Fargo 20

by John Benteen

  With a booted foot, he hooked a chair from the table in the center of the room, sat down with his arms across its back, the knife still in hand. “So we’ll go on usin’ her for what I took her for. A lot of men up here, no women—their morale gets low. That’s why I made off with her from the reservation. With the outfit I’ve got, one’s hardly enough, but it’s better than nothing, you understand? Sure you do. You’ve led men yourself; you know about morale.”

  He paused. “Anyhow, they’re outside, you’re here. And I’ve won and you’ve lost. I’ve still got more than two dozen men, and I get a few more every week. People like me who came from the Old Country, or whose parents did, and who think America’s in this war on the wrong side.” His mouth twisted. “Don’t let the fact I’ve got no accent fool you. I didn’t leave Stuttgart until I was fifteen years old, and as far as I’m concerned, Kaiser Wilhelm is still my sovereign. That’s why, when the German Embassy in Mexico City asked me to work out a plan for sabotage and guerrilla warfare right here in the United States, I said yes right away. And it wasn’t hard to figure out what to do. Up here there are plenty of Germans who felt just like me. Even the ones that didn’t have had to eat so much scheisse since the war started—even the loyal ones suspected of being spies, distrusted by everybody, all this business of changin’ names, calling things like sauerkraut ‘Liberty Cabbage—’” He snorted. “It wasn’t as easy as I thought. Most of the Germans stayed loyal to America, the fools, but there were enough who didn’t ... But the best part, the main reason I started operations here, was the Indians, the Sioux. Hell, there’s a whole pool of tough, hard men who know the country and were at war with you up until twenty years ago, and still have a grudge to settle. So, with a lot of them on our side and the Badlands to hide out in, this made sense as a theater of operations behind the lines. And as soon as I can get enough weapons in Sioux hands—”

  He stood up. “Which brings me to the questions. First of all, I want to know why you’re really in Dakota.”

  “Buying remounts,” Fargo said promptly. “For the cavalry.”

  Schmidt kicked him again, hard. “Don’t hand me that. A man like you, who’s worked undercover for a president of the United States, all your fightin’ experience—you think I’d really swallow that? It’s only cover, isn’t it? You’re an undercover agent. They wouldn’t waste you on buying horses. The government sent you up here to find out what was happening—right?”

  Fargo didn’t answer.

  Schmidt kicked him again, bent low, the knife blade edging toward his left eye. “God damn you, tell me the truth. You must have come straight from Washington. I want to know how much they know back there about me and what I’m up to. Who gave you your orders? And what were they?” The blade was within a half inch of his eye, now.

  Fargo’s mind raced. “All right,” he said coolly. “Take the knife away and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Schmidt straightened up. “That’s better. Start talking, and give it to me straight.”

  Fargo licked cracked lips. “First, I got to have some water. I’m too dry to talk.” He fought for time, trying to buy every second possible. What he would do with it, trapped as he was, he had no idea—but as long as you were still alive, you had a chance. The dead had none. Until he stopped breathing, he would not stop scheming, hoping, fighting ...

  “Water. Okay, you get water.” Schmidt went to a bucket, brought back a dipper filled with milky fluid, roughly boosted Fargo to a sitting position against the wall, and held the dipper to this mouth. Fargo drank long and gratefully of the sour Badlands water. He had been dehydrated; now he felt a measure of strength and clarity of mind returning.

  Schmidt tossed the dipper in the bucket and thrust the knife blade forward again. “Now, talk. Otherwise, you lose first one eye, then the other. After that, more bits and pieces. I know all the tricks, Fargo. Learned ’em in the Venezuelan diamond fields. Now, who sent you, and why? You didn’t just come for fifty horses.”

  “No. I came for twenty thousand dollars.” He paused. Drag it out as long as possible. Still, he could see no chance. His hands bound, all those armed men watching him, the Fox so far away across the room it might as well have been in Mexico ... “There’s a woman in Rapid City owns most of the bank. She’s named Donna Clyman. Lives in a big house, got a lot of money—”

  “I know about her. Get on with it.”

  “She offered me twenty thousand to come here and find that bank money you took and get it back.”

  Schmidt stared at him a moment. “Don’t hand me that. You’re an undercover agent for the U.S. Government.”

