Fargo (A Neal Fargo Adventure #1)

by John Benteen

  That was the death of Don Jose Ortega y Leon. It would have been better if Pablo Garcia had taken him alive.

  And, Fargo thought, glancing at Juanita, skinned him that way.

  Chapter Five

  He pondered their situation. They still had a hundred and fifty miles to the mine; the gang of the man named Hernandez lay somewhere between them and it, and possibly other bandit outfits as well. They were short of water and, on top of everything else, burdened now with a woman. It was not a prepossessing outlook.

  It did not worry him a bit. He had not expected things to go well. He had expected trouble. Trouble was what he had hired out for. Nobody paid you for anything easy, and if the trip to the Sierra Princess and back out again had been smooth, Meredith would have balked at paying off. He had handled this situation as it had arisen; he would handle whatever else came. He only wished that Meredith hadn’t dropped the other machine gun in the scramble out of the hacienda.

  After the animals had rested, Fargo led the way at a lope. He wanted to put as much ground between them and the hacienda as possible while it was dark. They traveled swiftly, until two hours before dawn, when they came to a patch of misty greenery in the head of an arroyo: a spring.

  Javelinas scrambled away from it at their approach; two deer bounded frantically up the sides of the draw. They rested the tired horses, then watered them. Fargo got out spare goatskins, filled them at the spring. Now they would be all right for water on the way to the Sierra Princess.

  They camped in another draw, well away from the spring, in case its water brought travelers. They ate cold beans, silently and ravenously. Juanita shivered; her dress had been ripped open down the front and the night wind was cold. Fargo got a heavy coat out of his gear and put it on her. She smiled at him, marvelously cool and unshaken.

  Fargo spread his bedroll. “You get some sleep,” he told Juanita, motioning to it. “You, too, Meredith. I’ll take first watch.”

  Meredith nodded. Fargo climbed the bank of the draw, with rifle and shotgun. It was an immense, moonlit, star-sprinkled night. The stars looked like a handful of powdered sugar thrown against blue-black velvet. He put one of the unfilled goatskins under him and lay down in the cold sand.

  He could see for miles. There was no sign of any pursuit, and he did not think there would be any. Nevertheless, his alertness never diminished, and when there was a tick of sound behind him, he whirled with the shotgun up.

  “For God’s sake,” Meredith said. “Don’t blast me with that thing.”

  “Sorry,” said Fargo. “You’d do well to speak first when you come up behind me.”

  “I’m finding that out,” Meredith said. He threw himself on the ground beside Fargo. He scanned the horizon. “All quiet?”

  “All quiet,” Fargo said.

  Meredith was silent for a while. Then he said, “All right. What are we gonna do with that bitch?”

  Fargo just looked at him.

  “Well, goddammit,” Meredith said defensively, “we’ve still got a hell of a long way to go. I’ve got a quarter of a million waiting at the end of the line. We can’t be hampered by a woman.”

  Fargo shielded the end of his cigar as he drew on it. “You got any suggestions?”

  “Yes,” Meredith said.

  “Like what?”

  “Pack up, go off and leave her behind.” He looked over his shoulder. “She’s sound asleep. If we could make ten miles, we’d never see her again.”

  “Oh,” Fargo said. “Well, that might work. But wouldn’t it be easier just to shoot her?”

  “Sure,” said Meredith matter-of-factly. “But I didn’t think you wanted to make any noise.” He shifted his weight, drew his pistol. “But I’ll do it if you want me to.”

  Fargo just looked at him in the moonlight.

  “Dammit,” Meredith said, “I saw you kill a woman in that fight at the hacienda.”

  “She was about to put a knife in my ribs,” Fargo said, “This one warned me in advance that her daddy’s peons were going to sell him out. She showed us a gate. If she hadn’t, Garcia would be barbecuing you over a slow fire right now.”

  Meredith was silent for a moment, “All the same,” he said, “there’s a quarter of a million riding on our getting to that mine and out again.”

  “That’s what you hired me for,” Fargo said. “Let me worry about it.”

  “Including her?”

  Fargo took time to grind out his cigar in sand. “Including her. As far as I’m concerned, she’s paid her way.”

