by John Benteen
Fargo pulled the rear trigger of the Fox.
The left barrel’s charge sprayed like water from a hose. At that short range, Schmidt took its full impact. All those buckshot chopping into him literally picked him up and threw him backward into the flames that danced along the floor. Even as he hit, Fargo was running toward him. He jumped the flames that licked around the sprawled body, rolled it over, fumbled. He was blistering too, and his shirt was smoldering. Worse, the fire was reaching the lean-to, now, with its explosive contents. Desperately, Fargo fumbled in Schmidt’s pocket, and then he found it: the Batangas knife. He rammed it in his own hip pocket, looked behind him. No escape that way—the lean-to was the only way out.
He leaped Schmidt’s body, ran through fire into the lean-to. Flames already played around the grenade boxes there. Breath held, Fargo kicked open the back door, plunged out into the grateful coolness of the night. He blinked smoke-reddened eyes, got his vision back just in time to see a horse stampeding straight at him.
Fargo dodged. An instant before it trampled him, he ducked beneath its neck, reached up, caught a handful of mane. Leaping, he let the animal’s momentum do the rest, and then he was mounted, bareback. He jerked the horse’s head around by a clutch of mane just behind its ears, using all his strength, kicked it hard, forcing it to turn. Those grenades were due to go any minute, and when they did—
The animal plunged into darkness, Fargo bent low across its neck. Ahead of him, a man ran desperately—and it was not Stokes. Hearing hoofbeats behind, he turned, saw Fargo bearing down, raised a Mauser.
There was no time to draw a pistol or even reverse the empty Fox. Fargo stuck out the shotgun like a lance. The man’s gun blared, but its slug went wild. The twin barrels of the shotgun had caught his face at high speed and driven in. He screamed. Fargo wrenched the gun loose as the horse pounded on by. Bone and flesh came with it. Behind him, the man kept on screaming.
And then the screaming was drowned in a huge explosion. The fire had reached the grenades, superheated them, and now they went. The burning roof, about to fall in, was lifted suddenly, thrown high in a vast display of fireworks. Shrapnel made its deadly whir and flutter overhead, and men and horses let out cries of pain. But most of the remounts and Fargo as well were out of range: a spent piece of iron thudded against his back, but did not even penetrate his shirt. The ammunition would go next, though, and that would be a different matter. He straightened up, and his voice rang out. “Kills Twice! Get the horses over that ridge!”
“Right!”
Stokes was helping with the driving, too, and another rider as well; and the dark mass of stampeding animals, surging like the sea, crested a rise of ground, fell away below. Fargo, turning on his horse, fired both barrels of the Fox at one last wink of gun flame behind; there was not another. Then he too was across the ridge, sheltered by that hump of ground—and that was when the ammunition went.
Suddenly the table-top behind them roared with gunfire, as if hundreds of soldiers were engaged in combat. Fargo heard screams of pain and terror, but they were engulfed in the roar of the exploding ammunition. He broke the Fox, shoved in two more shells. “Kills Twice! Take ’em down!”
“Right!” The Indian war-whooped as he turned the horses. Fargo raced to help. Then the stampeding herd had reached the mesa’s edge, where a trail pitched steeply downward to the badlands below. From darkness to Fargo’s right, gun-flame blossomed: a single guard who’d held his ground. Fargo fired at that bright flame, and there was no more shooting. Then the horses were plunging over, skidding, sliding, some falling and rolling and scrambling up. It was a wild, desperate ride down that steep path, but Kills Twice seemed to know it well, guided the herd expertly.
Then they had reached the bottom, and the running herd spread out on the wider floor of a barren canyon and, exhausted, presently let itself be turned and slowed, and finally halted. Panting, as weary and drained as the animals, the four riders gathered: Fargo, the Indian, Stokes—and Mary Running Deer. Above them, on Sheep Mountain Table, a faint glow lit the sky, then died entirely.
As Stokes embraced the Indian girl, Clyde Kills Twice edged his mount alongside Fargo’s, and together they stared up at the mountain for a moment. “Sorry,” Kills Twice said. “It took me longer than I figured. First, I had to find the girl. They had her tied up in a lean-to. Then she came along with me when I went after the horses.” He touched the bow slung over his shoulder; the arrow quiver was empty. “They never knew what hit ’em—the guards on the herd ... since an arrow makes no sound, no muzzle-flash. It was easy to take ’em out.” He let out a long, rasping breath. “So it worked. It all worked.”
“It had to,” Fargo said. “I had to create a diversion, give you a chance to sneak out in the dark, get to those horses. Count on you being Indian enough to do it without ’em catchin’ you. Then, when you stampeded ’em in amongst Schmidt’s men, we had our chance to make our break.”