  “No. I been shot up too much. They wouldn’t take me in the Army. All I could get was a job buying remounts. When you stole ’em, I made up my mind to get ’em back. But I figured I might as well sweeten the pot, so I made a deal with her. You don’t believe me, look in my wallet. There’s a deposit slip for the ten thousand she paid me up front.”

  “We’ll see.” Fargo’s pocket had been emptied, his wallet was on the table. Schmidt went through it, found the deposit slip and grinned. “Well, that’s another ten thousand she’s out. I got ninety thousand dollars from that bank, and it’s all buried right here, not a penny touched.” He made an instinctive gesture toward the floor of the cabin, then caught himself as if he had revealed too much. “Never mind. It’ll buy a hell of a lot of guns. I’ve already made the contact.”

  He put the slip back in the wallet, looked thoughtfully at Fargo. “Okay, I’ll buy that story, because I know your reputation. Money, that’s always the big thing with you. But the way you were diggin’ into things with the Indians—Clyde Kills Twice sent word you’d been to see him, tried to get him to guide you here. But you misjudged him real bad. He and his brother weren’t on good terms anyhow. The main thing for him is to make the whites pay for Wounded Knee, and we’re the only place he can get the guns to do it. So he’s still in it with us. And as soon as Garfield brings the next load of guns—”

  “Garfield’s not going to bring you any more guns,” Fargo said.

  “Meaning what?”

  Still playing for time, he spun out the story of what had happened to Garfield as long as he could. Meanwhile, he was shifting his body, flexing his muscles, the tied hands behind his back. If any chance at all came, he had to be limber, ready for it. As he went on, Schmidt’s face darkened. “So,” Fargo finished, “we left him in a cave in the Black Hills. Whether he’s alive or dead, I don’t know.”

  Schmidt cursed, struck his thigh with a clenched fist. “God damn you, that’s one more thing I owe you. What cave, where is it? I need to know ... If there’s any chance of saving Garfield—he’s my connection, the only place I can get the guns!” Suddenly the knife was close to Fargo’s face again. “Where’d you leave him? You’d better tell me exactly—and in a hurry!”

  Fargo read desperation on Schmidt’s countenance. “There’s no way I can tell you. I could draw up a map ...”

  “Then you’ll draw one!” Schmidt rasped. “Garfield’s an idiot, but he knows where to get the guns, and if there’s a chance of savin’ him—” He jerked Fargo to his feet, spun him around, slashed the ropes that bound his wrist. “Watch him close, Berger, Heimer,” he snapped to a couple of the lounging men. Then he went to a shelf, came back with pad of paper and a pencil. “Draw it!” he snapped.

  Fargo flexed his freed hands. His eyes swept the cabin, but to make a break was still certain death: Berger and Heimer both had him covered with heavy Mauser 9-millimeter pistols, and Schmidt had the Batangas knife only inches from his ribs, where a single thrust could drive it home. “Kagel,” Schmidt ordered another man nearby. “You come here and watch this. You know the Black Hills like the back of your hand. You’ve prospected all through ’em. If this map is phony—”

  Kagel was lean, weathered, with a lean, intelligent face. “That’s right, Big Ugly,” he said menacingly. “You make it just right, or I’ll catch you up.”

 
“And if he does,” Schmidt said thinly, “I’ll start cuttin’ on you like I said.”

  “I’ll make it right,” Fargo said. “But the chances are he’s dead by now.”

  “If there’s one in a hundred that he isn’t, we’ve got to take it. It’ll take weeks to make a new connection for guns, and I can’t afford to wait. Now draw!” He rammed the pencil into Fargo’s hand.

  Fargo closed his eyes, thought hard, recalling landmarks, still playing for time. At least, now, his hands were free, and if only one chance offered—Slowly, carefully, he began to draw—and accurately. “This canyon breaks back here, to the right. Then up that way and into this one on the left. It’s all covered with pines. The cave’s on the right wall coming from this direction. You’ve got to look sharp, the brush screens it.”

  Schmidt raised his head. “Kagel?”

  “I know the place.”

  “Then get some medical supplies and ride like hell. I ain’t worried about Garfield himself, but I’ve got to know where he gets the guns. See if you can keep him alive long enough to get that information anyhow.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kagel’s response was crisply military. He hurried out.