  Meredith drew in a long breath. “Listen, Fargo, I’m paying you and I’m the boss. I’m not going to be hampered by any woman—not on the way in, anyhow. I say she’s got to go.”

  Fargo inspected the horizon again, then stood up. “Okay. I’ve had my thousand. You go on to the mine. She and I’ll head back to El Paso.”

  “You’re joking,” Meredith said.

  Fargo looked down at him. “You think I am?”

  “You’ve got to be.”

  “I’m not. You might as well get this straight, Meredith. You’re paying the freight, yes. But I’m running things; I’m in charge. You take my orders. If I tell you to climb a greased flagpole, you don’t ask questions, you climb it. Otherwise, the deal’s off.”

  “Now, goddammit, Fargo—”

  “The girl’s paid her way,” Fargo said. “She goes with us or I don’t go.”

  Presently Meredith grunted something. He sat up, holstered the Colt. “All right. You got me where the hair’s short. I’m gonna turn in.”

  “You do that,” Fargo said. As Meredith slid down the hill, he added softly: “Oh, Meredith?”

  “Yeah,” the man said, halting.

  “While I’m up here and you’re down there, if you so much as touch her, I’ll kill you.”

  Meredith stood there, on the bank of the draw, looking at him. Then he said, angrily, “I’m not gonna lay a finger on the bitch.”

  “Fine,” said Fargo smoothly. “Have a good sleep. I’ll wake you in four hours.”

  Meredith skittered on down the bank. Fargo lay back down on the goatskin. He watched the horizon, but part of his mind was engaged somewhere else. Meredith had pulled a curtain, let Fargo see what was behind it. Fargo did not like what he had seen.

  Four hours later, Fargo awakened the big man. Meredith roused himself grumpily, took a swig of water from a canteen, went up the bank of the draw. Fargo went over to his own soogans, looked down at Juanita asleep in them.

  Her head was pillowed on his saddle. Her dreams were not pleasant; she shuddered and moaned in her sleep. Fargo unslung his weapons, disposed them so he could get to them when he wanted them. Then, fully clad, he slid down into the bedroll beside her.

  The touch of his body wakened her. She came out of sleep with a start, head up, then dropped it back to the saddle. “Fargo?” Her voice was a drowsy whisper.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She put her arm over his hard chest “Good. I thought it was him.”

  “No,” Fargo said, “You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Thanks to God.” Her hand moved down his flank. She put her head on his shoulder. Her breasts, beneath the tattered dress, were soft on his arm. “I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t care what happens to me now. At least I am free of him.” She rubbed her breasts against Fargo’s arm, stroked his thigh. “I am free.”

  “Right,” Fargo said. The dress, all those petticoats, were hiked up under the blanket. When she threw her thigh across him, it was naked, warm.

  He put his hand on her thigh. Let it slide upward. She shuddered at his touch, with pleasure. Then she kissed his chin, raised her lips to find his mouth. While they kissed, Fargo felt her tugging at his belt, and he helped her.

  She locked her legs around him. The desert wind blew across them as they moved under the blankets. Finally she sighed, relaxed again on his shoulder. “I don’t care, really,” she said. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care what
happens.”

  “Hush,” Fargo said. He put his head on the saddle, using it for a pillow. Then, still holding her, he slept.

  They wound on south, through the foothills. They rode wide of Creel, once a silver-shipping center, now, according to Meredith, the headquarters of Hernandez. But Hernandez would not be there; he would be at the Sierra Princess besieging it.

  “There’s nothing more important to him right now than that silver,” Meredith said. Twice, though, they saw bands of riders and had fast rides to get away in broken country.

  Winding through the foothills, they skirted the great gash of Copper Canyon, then turned back hard west again. They wound through the mountains, Meredith guiding now. It was obvious that he knew every trail, every Indian footpath here.

  Juanita was a good traveler. The journey had reduced her dress to rags and tatters; finally she threw it off; there were plenty of petticoats beneath it. Her long, black hair, wind-tangled, shielded her head and naked shoulders from the blazing sun; her thighs tanned to the color of mahogany. So did her face. She rode well, took care of her horse—Fargo still rode the mule—and never complained. Fargo’s admiration for her increased. The girl had guts.