“Schmidt?” The single word rang like iron.
“He’s dead. That’s why I set fire to the cabin. I knew it would bring him in, to try to save the money and the guns. Give me my one chance at him.”
“Damn you. He was my meat. On account of Billy.” Then Kills Twice eased. “All right. As long as he paid ...”
“He paid,” Fargo said.
Kills Twice reached inside his shirt. “I reckon you want this money back.”
“All but ten thousand of it,” Fargo said. “That’s your half of the reward.”
“White man’s money. I don’t want—”
“You keep it!” Fargo snapped. “It won’t pay for Billy, I’m not tryin’ to pay you for Billy, but—”
Kills Twice was silent for a moment. “All right,” he said at last. “I know Indians who’re hurtin’ for work and food. I can enlarge my operation, hire some, show ’em what they can do with their own land, instead of leasin’ it out to white men. It will help some.” He squinted at the table top. “How many you reckon are left up there?”
“Not many,” Fargo said. “And they’re leaderless and broke and have no guns or ammo to speak of.”
“Then they’ll make good hunting,” Kills Twice said.
Fargo looked at him. The Indian’s face was set. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning that I can bring a few picked warriors in here,” Kills Twice said. “And mop up. Hunt ’em down like coyotes. There are still young men who want revenge against the Wasichu. I promised it to them. This way, they’ll get it, and that will take the pressure off for a rising against the Army.”
Fargo looked at Kills Twice, that round, yet rock-hard face, and a kind of chill ran down his spine. He would not, he thought, want to be one of Schmidt’s gang out here in the Big Badlands with a bunch of Sioux led by a man whose name was Slits-the-Throat stalking him down. “Suit yourself,” he said. He kneed his horse around. “Now, let’s see how many of my remounts I’ve lost.”
~*~
Not as many were gone as he had feared. Ten of his original bunch were missing, but that many of the extra horses that had belonged to Schmidt would meet specifications, replace them. The overage would go to Kills Twice; Fargo had no use for them.
Now there was nothing to do but wait for dawn and get much-needed rest. One of the horses—belonging to a guard—was saddled, with a rope on it, and Fargo was converting that rope to hackamores for their mounts when Stokes, his arm around the girl, came to him.
“Neal,” the young man said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t,” Fargo answered gruffly. “You pulled your weight. What’s next for you and Mary?”
“She’s got a lot to forget. So have I. We’ll be married at Pine Ridge, and then we’re going east—I’ll work at Harvard, I suppose. Try to reconstruct my notes, with her help.”
“If you don’t get drafted.”
“Oh, they won’t draft me,” Stokes said. “I’ve already been examined.” He touched the thick-lensed glasses he had somehow miracul
ously retained. “Poor eyesight, you know. They say I’m not fit to fight.”
Fargo looked at him incredulously, thought of all he’d been through. “Not fit to fight?” He gave a short, barking laugh. “Well, that’s what they said about me, too. It shows how much they know.” He passed Stokes a couple of the improvised hackamores. “Let’s get these on some horses. Daylight’s comin’.”
An hour later, they had the herd rounded up, and Kills Twice, as guide, took the lead. “Move ’em out,” Fargo called and, shotgun across his horse’s withers, shirt stuffed with money and two grenades he had not used, he urged on the drags, with Stokes and Mary Running Deer riding on either flank.
All around them towered spires and buttes and arches and buttresses of raw, naked earth, transformed by dawn into a fantastic, lovely wonderland. The tired horses went slowly. As they made their way to the edge of the Big Badlands of Dakota, Fargo did not try to hurry them.
They would need rest in Rapid City, and so would he. The horses, he guessed, would get more rest than he—but after all, they were geldings, and he was not. Anyhow, a couple of days in Rapid City wouldn’t hurt him. It was, after all, a long way to Cheyenne and thence on down to Texas ...
About the Author
Benjamin Leopold Haas was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, in 1926. His imagination was inspired by the stories of the Civil War and Reconstruction as told by his Grandmother, who had lived through both. Ben’s father was also a pioneer operator of motion picture theatres, “ ... so I had free access to every theatre in Charlotte and saw countless films growing up, hooked on the lore of our own South and the Old West.”
Largely self educated (he had to drop out of college in order to support his family), Ben wrote his first story, a pulp short for a western magazine, when he was just eighteen. But when he was drafted into the Army, his dreams of becoming a writer were put on hold. He served as a Sergeant in the U.S. Army from 1945 to 1946, and saw action in the Philippines.
Returning home to Charlotte (and later Sumter, in South Carolina) in 1946, Ben married Douglas Thornton Taylor from Raleigh four years later. The father of three sons (Joel, Michael and John), Ben was working for a steel company when he sold his first novel in 1961. The acceptance coincided with being laid off, and thereafter he wrote full time.