  Schmidt faced Fargo, thumbs hooked in gun belts, quiet fury on his countenance. “I ought to keep you around until Kagel reports. But you’re dangerous as a rattler in shedding time, so I’m not going to. Still, I’ll keep one promise. You’ll go out quick, you and that professor friend of yours.” Suddenly his right hand held a Colt, cocked, lined at Fargo’s belly. “Berger,” he snapped. “Fetch a box of those grenades from the lean-to.”

  “Grenades?” Fargo stared.

  “You heard me.” Schmidt’s mouth twisted in a cold smile. “We’re gonna have a little trainin’ exercise for my men. They’ve had simulated practice with grenades, but they’ve never seen what one really does. Now I’ve got some live targets, to show ’em.” He laughed shortly. “You know yourself, in training troops, there’s nothing like a practical demonstration. I figure it’s worth using a couple of ’em, as few as we have. One for you, one for Stokes. We—” He broke off as Berger returned, lugging a big wooden box which he set down on the table. “All right, Berger. You and Heimer each take one. They’re my seconds in command, Fargo; I already know how to use those eggs. Now they get a chance to practice what I’ve preached to ’em. Now, the rest of you—outside! And call all the others together. I want every man except the guards at the trail to see this!”

  Fargo watched as Berger, lanky, blond, nearly chinless, and Heimer, a hulking giant with a square face, each gingerly took one of the ovoid, olive-drab bombs from the box. “Don’t be afraid of ’em,” Schmidt said. “Until you pull that pin and let go the lever, they’re as safe as a couple of bricks. All right, Fargo.” He jerked the gun. “Outside.”

  There was no chance to make a break under that dead drop. Ahead of Schmidt, Fargo marched through the door blinking in the bright sunlight that fell on the table-top of Sheep Mountain. Instinctively, he felt a touch of admiration for Schmidt’s skill in choosing such a hide-out and the way his camp was organized. The old line shack was in the shelter of a scattered grove of Ponderosa pines, and beneath the trees were a dozen canvas-covered lean-tos to shelter the men. All were in neat military order, and there was even a latrine well away from camp. Then he forgot all that as he caught sight of Stokes.

  The young man, face drawn with despair and grief, sat with his back against a tree, his shirt blood-soaked from the wound in his left shoulder. He swayed as one of Schmidt’s men jerked him to his feet. “Neal,” he husked as the man shoved him forward. “Damn it, Neal, I’m sorry. It was all my fault. If I’d only listened to you—”

  “No sense crying over spilled milk.” Fargo shrugged.

  “Be quiet, both of you,” Schmidt ordered. To the right of the grove of pines, the land was open, grassy. Schmidt snapped orders, and the men formed a circle there. Fargo counted as they came up—twenty-two of them all told, including Schmidt. Likely two or three more guarding the single trail up to the mesa-top ...

  Schmidt bawled orders in a military voice. “Spread out in a circle about a hundred yards in diameter. That’s right, move it out. Now we’re gonna plant Fargo in the middle. Keep him covered, and if he moves from where I place him, shoot him down. But don’t shoot to kill, only in the legs, you understand?” He paused, waiting for the men to take position, which, puzzled, they did uneasily. “Now,” Schmidt went on, “when Fargo’s in place, Berger’s gonna lob a grenade right on top of him, exactly the way I’ve showed you in practice. I want you to see what one really does. Now, the minute Berger throws, all of you hit the ground and hit it flat. Heads and asses down and you’ll be safe—the fragments fly up. You’ll hear shrapnel go over you, but it’s just like bullets, and you’ve heard those. Long as you’re down, you’re safe.”

  He jabbed the Colt in Fargo’s back. “Now, you march.”

  “Oh, my God,” Stokes blurted, comprehending.

  Schmidt said. “Your turn comes next. Move, Fargo.”

