead rope, reined the bay around—and they were on their way.

  They rode in single file, Fargo in the lead, Meredith behind the mule. Fargo had already scouted the ground, the crossing, in daylight. They were far enough east of El Paso and close enough to the river so that the brush was almost impenetrable. But Fargo had found a lane through it.

  Now he rode slowly, eyes sweeping the shadow-shapes of cactus and mesquite, and of the rolling terrain. He did not think there would be Army patrols about, but you never could tell.

  He had, without telling where he was going, asked Tess about Ted Meredith. She did not know much about him, but had inquired a little discreetly.

  “He’s what he says he is,” she told him. “He owns this mine down in Chihuahua. They say it’s a real producer. Meredith himself—all I know is that he’s supposed to be a hard man. A damned hard man.”

  Fargo had been satisfied with that. He had kissed her and left. Not, he had to admit, without a certain amount of relief. He had had for the time being, all he needed from her. He was sated, ready for action. Now it felt good to be riding again.

  They came to the Rio. Here, the water was high enough so the horses had to swim. Fargo took the .30-30 out of the scabbard, held it raised so it wouldn’t get wet. Then, in darkness, the animals scrambled out on the far bank, and they were in Mexico. Up river, in the distance, Fargo could see the lights of El Paso, of Juarez.

  From now on, he thought, the journey was serious, every minute of it, every mile. This country belonged to Pancho Villa. The lightening of the sky found them far south of Juarez. They camped in a sheltered draw, ate corned beef and beans, both cold, watered themselves and the animals sparingly. Gratefully, they smoked cigars. Then Meredith stamped his out. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s mount up and get going.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “We travel by night, sleep by day.”

  “Goddammit,” Meredith exploded, “we got to keep moving! I got to get to that mine!” Despite his having spent much time in these parts Meredith was acting dumb.

  “That’s right,” said Fargo coldly. “You got to get to the mine. You won’t get there if we show ourselves in daylight, much less ride these animals to death in the heat. Tomorrow, we got to cross the Samalayuca desert. You ever been across there?”

  “No,” said Meredith.

  “Well, I have. It’s a bitch. Nothing but sand. We don’t try it in daylight, in heat. On the way, we’ve got one safe stopover…”

  “That’s right,” Meredith said. “Ortego y Leon’s ranch. Don Jose’s made a blasted fortress out of that place of his. He’s a diehard Diaz man, and they say he stands for Huerta now. But he’s got that place fortified so not even Villa’s dared hit it yet. Jose’s an old friend of Sam Delaney’s. We’re safe as long as we’re with him.”

  “I see.” Fargo squinted at the sky; dawn was coming fast. “This partner of yours, Delaney. Is he a fighting man, too?”

  Meredith snorted. “Sam a fighting man? Hell, no! That’s why I got to get back to the mine. He’s an engineer, a geologist, but until he met up with me, he didn’t know which end of the gun a bullet came out of. The way it’s been working, he gets the silver out, I get it to the States, sell it, handle the business end. He ramrods the digging and the smelting.”

  “And a woman,” Fargo said. “Crystal, you said her name was. That’s a hell of a place for a woman.”

  “When we shipped our first silver, Sam went back to the States and married her. Childhood sweetheart or somethin’. Anyhow, he insisted on winging her back to the mine—wouldn’t be separated from her.” Something crept into Meredith’s voice that made Fargo look at him. “Crystal’s a lot of woman.” Then he reached for his blankets. “You want to take first watch?”
/>   “I’ll take first watch,” Fargo said.

  “Hola, Senores!’ one of the men said. “Hands up, and if you move, you are dead.”

  Fargo stared at them; there had not been a creak of saddle gear to betray them, not a plop of hoof in the soft dust at the bottom of the draw. They had materialized like ghosts, and he cursed himself for not having caught some warning, for not having kept Meredith on guard while he saddled up. But it was too late now: the two Mexicans were there and they were real and so were their rifles.

  “Hands up!” one of them commanded again. They sat loosely in their saddles, a ragged pair, bearded, obviously freelance bandidos, perfectly willing to kill for a horse, a saddle, a gun. The muzzles of their weapons swept back and forth. Slowly, Meredith raised his hands and Fargo began to follow suit. His right hand came up until it was even with the slung shotgun. Then it moved, with incredible speed, hit the stock of the gun, knocked the sawed-off weapon so it swung on its sling, barrels upside-down and poking beneath the hollow of his arm. In the same instant, his left hand streaked across and tripped both triggers.

  Eighteen buckshot, spreading wide, slammed down the narrow draw. There was no escape; it chopped horses, riders alike. The horses reared, screamed, went down, the riders were cut out of their saddles. It was as quick as the simultaneous, thunderous report of both big barrels, and then it was over.

  The draw stank of powder smoke; the ensuing silence seemed almost tangible as Meredith stood there, spraddle-legged, still dazed by the swiftness of it, eyes goggling, lips moving soundlessly, hands still raised.

  Then he managed one word. “Jesus!”

  Fargo unslung the shotgun, broke it, crammed in two more shells. He walked over to where the horses and riders lay in a great, twisted pile, a dam of flesh in the bottom of the draw. The blue whistlers from the sawed-off had done terrible damage.

  “You see now why I carry this thing,” Fargo said.

  They rode hard through the early part of the night There was no more trouble; but Fargo was doubly alert now. He didn’t like having let those two buscanderos sneak up on him; must be, he thought, getting rusty. Well, it was not a mistake he would repeat again.