Fargo 20

by John Benteen

  It was with a kind of ghastly fascination that he watched what happened next. Now both their lives depended on Stokes’ agility. He could hear the young man panting as he rested for a moment and gathered both strength and nerve. He saw Stokes reach up, shove the rifle over the rim. Then Stokes’ body began to revolve slowly as he turned awkwardly in the chimney. Now his feet and one shoulder braced him, and he was reaching upwards with a hand. And then suddenly Stokes let go all holds, lurched jerkily, and dirt and pebbles rained down on Fargo. He shut his eyes as Stokes make a twisting jump. When he opened them again, the young man was dangling from his hands against the chimney wall, feet scrabbling for purchase. Then, inch by inch, Stokes dragged himself upward. Now half of his torso was over the rim. Fargo’s heart kicked; suddenly Stokes slid backwards. But a groping hand must have found a hold; just before it seemed sure that he would fall, the sliding stopped. Once more Stokes edged upward, and then, somehow, was over the rim. Fargo saw his booted feet disappear and let out a long, rasping breath. He waited.

  “All right,” Stokes whispered down the shaft. “You come on, now.”

  Fargo sucked in wind, hunched the last fifty feet up the chimney. As it widened, he stretched his long body. Then he had reached the very top and was staring at the immense sky above him. From behind him, Stokes whispered: “Okay, let go now. I’ll pull you out.”

  There was no other way. Fargo closed his eyes, let go. He dropped like a stone for a heart-stopping five or six feet; then the rope came taut and he was dangling at its end. Swinging over to the chimney’s side, he sought hand and footholds, and now Stokes was pulling with surprising strength, dragging him upwards. Another minute and Fargo was sprawled, panting, on solid ground, and never had it felt more blessed. Stokes, exhausted, lay beside him.

  But there was no time to waste; recovery from the ordeal would have to come later. Fargo’s hands shook only slightly as they unlatched the shotgun, brought it up. He raised his head, looked around. They were on naked tableland, devoid of cover, but not far away from the mesa’s rim there was a dump of scrubby juniper. “Come on.” Fargo scrambled to his feet, shotgun in one hand, rifle in the other. Scuttling the rope, bent low, he and Stokes loped to the thicket, edged inside. Then they were deep in the scrubby thicket’s heart, and just in time, for dawn had now begun to streak the sky.

  “By God,” Stokes whispered jubilantly, “we made it.”

  “This far. A good job, Stokes. You’ll do to ride the river with. Now hush. We got to lay low.”

  In the last darkness, they ate hardtack, washed it down with the scanty water remaining in their canteens. And now Fargo felt a surge of confidence. They had come this far, and he was in his element again. And somewhere on this mountain top was Schmidt—and his fifty horses. And an Indian girl, if she were still alive, and a lot of money. The odds were still long, the deck still stacked against them. But for Fargo, the worst was over. Now it was just another job ...

  The sun came up, against a brazen, cloudless sky. Stokes, exhausted, fell asleep. Fargo drew on his own iron reserves of endurance, built up over years, to stay awake. Edging to the limit of the thicket, he carefully used the binoculars to survey this mountain top.

  It was a striking contrast to the bleak lands that surrounded it, and he could see why Schmidt had chosen it for a hiding place. Vast in extent, it was lushly grassed, almost park like, with here and there a knob or a crag. Along the shallow draws that cut it in every direction grew juniper and even a few ponderosa pine. All this lush growth was evidence of ample water, and it was a natural place for Schmidt to range his growing supply of horses. In fact, Fargo remembered, Stokes had said cattlemen had run their stock up here until a few years before; then summer drought and unexpected blizzards had wiped them out, and since then the tableland had been deserted.

  Plenty of cover and room to maneuver: Fargo was satisfied. And he watched narrowly as breakfast fires once more sent up curls of smoke from perhaps a mile away, in a depression his view of which was cut off by a swelling hump of ground. Over there, if it still stood, should be a line cabin used by cowboys before the stockmen had pulled out. And ... he raised the glasses, and then he saw them on a distant hill—his horses. Nearly the whole fifty head of remounts, plus half again as many other animals Schmidt must have collected here and there, some fine hot-bloods, others heavy-boned draft animals. Fargo’s lips peeled back in a wolfish snarl. Not even a wrangler guarding them. But, of course, since the one trail down was guarded anyhow, there was no place they could stray to.

