Fargo 20

by John Benteen

  Hackett hesitated. “Well, if he’ll pay for the extra time ...”

  “I’ll pay,” Fargo said. “If you’re any good with a gun.”

  Kills Twice said, voice matter-of-fact: “I can shoot fast and hit what I aim at.”

  “That’s enough for me.” Fargo had already judged the young Indian to be hard as nails; years of experience had taught him to recognize a fighting man when he saw one. He drained his glass. “Now.” He scraped back his chair. “Suppose we go take a look at those fifty horses.”

  Two

  The big geldings in the pens were everything Hackett had claimed: prime stock, exactly to cavalry specifications. Fargo paid the rancher cash with money from a belt around his lean middle, and the papers were signed. “They’ll all have to be branded U.S. before we strike out,” he told Hackett. “They’re Federal property now. I’ll hire an extra hand or two, and Billy and I’ll take care of that tomorrow.”

  “Right. Well, all I can say is that it’s been a pleasure doin’ business with you. Especially since you didn’t pay me before the bank was robbed. Otherwise, my money would be gone with all the rest.”

  They shook hands and Hackett mounted and rode off, heading for his ranch west of town. Fargo turned to Kills Twice, lounging against the board flanks of a pen.

  “I appreciate you decidin’ to go with me.”

  The Indian’s faint smile was crooked. “If you hadn’t seen that I got my glass of beer right off in that saloon, you couldn’t pay me enough to make that drive with you.” The smile vanished as he took out makings, deftly rolled a cigarette. “I’m particular about the Wasichu—the white men—I associate with. We’ll get the horses to Cheyenne, all right—or bust a gut trying.” He stuck the smoke in his mouth and lit it. “Now, unless you need me before tomorrow morning, since I’m supposed to be the vanishing American, I’m gonna vanish. I’ll meet you here at six tomorrow with two good men—okay?”

  “Fine. You need an advance against your pay?”

  Kills Twice shook his head. “No. They taught me in mission school to save my money. I’m fixed all right.” He lifted a hand in farewell, swung gracefully up on his horse, and rode off down the tracks. Fargo watched him go, knowing that he was in luck, had hired a man to trust, to ride the river with, as the saying went. Kills Twice had lost none of his natural Sioux pride, ground out of so many of his tribe by the loss of their ancient freedom, their forced dependency on their white conquerors ...

  Leaning against the pen, he watched the geldings as he chewed his cigar. He felt better now about this deal, now that risk was involved. Danger, after all, was more than his stock in trade; it was something he had lived with for so long that he could no more do without it than a hophead without his opium or cocaine. Vital as this mission was, it had bored him until now; the presence of the Badlands gang as a threat added spice, made him feel more alive. He turned away, walked toward town with a rolling horseman’s gait. The cop had been right. Trouble had followed him like a trained dog for nearly all his life.

  It had begun when his parents had been killed by Geronimo’s raiders on their little New Mexican ranch—but the Indians had somehow missed the child, hidden by his mother and father during the attack. A neighboring ranching couple had taken him in—but not out of kindness, only because, as he grew older, he could be worked as slave labor for no higher pay than a hard bed and damned scant board. At the age of twelve he’d had enough of that, enough of the whippings, too, and hauled his freight, and had been on his own ever since. There wasn’t much since that he hadn’t done—punched cows, rough necked in the oilfields, fought in the prize ring, and once, down on his luck, he had even been a bouncer in a New Orleans whorehouse. The war in Cuba, his service in the Philippine Insurrection, had added the finishing touches, shown him where his true talents lay. As freelance fighting man, he’d built a towering reputation, and his services came high. He made money, a lot of it in big hunks, and spent it as fast as it came in—on the choicest women, the best whiskey, the fastest gambling action, holding nothing back for his old age. Because, he thought wryly, old age was something a man in his line of work never had to worry about; for all he knew, the bullet with his name on it was already in the cylinder of somebody’s gun. Which was the way he wanted it; he’d no intention of going out with his boots off, dying by inches of senility in a rocking chair in the sunshine somewhere. Anyhow, he’d take his chances with the Badlands gang. He’d already killed more of them than they had of him.