  Every night, she shared his blankets. Every night, her passion seemed to increase. Fargo reaped that harvest and kept his eyes on Meredith; but the man had taken their conversation that night at face value. He made no move against her.

  They were in high altitudes now, where, even in the summer, it was cold for most of the day. There were pines about them, and cedar. Juanita rode in Fargo’s heavy jacket.

  Fargo never lost his alertness. Sometimes he was aware of being watched. There were whispers in the brush, on the night wind. Although the mountains appeared deserted, the Tarahumaras were there.

  They were a primitive tribe, famed for the ability of their men to run long distances. Disunited, scattered, they lived all across the fastnesses of the Sierra Madre. They did not dare attack a party as heavily armed as this one. Nevertheless, Fargo took no chances. Every night, someone still kept watch.

  Then they labored up into a steep pass over an eastern-flung range. Cresting it, they looked down into an enormous canyon, the benches, hills and peaks which formed its rim shrouded in purple haze. Juanita drew in her breath in awe. Meredith made a sound of satisfaction, Fargo’s eyes searched the hills and boulder-strewn slopes; the Winchester was cradled on his arm. He had scouted the pass carefully before their approach, had found no sign of danger, but he took no chances.

  “Like I told you,” Meredith said, “the canyon’s shaped like an hourglass. Hernandez is at this end. The mine’s at the other. In the middle, where it narrows down to a gorge, we blew the gorge walls with dynamite. Hernandez can’t get in, Sam Delaney can’t get out. Hernandez is sitting down there watching the mine like a bobcat watching a barnyard, you can bet on that.”

  “Then how do we get to the mine?” Juanita asked.

  “We ride around,” Meredith said. “Follow the rim until we’re past the neck of the hourglass. There’s a trail down from up there, but it’s God-awful, like something mountain goats made. Hernandez can’t use it because the people at the mine would pick off his men like ducks in a shooting gallery, they’d have to come down so slow. Sam can’t use it to get out; a horse can get down it, but not up, and you wouldn’t have a chance of hauling silver up it.”

  “But won’t Hernandez have men posted on the rim to guard it?”

  “Hell, yes,” Meredith said. “Why do you think I hired Fargo?”

  “We’ll have to fight our way through them,” Fargo said casually. “For right now, we’ll have to hole up until dark. Come on.” He reined the mule around, and the sure-footed animal led the way back down the slope. Fargo turned it into a grove of wind-warped pines, and the others followed. He rode a long way into the forest, until he came upon a nest of boulders that satisfied him, and dismounted. The others followed suit.

  It was Meredith’s turn to keep watch. He worked his way to the edge of the rocks, with rifle, pistol, and Fargo’s binoculars. The constant wind made a soughing in the pines. Fargo got a bottle of tequila out of his gear and settled back against a huge rock. Juanita dropped beside him.

  Fargo took a drink from the bottle and passed it to her. “Here. You’re shivering. This’ll warm you.”

  She drank, gave it back to him, grimacing. But she kept on trembling. He shrugged out of his coat and put it around her.

  “It’s not that,” she said.

  “Oh. You’re afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see to you.”

  “I know that. But who’ll see to you?”

  Fargo grinned like a wolf. “I see to myself.”

  They were silent for a moment, listening to the wind. Then Juanita said: “Fargo, what shall I do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When this is over. If all goes well and we get Meredith’s silver to the United States. What shall I do then; what will become of me?”

  “You don’t know anybody there, have any relatives?”

  “I told you, I have been a prisoner since I was sixteen.”

  Fargo thought of Tess Kendall. “Maybe I know somebody that can help you,” he said. “Don’t worry about it now. Have another drink.”

  “Thank you,” she said and drank again. Fargo corked he bottle. Then he got to his feet, reached down and took her hand. “Come,” he said. She looked at him questioningly, then smiled and nodded. She held his hand as he led her deeper into the woods.

  The pine needles were very soft, like a blanket.

  Darkness was not black; it was deep blue. The moon had waned, and that was a break. Still, Fargo would have preferred a blacker night.