  The reconnaissance completed, he pulled back deeper into the thicket. That line cabin, he thought. It had to be the primary target. Schmidt undoubtedly had made it his headquarters. And there would be stored the weapons—including the fragmentation grenades. And, more than likely, the money from the Rapid City bank. Fargo felt an itching in his palms—not for the money, but for the good, hard heft of the grenades. By God, if he could lay his hands on those ...

  But that would have to wait till darkness. Meanwhile, he lay alertly in the cedars and let Stokes sleep for several hours more. No one came near the rim, approached their hiding place. Presently he shook Stokes awake.

  “Give me four hours sleep. Keep your head up, anybody comes, anything suspicious, you wake me right away. And don’t you leave this cover, you hear? Under no circumstances do you leave this cover.”

  Stokes’ lean face was tense. “You didn’t see or hear any sign of Mary?”

  “No.”

  Stokes bit his lip. “But she’s got to be there. Fargo, she’s got to be. Only a mile, probably, in that camp. Damn it—”

  Fargo’s voice was iron-hard, commanding. “I don’t care if she’s only twenty feet away. We don’t break cover until dark, you understand? We’re here to do a job and get her back, not commit suicide.”

  “Yeah. I understand. Only—”

  “You’ve waited this long. You can wait a few hours longer.”

  Stokes was silent for a moment. “Dammit, haven’t you ever been in love?”

  Fargo considered that, then shook his head. “No. No, I reckon not the way you are. I’ve met women I’ve liked, but never enough to tie myself to one for life. They’re there when I want one, and when I don’t want her anymore, I can walk away and never look back. The kind of case you got on that girl affects the judgment, Stokes. It makes a man take useless risks—or back off from the ones he’s got to take. Now you get a close hitch on yourself and do like I say—”

  “I guess you’re right,” the young man answered, and fell silent. Fargo looked at him keenly, then rolled over to go to sleep. Stokes had done well so far; he had to trust him. Shotgun cradled, he dozed off.

  Something, he had no idea what, brought him bolt awake no more than an hour later. He rolled over instantly, the sawed-off Fox at the ready, hand groping for the rifle. “Stokes,” he whispered, and then he realized he was alone.

  Fargo cursed silently, feeling a thrust of apprehension. Then he heard the whisper, coming from the thicket’s edge. “Neal! My God! Come here, quick!”

  He was in motion instantly, crawling through the fragrant, wind-whipped juniper to where Stokes lay at the brush’s edge. “Neal—” There was a strange, strangled sound in the young man’s voice. “Look! She’s there—”

  Fargo stared. Skylined against the blue, the girl in the buckskin dress had just topped the crest of the swell of ground ahead. And now, frantically, she was running, making straight toward their thicket as if she sought its cover, her black braids flying out behind.

  “It’s Mary,” Stokes rasped. “It’s—” He half-rose.

  “Wait!” Fargo clamped an iron hand on Stokes’ wrist. The girl ran down the slope, skirts lifted, legs driving, and now two men topped the rise, coming hard behind her. One was tall, slat lean, with a hawk’s face and a fringe of black beard, the other shorter, heavier, with a round, red face; and he was laughing as he ran. “It won’t do you no good, you Injun bitch!” Fargo heard him yell, a lit
tle short of breath. “Schmidt says it’s our turn with you! And, by God, we aim to have it!” He and the lean man picked up speed.

  The girl, too, ran faster, and Fargo could see the terror, the despair on her round face. For all her swiftness, they were gaining on her easily, especially the tall man with his long legs. Once she stumbled, fell, picked herself up, came on. But now she changed direction. No longer headed for the juniper, she ran straight for the mesa’s rim—and its sheer three-hundred-foot drop.

  “Neal, she’s gonna kill herself!” Stokes whispered. He raised his rifle.

  “Easy,” Fargo snapped. “She’ll never make it. They’ll catch—”

  And they had. Even as he spoke, Mary Running Deer fell again. Panting, breathless, she rose once more, but now they were upon her, not two hundred yards from where Fargo and Stokes lay concealed. The tall man pounced, seized her arm. She screamed, fought to free herself. The short man slapped her face, seized the other arm. “Told you!” His voice carried clearly. “Now, you don’t fight, be good to us, you won’t git hurt! Otherwise, damn your red soul—” He slapped her again, the blow’s force knocking her head around.