  A kind of hush of shock still lay over the town as twilight settled. Most of the able-bodied men were out with the posse, on the robbers’ trail. Those that were left looked at Fargo with a touch of awe as he ate steak and potatoes in a cafe, but not too much, never enough to make him logy, slow him down; then lit a cigar, strolled into a saloon. Good whiskey was another thing entirely—that he could absorb in huge amounts without it affecting either reflex or judgment. At a table that placed his back against the wall, he ordered a pint of the best bourbon and was on his second glass when a waiter, an odd expression on his face, came to him.

  “Mr. Fargo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the back room. There’s somebody who’d like to see you.”

  “Well, here I am. Let him come.”

  “He can’t.” The waiter paused. “He’s a she. I mean, a lady. The kind that can’t step into a place like this.”

  “The hell you say.” Fargo took his cigar from his mouth. “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Mrs. Clyman. She’s mighty respectable—and mighty well-to-do. She came in through the back door and asked me to bring you to her.”

  Fargo considered for a moment. “Well, I try never to disappoint a lady.” He arose, dropping the glass over the bottle’s neck, carrying the bourbon in his left hand as he strode toward the door the waiter indicated. His right one swung near his gun, with instinctive caution. He had made a lot of enemies in his time, and took nothing for granted. Like a wise old lobo wolf, he was always on guard against the trap, and his stance was alert as he knocked on the back-room door. “It’s Fargo.”

  “Come in, please.” It was a woman’s voice, all right. “Do it quickly, and please close the door.”

  Fargo eased the door open, saw her sitting at the table, entered, glanced warily around the room, reassured himself she was alone, and closed the door. Then he turned his attention fully on her, as he tipped his hat and she stood up.

  “Mr. Fargo,” she said. “I’m Donna Clyman.” Stepping around the table, she put out her hand.

  Fargo’s eyes ranged over her appreciatively. Donna Clyman was within a year or two of thirty either way, he guessed, tall and slender, with sleek black hair, pale skin, features chiseled into cameo-like beauty. Her mouth was full and red, and the breasts beneath her figure-hugging black dress were large and round. The dress had cost money; so had the jewelry she wore. She was well-to-do, all right; she reeked of money.

  And a cool self-assurance as large black eyes, lashes very long, returned his appraising look directly. Her hand was soft and warm, swallowed in his big, calloused palm. She let it linger, it seemed to him, a moment longer than was really necessary. Then she withdrew it. “Thank you for coming.” Her voice was soft, throaty. “Please sit down.”

  Fargo moved around the table to a chair next to the one she’d occupied. Her brows went up. “No, over there.”

  “Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “Not with my back to any door.”

  Red lips curled in a faint smile. “You don’t trust people very much, do you?”

  “No, ma’am. That’s why I’m still alive.” He dropped into the chair, placed the bottle on the table before him. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Clyman?”

  “Rather a lot, I hope.” She sat down across from him. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’m a widow, Mr. Fargo, and I inherited from my late husband a controlling interest in the bank that was robbed today. A great deal of my own money was in it, too, and was taken by those bandits.
The loss won’t break me—I’ve still got other interests and reserves—but it will certainly dent me. Now, I wasn’t downtown today and I didn’t see you in action, but I’ve already heard about how you killed one robber. Tom Finnegan on the police force told me—and he told me a great deal more about you. So, I have a business proposition to make to you. But it’s not one I care to discuss here. I’d rather do it in the privacy of my home. I’m wondering if you could spare a few minutes of your time to go there with me—it’s just on the edge of town—where we could speak more freely. I’ve a car and driver waiting out back.”

  Fargo poured himself a drink, considering. Money. He smelled money. And he smelled something else—the perfume of the woman across the table, a faint yet sensuous fragrance. What the hell, he thought, and said aloud: “Well, I’ve got nothing else to do. Why not?”

  “Good.” She stood up with a rustle of skirts. “Then, shall we go at once? I’m not one for wasting time.”