  There was no help for it. Fargo marched ahead, then halted when Berger gave the order, in the very center of the circle of men and about fifty yards from the cabin. There was, he knew, no use to run; at the first step, a dozen guns would chop him down. So, he thought, this was how it ended. It was an ugly way to go. Shrapnel. It could be quick and clean or it could be slow and messy. Legs blown off, steel fragments in your groin or gut or face—well, he would at least deny Schmidt the satisfaction of showing fear. And maybe, just maybe, there was one chance after all. It depended on how much Schmidt himself really knew about grenades—

  Too much, he realized, as Schmidt rejoined Berger at the circle’s edge near the cabin. “You’ll notice I left his hands untied,” Schmidt yelled to all the rest. “That’s to emphasize a point I want to make. It takes five seconds from the time the lever flies off a grenade and the striker starts the fuse until the bomb goes off. You throw one at a man too close to you and he knew that, five seconds gives him time to pick it up and throw it back. The answer? You pull the pin, let the lever fly and count to two before you throw. That don’t give him time to throw it back. If he picks it up, it goes off while he holds it.”

  “Jesus,” Fargo clearly heard Berger say. “You mean I got to hold this thing in my hand while it’s armed and ready to go before I throw it?”

  “Unless you want him to throw it back. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you when. Now, all of you, look sharp. I’ll give the order when it’s time to hit the dirt.”

  Fargo stood there tall, alone, in the center of the circle. He saw how the men around him looked at each other nervously. Stokes, under guard near the cabin, not far from Heimer, who held the other bomb, was pale, shuddering. Fargo tried not to betray the knotting of his own gut. Well, his string had run out, and—”

  “Pull the pin!” Schmidt said loudly.

  Berger’s hand shook slightly as he grasped the ring that held the pin and pulled it. His hand was tightly clasped around the lever, which, when it flew off, would activate the striker.

  “Get ready to throw—overhand, like I showed you with the rocks. Don’t really throw, don’t sling it, just shove it up and out. Now—”

  The rifle’s roar came from close at hand. Berger looked astonished, took one step forward, dropped to his knees. The grenade spilled from his hand, the lever flew, as it rolled a foot or two across the ground. For one paralyzed second Schmidt stared. Then he screamed, “Look out! Hit the dirt!” Even as he yelled, the rifle roared again and Heimer dropped, the grenade, ring still unpulled, by his body. Then everyone, Fargo included, had hit the ground, Schmidt launching himself in a mighty leap away from the fizzing grenade, plowing face down into the grass.

  With a roar and a cloud of smoke, the grenade went off. Dust and smoke obscured everything on that side of the circle. Fargo heard the fluttering whiz of shrapnel. Then, not comprehending what had happened, but seizing the chance, he was on his feet, legs driving, as he r
an for the cabin. Twice more the rifle roared, the unknown marksman giving covering fire.

  Schmidt was coming up, dazed, Colt in hand. “What the hell—?”

  “Stokes!” Fargo yelled. “In the cabin!”

  But Stokes was already moving. As Schmidt swung to line his gun on Fargo, Stokes bent, scooped up Heimer’s grenade with his good arm, pulled the pin with his teeth, let the lever pop. Awkwardly he threw it—wide, but the sight of it was enough to make Schmidt dive for cover again, and then Stokes, closer to the cabin door than Fargo, was through it, and Fargo, vaulting the riddled, bloody thing that was all that was left of Berger’s body, was right behind him, plunging through the door. He slammed it, shoved home the bolt, and without even halting made for the box of grenades on the table.

  “Take cover!” he bawled at Stokes, yanked a pin with his teeth. Glass shattered as, after waiting two seconds, he threw the grenade through the cabin’s single window. The explosion it made outside was thunderous. Fargo laughed harshly, sent another one after it. That would keep them off balance for moment. He spun, swung across the cabin, scooped up the Fox and its bandolier from the corner, opened the empty gun and shoved in two rounds. Outside, men were yelling in confusion. Then Schmidt’s voice rose above the tumult. “Fall back, damn it! Take cover! We’ve got ’em trapped in there, they can’t get out! Fall back, take cover, pump lead through that door!”

  “Neal!” Stokes blurted. “What happened? Who fired those shots? I don’t understand—”

  “Neither do I,” Fargo rasped. Then a sound behind him made him whirl, shotgun up.

  “Hold your fire!” the man standing there said. Framed in the doorway to the rear lean-to, he was short and squat and muscular, and his face, round and copper-colored, was grimly set. He held a Winchester, and it was aimed at Fargo.