  Beside Fargo, there was a whisper of sound. Then, suddenly, the short man gave a muffled cry. Neal Fargo stared as the arrow seemed to materialize between his shoulder blades, buried nearly to the feathers.

  “Stokes!” he grated. “You damned fool—” But he was too late.

  As the short man dropped sideways, hitting with the limp impact of one killed instantly, the tall man stared. Mouth gaping, he jerked his head this way and that. “Bud!” he yelled, and, the girl forgotten, his hand swooped toward the gun on his hip. He was fast, had it clear of leather before the second arrow hit.

  Stokes had got it off with a speed that was incredible. It caught the tall man in the chest. He screamed, a high, piercing sound that would carry a long way in the windy silence, and, worse, his trigger finger, closing by reflex, fired his Colt. The slug went straight down, plowing into the ground, as he fell backwards, kicking, writhing. His hand clawed at the arrow as the gun thunder died; he screamed again, and then the life went from him.

  Mary Running Deer dropped to the ground, dazed. “Stokes!” Fargo blurted, but it was too late now. The young man broke cover like a bull elk.

  “Mary!” he yelled, running towards the girl.

  Fargo cursed.

  She looked up, eyes widening. “Jon! It’s—”

  “It’s me!” Stokes scooped her up, held her tightly. “Come on!” He lifted her, was running towards the thicket. But already Fargo could hear the yelling from far away, behind the rise. Those screams of agony, that single gunshot, had been heard.

  Stokes plunged into the juniper, the girl spilling from his arms. She landed hard, stared wildly at Fargo, and Stokes put an arm around her. “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  “All right, hell!” Fargo rasped. “You’ve just ruined everything. You—” But the damage was done now, and there was no use whining. All surprise was lost. “Git down!” he snapped, and pushed the girl farther back into the junipers. “Lay flat and hug that ground if you want a chance to live. All hell’s gonna break loose in about a minute. Stokes, you’ve ruined our play. But maybe we can stand ’em off—”

  “Let ’em come, the bastards,” the young man snarled, and Fargo saw that he was in a frenzy. “Let ’em come, I’ll kill ’em all—” He snatched up his rifle, worked the lever.

  Fargo touched his arm. “You shoot before I tell you to, I’ll kill you myself,” he grated. Stokes stared at him defiantly, then turned away, rifle uplifted, ready.

  So this was it, Fargo thought. All his planning, all their efforts gone for nothing. That was what he got for taking on an amateur—and yet he could not blame the man. But Stokes had ruined every chance they had—

  And now they came, on foot and mounted, guns glittering in the sun as they crested the rise, half a mile away.

  A big man on a sorrel horse—but not Schmidt—reined in on the skyline. “Bud!” he yelled. “Tabor! What the hell—?” Then he swung his horse as he saw the bodies, gestured. “Over there! Spread out! There’s somebody up here! Find the bastards! You hear? Find ’em and burn ’em down!” His voice, wind-borne, carried clearly.

  “I’ll show you—” Stokes snarled and lined his rifle. Fargo seized the barrel and struck it down. “Wait. Too far. Let ’em close the range. Lay flat, make every shot count, but don’t fire until I do.”

  He counted fifteen of them as they came on, eight or nine on horseback, the rest on foot, all spread out in a line of skirmishers wholly professional. They had come here to hide, he thought, to escape being soldiers, and yet Schmidt had made soldiers out of them anyhow—and now, some would die in combat. But, more than likely, so would he and Stokes—

  Now the range was closing. The sorrel curvetted, its rider pointed. “That clump of juniper. Watch it, they may be holed up in there. Better rake it—if they’re in there, drive ’em out!”

  So they could wait no longer. “Now!” Fargo rasped, raised his own Winchester. The man on the sorrel was swinging down. Fargo aimed and fired, and the slug caught him before his boot touched the ground. The horse, frightened, whirled and ran, dragging the body, one foot caught in the stirrup—and then, beside him, Stokes’ rifle was thundering, and he was levering more rounds into this own gun and picking targets.