  “I’ll bet you aren’t,” Fargo said, looking at her obliquely, and he arose and tucked the bottle in his pocket after corking it. “Okay, Mrs. Clyman. Lead the way.”

  The driver was a tough-looking, neatly dressed Chinese, the car a big Oldsmobile touring vehicle. Fargo settled down in the tonneau beside Donna Clyman, who said: “Take us home, Chang.” As the car moved forward, her knee, perhaps by accident, touched his briefly, then pulled away. Neither spoke as they drove through the darkness of the alley behind the saloon, turned into the lighted main street. Though one of the principal towns of South Dakota, Rapid City was not large, and a few minutes later the car halted in the shadow of tall cedars surrounding a big white frame house with a spacious lawn. The driver stepped out, opened the door for the woman, and Fargo slid across the seat. As they went up the steps of the rambling porch, Fargo asked: “You live here all by yourself?”

  “Why not?”

  “Aren’t you afraid of this Badlands gang, or whatever they call it?”

  Donna Clyman laughed softly, unlocking the front door. “Not very much. I’ve Chang and two more like him to guard the grounds; and nobody ever sees them first. They’re dangerous men, absolutely loyal—and very discreet. Now, this way, if you please. The living room.” She switched on lights.

  It was large, lavishly furnished, in perfect taste. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And she went out through a tasseled arch that must have led to the dining room and thence the kitchen. Instead of sitting, Fargo went to the windows, carefully pulled the curtains. People in a lighted room like this one made fine targets. Chinese or not, a sniper could operate at long range. He turned as Donna Clyman came back into the room, carrying a tray with a bottle of good bourbon, two glasses, a pitcher of water and another of ice. She set it down on the table before the sofa and straightened up, glancing at the drawn curtains. “Help yourself, Mr. Fargo. And make me a little one, too, while you’re at it. I’m from Kentucky originally—Jerry met me there on a horse-buying trip—and I enjoy an occasional sip of whiskey as much as any man.”

  “Only not in public.” He poured his own, dropping in a chunk of ice, mixed hers with water, handed it over.

  “Of course not. I have a reputation to maintain.” There was something ironic in her smile as she lifted her glass. “I’m very careful about what I do—in public. Your health, Mr. Fargo.” And she drank.

  Fargo sipped the whiskey—it was that kind of liquor—and leaned against the mantel as she sat down on the sofa, produced a pack of cigarettes from her pocketbook, and lit one. He was beginning to be more and more intrigued by Donna Clyman—but the first move was up to her. “All right, Mrs. Clyman. Now suppose you show your hand.”

  “Yes.” She let plumes of smoke trickle from her nostrils, ranged her eyes over the tall, wide-shouldered man in khakis, her gaze pausing at the holstered gun. “Well, as I said, Finnegan on the police force told me all about you. You’re a professional trouble-shooter, gunman, fighting man ... and you’re for hire.”

  “Sometimes. It depends on the job. And I don’t come cheap.”

  “No, I shouldn’t think you would. I’m a fair judge of men myself. A rich widow has to be. She’s kind of a sitting target for all sorts of men, you know. But let that go for now. I’m prepared to pay anything reasonable for your services. What I want, Mr. Fargo, is the money back that those robbers took today. And to see the murdering devils hang. The people they killed today were all employees and friends of mine—and where I come from, we don’t let that kind of thing go unavenged. I want you to go into the Badlands—or wherever you have to go—and get that money and bring in those men ... or satisfactory evidence that you’ve killed ’em.”

  Fargo stared at her a moment.

  “You’re pretty tough yourself,” he said at last.

  “A lot tougher than I look. Ask anybody who’s ever done business with me. Well?”

  He took another sip of bourbon. “Why come to me? You’ve got a sheriff and half the town after ’em right now. Maybe they’ll catch ’em and bring ’em in.”

  Donna Clyman snorted. “Not a chance. The sheriff’s old, burnt out. And all the good young men are gone, off to fight the war. With all the best will in the world, what’s left can’t possibly run down the Badlands gang. But you’re another case entirely. How much do you want to do it? I’d go as high as five thousand dollars.”