  Meredith rode ahead, the girl followed, and Fargo brought up the rear on the mule. Up here on the canyon’s rim, the wind was raw, chilly, and the going was rough. It would take them nearly all night, Meredith had said, to reach the trail down, inside Delaney’s half of the hourglass.

  Meredith had been right when he said he knew the country. Unerringly, he led them through draws, around peaks, circled great splits in the rim rock. Fargo’s choice of horses proved itself again; these were rough-country animals, and they went well over the bad terrain. The mule, of course, was most surefooted of all.

  For the first few hours, Fargo felt comparatively secure. Hernandez certainly did not have enough men to guard the whole canyon rim. Those he had disposed up here would be watching the trail down; and that was where the fight would come. At midnight, Meredith reined in and pointed. Below, on the canyon floor, Fargo could see the scattered, star like twinkle of several campfires: Hernandez’s main force, watching the neck of the hourglass.

  Then they rode on, through a devil’s jumble of rough country. Brush clawed at them; despite every precaution, shale and rock rolled and clattered. The horses tired; they stopped to rest. The wind against their flesh was like an onslaught of razors. “From here on,” Meredith said, “we got to look sharp. It’s not but another hour ‘til we reach the place where the trail goes down.”

  Fargo said nothing; he only nodded and checked the loads in all his weapons.

  They mounted up, rode on. All at once Meredith reined in; but Fargo had already seen it: ahead, another grove of wind-tortured cedars and, in its scant shelter, the glow that was the embers of a dying campfire.

  Fargo swung down, handed the mule’s hackamore to Meredith. “The two of you wait here,” he whispered. “Make sure the horses don’t call. I’ll go take a look.” He left the Winchester, but he carried the sawed-off shotgun in his right hand, as he moved forward over the broken ground.

  He did not hurry. There was only one way to move without sound, and that was to go slow and use infinite patience. Each step was carefully made, as he tested first with his toe for any loose rock or dead brush that would give the alarm.

  He wondered how many men Hernandez might have posted up here. Probably not more than a corporal
’s guard. Since the miners couldn’t come out this way, the bandit’s only worry would be about reinforcements coming in. And, according to Meredith’s description of the trail, it was useless for any substantial reinforcement. One or two men might slip in, just as Meredith and Fargo were about to do, and that would be what Hernandez would want to prevent.

  Fargo quit thinking, then, devoting all attention to his progress toward the campfire. He was only another shadow in a shadow-ridden night as he drifted toward the cedars. Presently, after what seemed a short time to him, but which must have been an eternity to the waiting Meredith and Juanita, he reached the edge of the grove.

  Through the lacework of foliage, he saw the dying fire. As nearly as he could make out, there were three blanket-rolled shapes around it. There was another set of blankets spread out, but empty.

  Fargo looked toward the brink of the canyon’s rim. It was jumbled with boulders and a few more cedars, and it was sixty, seventy yards away. Unhurriedly, for several minutes, he stared at it, and after a while he was rewarded. Amidst that pattern of black shapes—rocks and trees—against the sky, he picked out the form of a man. It was like finding a face in a picture puzzle, and Fargo’s eyes traced and retraced the outlines until he was sure.

  The man sat hunched, holding a rifle, and seemed to be asleep.

  Holding the shotgun in his right hand, Fargo drew his pistol with the left, took careful aim, and fired.

  The man screamed once, in dreadful surprise, and disappeared, knocked into space over the rim by the impact of the .38.

  Around the fire, the other three moved. One came out of his blankets swiftly, gun already drawn. In the faint fire-shine, all Fargo really could see of him was his booted feet. He aimed the shotgun at a point high above them, pulled the right trigger.

  Then he switched his aim. As another man boiled up out of his soogans, Fargo fired the left barrel. The buckshot ripped through the brush. Some of it was deflected; the man took two pellets in his chest, came on. Fargo whipped down with the pistol, fired, and the man fell forward across the fire. The third, dazed sleeper was not too groggy to mark the muzzle flash. He fired back at it, and if Fargo had not instinctively stepped aside to avoid being made just such a target, the bullet would have got him. But it missed; Fargo, like a man on a range, brought the Colt down with his arm almost straight, his elbow locked, and took careful aim. The man, standing there indecisively, still awakening, took the bullet full in the chest