  But those targets were shooting back. At the first slam of Fargo’s gun, there had been one frozen moment. Now the men out there threw themselves flat or jumped for cover, and as they opened fire, the thicket seemed suddenly to swarm with deadly insects. Bullets hummed and slapped through brush, clipped twigs fell, bark flew. “Down flat!” Fargo yelled, “and pick your targets!” He pressed himself hard against the earth as he emptied the Winchester, scrabbled to shove more rounds into it. The range was still too great to use the shotgun.

  Then, from behind the crest of land, a deep voice boomed out—one he recognized, had heard before when the raiders had attacked his horses. “On your feet! Spread out, damn it! Circle ’em!” Schmidt—and he came hard and fast, mounted on a big bay, one of Fargo’s own cavalry horses, bent low over the horse’s neck. It was raw courage he displayed—and leadership, and his presence galvanized the others. Suddenly they were up and running, and as they fanned out in a semi-circle, the bullets chugged into the thicket from all directions simultaneously.

  “Charge ’em! Take ’em!” Schmidt, red-shirted as before, pounded toward the thicket, and as he came in range was firing a six-gun with each hand, reins in his teeth. Fargo felt the burn of lead across the strap muscle where his neck joined his shoulder, but he jerked a round into the rifle’s chamber, lined it on Schmidt. The red shirt was in his sight, he could not miss—

  His finger never squeezed the trigger. He heard the whine of lead ricocheting from a rock within the thicket. Caught only a second’s fraction of that deadly sound—and then, suddenly, his whole head seemed to explode. As the spent bullet slammed into his skull, light seemed to explode behind his eyes, and then it turned to darkness, deep and total, as the rifle slipped from his grasp ...

  Nine

  It was as if he had swum a long way through utter blackness to reach the light. Always it seemed to retreat before him, but finally, strength nearly exhausted, he made it—and, with agony in his skull, opened his eyes. His vision was still blurred, double, and it was with surprise that he realized he was still alive. “Schmidt,” somebody said, as if from very far away. “The bastard’s wakin’ up.”

  “So.” Fargo heard heavy boots on board puncheons. His vision cleared as a figure towered over him, and he realized that he lay on the floor of the old line cabin. Trying to move, he discovered that his hands were tied behind him. “So,” Schmidt said again. “You’re a hard one to kill, ain’t you?” It was the first time Fargo had seen him at close range. Thirty-three or four, maybe, and towering a good six feet three in his booted feet, with enormous sloping shoulders. His hair was thick
and blond, his eyes a pale, cold blue; his skin was fair, his features handsome in a powerful, rough-hewn way. A kind of power seemed to radiate from his giant form as he stood there, thumbs hooked in crisscross gun belts, from each of which hung a Colt strapped low on his thigh: it was the ruthless strength of a natural leader of men.

  Schmidt grinned; his teeth were white and even. The grin did not touch his eyes. “Neal Fargo, the great Neal Fargo. By God, I’ve followed your tracks myself, a long time, up through South America, Mexico—and I never figured everything they said about you could be the truth. But—” the grin went away. “I was wrong. You’re as much hell on wheels as everybody said. You’ve cost me a lot of men, and it looks like nothing stops you. Only—” He kicked Fargo hard, in the ribs, grinned at the gasp of pain that evoked. “Only you’re stopped now, my friend. Stopped good and hard. End of the line, Fargo.”

  Fargo’s face set, hard, impassive. “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. We’re gonna have a little talk, and you’re gonna give me some information. You cooperate, you go out easy—a bullet in the head. You play games with me, why, then—” His hand moved, there was a faint click and then Fargo’s own Batangas knife glittered in the sunlight raying through a window. “You go out hard and take a long time to die.”

  Fargo didn’t answer. His eyes, instead, swept the cabin’s single room. Half a dozen armed men lounged about; his gaze flickered, stopped, as he saw the short-barreled Fox and the bandolier of shells in the far corner of the cabin. Then it moved on. There was no sign of Stokes or Mary Running Deer.

  As if reading his mind, Schmidt said: “You can forget the shotgun. It’s a damned nice weapon, I intend to keep it. But far as you’re concerned, it might as well be on the other side of the moon. And as for the other two—well, we’ve already worked over the one called Stokes. He took a bullet in the shoulder and we got him alive. But he didn’t know a lot, he didn’t have the answers I needed. But I ain’t killed him yet; I may use him to do some trading. It never hurts to have a hostage. The girl—well, we got her before she could kill herself ...”