  It was Fargo’s turn to snort. “Mrs. Clyman, Finnegan told you I came high. I wouldn’t even dirty up a gun barrel for that.”

  Donna Clyman looked at him a moment, then reached for the bottle. “All right. Name your price.”

  “Normally I’d figure each one of those people killed today was worth a couple of thousand to you. I don’t know how much the robbers took, but I’d figure that getting back a minimum of three-quarters of it would be worth another ten. Say twenty thousand altogether—if I took the job.”

  The woman whistled softly. “You do come high. But—” Her breasts rose and fell as she sighed. “All right. Twenty thousand. Ten now, ten when you’ve finished. Do we have a deal?”

  Fargo stared down into his glass. It was not often that he had to wrestle with his conscience, but that was something he was doing now. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. I’d like to take the job, but I can’t.”

  She stared, open-mouthed. “But I just said I’d pay—”

  “I know what you said. And it’s a job tailor-made for me, the kind that makes my mouth water. All the same, I still can’t do it.”

  Face first pale, then flushed with anger, Donna Clyman stood up. “And why not?”

  “Because,” Fargo said. “Because the war comes first, and I’ve hired out already to do a job for the cavalry. I’ve got fifty head of remounts to drive from here to Cheyenne and enough more waitin’ there right now to make up a special train. And that still won’t be enough. They’ll want more, and I’ve undertaken to get ’em.”

  “I see. And how much is the cavalry paying you for this?”

  It was almost with embarrassment that Fargo answered. “Nothing,” he said.

  The woman looked at him in disbelief. “Nothing?”

  “That’s right. I’m livin’ off my fat—money I made runnin’ guns to Mexico—and doin’ it for free. It ain’t much, but it’s the best I can manage, since the medics turned thumbs down on me. Been shot at and hit too many times ... But anyhow, I’m under government orders and I’ve got government horses to deliver, and I can’t stop, not even for twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Well. I’m surprised, to say the least. You look less like an idealist than any man I ever met.”

  “Whatever I look like, I was a horse soldier myself for damned near ten years out of my life. So I’m sorry. But that’s it, Mrs. Clyman.”

  “Call me Donna. Which, incidentally, is a liberty I allow only a few men I admire.” She took another sip of whiskey, moved closer to him. “Neal, has it occurred to you that you’d be doing the government a greater service by tackling this Badlands o
utfit than by buying horses? There must be a hundred men who can purchase remounts—but I wouldn’t think there’d be many who could go up against those people in the Badlands. And after all, they’re deserters, draft dodgers—maybe even worse.”

  “What do you mean, worse?”

  “I have no proof. But the fact is, a good many of ’em are German. In the past fifteen, twenty years, a lot of Germans have settled in the Dakotas. Oh, I know, most of them are citizens and they’re loyal. But obviously this bunch in the Badlands isn’t. Myself, I think they’re not just cowards who are afraid to fight. I think they’re German sympathizers who’re out to do whatever damage they can. They’ve got money now, and with money you can always buy guns somewhere, and—I think they could do enough damage that sooner or later the Army itself would have to send in men. And if they could pin down even a few companies, that’s that many less available in France or any other trouble spot. And then, don’t forget, there’s the Indians. Dakota’s full of Sioux and it’s been less than twenty years since Wounded Knee. The Army still thinks they’re dangerous enough to keep troops on the reservation to watch them. Suppose these people in the Badlands slipped guns to the Sioux. There are plenty of old men who haven’t forgotten ... Young men, too. They could stir up trouble, draw off a lot more troops if they had weapons and maybe some firewater. They may already be in contact with the Oglalas at Pine Ridge. Don’t forget, that’s hard by the Badlands.” She touched his arm. “Take this job for me. You could help the war effort and make yourself a lot of money, too.”

  Fargo drained his glass. What she had said made sense. Acutely conscious of her nearness, he nevertheless shook his head. “All the same, I’ve got a job to do, and that’s not it. I wish to hell it was, but—”