A prolific writer who would eventually pen some 130 books under his own and a variety of pen-names, Ben wrote almost twenty-four hours a day. “I tried to write 5000 words or more every day, scrupulous in maintaining authenticity,” he later said.
Ben wanted to be a mainstream writer, but needed a way to finance himself between serious books, and so he became a paperback writer. Ben’s early pen names include Ben Elliott (his grandmother’s maiden name), who wrote Westerns for Ace; and Sam Webster, who wrote five books for Monarch. As Ken Barry he turned out racy paperback originals for Beacon with titles like The Love Itch and Executive Boudoir. But his agent was not happy about his decision to enter the western market, and suggested he represent himself on those sales. Ben had sent a trial novel to Harry Shorten of Tower Books. Ben’s family remembers it being A Hell of a Way to Die, written for Tower’s new Lassiter series. It was published in 1969, and editor Shorten told his new author to create a western series of his own. The result was Fargo.
The success of Fargo led to the Sundance series. Jim Sundance is a half-Cheyenne gunslinger who takes on the toughest jobs in order to raise funds to fight the corrupt Indian Ring back in Washington. The short-lived John Cutler series followed, and then perhaps Ben’s crowning achievement, the Rancho Bravo novels, published under the name Thorne Douglas.
Ben Haas died from a heart attack in New York City after attending a Literary Guild dinner in 1977. He was just fifty-one.
Fan favourite James Reasoner has hailed Ben as “one of the best action writers of all time”. In TWENTIETH CENTURY WESTERN WRITERS, David Whitehead wrote that Ben Haas “ranks among the most influential and under-rated Western writers of recent times… the hard-hitting adventures of Neal Fargo and Jim Sundance were largely responsible for creating the Western Series market virtually single-handed."
More on John Benteen
The Fargo Series by John Benteen
Fargo
Panama Gold
Alaska Steel
Apache Raiders
Massacre River
The Wildcatters
Wolf’s Head
Valley of Skulls
The Sharpshooters
The Black Bulls
Phantom Gunman
Killing Spree
Shotgun Man
Bandolero
Hell on Wheels
The Border Jumpers
Death Valley Gold
Killer’s Moon
The Texas Rangers
Dakota Badlands
… and ALL-NEW adventures still to come!
FARGO 20: DAKOTA BADLANDS
By John Benteen
First published by Belmont Tower in 1977
Copyright © 1977, 2017 by Benjamin L. Haas
First Smashwords Edition: December 2017
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover image © 2017 by Edward Martin
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.
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If you enjoyed the westerns of John Benteen, you may also enjoy the westerns of BEN BRIDGES and MIKE STOTTER:
BEN BRIDGES:
APACHERIA SERIES:
Apacheria
Lockwood’s Law
ASH COLTER SERIES:
Gunsmoke Legend
Ride the High Lines
Storm in the Saddle
COMPANY C SERIES:
Hit ’em Hard!
To the Death!
HELLER SERIES
Heller
Heller in the Rockies
JIM ALLISON SERIES:
Rattler Creek
Blood Canyon
Thunder Gorge
JUDGE AND DURY SERIES:
Hang ‘em All
Riding for Justice
Law of the Gun
Trial by Fire
Barbed Wire Noose
Judgment Day
MOVIE TIE-INS:
Day of the Gun
Bill Tilghman and the Outlaws
O’BRIEN SERIES:
The Silver Trail
Hard as Nails
Mexico Breakout
Hangman’s Noose
The Deadly Dollars
Squaw Man
North of the Border
Shoot to Kill
Hell for Leather
Marked for Death
Gunsmoke is Gray
Cold Steel
Mean as Hell
Draw Down the Lightning
Flame and Thunder
THREE GUNS WEST (Writing with Steve Hayes):
Three Rode Together
Three Ride Again
Hang Shadow Horse!
WESTERN LEGENDS (Writing with Steve Hayes):
The Oklahombres
The Plainsman
THE WILDE BOYS SERIES:
The Wilde Boys
Wilde Fire
> Wilde’s Law
Aces Wilde
STAND-ALONE WESTERNS:
Ride for the Rio!
Back With a Vengeance
Blaze of Glory
Tanner’s Guns
Coffin Creek
The Spurlock Gun
All Guns Blazing
Cannon for Hire
Montana Gunsmoke
Starpacker
Cougar Valley
SHORT STORIES:
Five Shots Left
MIKE STOTTER
McKINNEY WESTERNS:
McKinney’s Revenge
McKinney’s Law
BRANDON AND SLATE SERIES:
Tombstone Showdown
Tucson Justice
STAND ALONE WESTERNS:
Death in the Canyon
SHORT STORIES:
Six Trails West
