The Wildcatters

by John Benteen

  He passed through the gate, struck the road back to town. The sorrel loped along eagerly; Fargo kept his eyes moving, checking both sides of the road. No sign of trouble. Then, a half mile along, he tensed in the saddle, drew the rein.

  Ahead, two riders galloped toward him.

  Travelers, Fargo thought. But maybe not. He held the sorrel to a walk, ambled toward them. His right thumb was hooked in the sling of the double-barreled Fox.

  As they approached they slowed their pace. Fargo could make out the details of their appearance, and an alarm sounded in his head. The one on the right was big, massive, bearded. The other, on the left, was very slender, almost skin-and-bones. Both wore range clothes, and both slung revolvers at their hips. The skinny one also carried a Winchester across his saddle pommel.

  They drew up, blocked his passage along the road with their curveting horses. Fargo reined in.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m bound for Golconda. You mind letting me by?”

  The big man dropped his hand to his gun butt. “I don’t know,” he said. His voice was a deep growl, his eyes like two shiny black marbles. “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?” Fargo’s right thumb was still hooked in the shotgun sling; his left hand, holding the reins, rested on the saddle horn. Slowly, subtly, he neck-reined the sorrel so that it turned at an angle to the two men. Then he held it tight.

  The big, bearded man jerked his head. “You been out to the Erickson place?”

  “I don’t know if that’s any of your damn business.”

  “It’s Tull Brasher’s business. Sure, you can go on into Golconda. But we ride with you. Tull wants to see you.”

  “Friday send you?”

  “No. Tull did.”

  “Friday,” said Fargo, “would have known better. Go back and tell Tull I don’t need an escort. Tell him to keep his nose out of my business.”

  The skinny man chuckled, swinging the muzzle of the Winchester to cover Fargo. “People don’t talk to Brasher that way.” He jerked his head, too, but back toward Golconda. “You ride with us—straight to Tull.”

  “No,” said Fargo.

  “Don’t get hard with us,” the skinny one said. “Do you know something? There’s been a lot of trouble with highwaymen, road bandits, around this place. Got so nobody’s safe. We need law and order. Tull always says we got to have law and order in Golconda.”

  “It’s a good thing to have,” said Fargo. “Let me through.”

  The big man with the beard, Rafe, said, “You got ten seconds to shuck that hardware, Mister, and ride like a good boy with us to see Tull.”

  “And you got ten seconds to pull outa my road,” said Fargo.

  Rafe’s dark brows drew down. “All right, buddy, you wanna play. Georgie—”

  “Yah,” said the skinny man and the Winchester came up.

  In that instant Fargo jerked his thumb. The muzzles of the shotgun swung, upside down, beneath his arm, pointed forward. His left hand shot across his body, and the weapon jerked as his finger pulled a trigger. The full blast of nine buckshot caught not only Georgie, but, unfortunately, his horse. The horse fell dead, instantly, and Georgie flew backward out of the saddle under the impact of the rest of the slugs.

  Now Rafe drew. As his Colt came up, Fargo twisted in the saddle and pulled the other trigger. Again the shotgun made hoarse thunder. Rafe screamed, the sound short and choked off. A full blast peppered his head and chest, cutting him to ribbons. It missed his horse though. The bullet-slashed body fell backward across the rump, boots still hooked in stirrups. The animal laid back its ears and stampeded. Rafe’s Colt dropped into the dust.

  Fargo reined the sorrel around and galloped after Rafe’s bay, the body still bouncing limply in the saddle. The sorrel stretched itself, overtook the animal; Fargo leaned out, caught the bridle’s cheek strap, and jerked the terrified animal around. It calmed. One of Rafe’s feet slid loose from the wooden oxbow; his body twisted, dropped grotesquely, and dragged. Fargo led the bay back toward where Georgie lay sprawled across his dead mount.

  Fargo’s eyes swept the terrain; nobody else was in view. He unslung the shotgun, broke it, crammed in two fresh rounds, put it back in place. Then he dismounted, ground reining the steady sorrel. With some effort he picked up the bloody wreck that had been Georgie, slung it across Rafe’s bay, head and feet dangling. Then he unhooked Rafe’s foot from the stirrup, hoisted Rafe’s body into the same position. He was careful not to get blood on his clothes.

  He used the lariat from Georgie’s horse to lash the two corpses into place. Then he mounted up again. Leading the wall-eyed bay, he rode toward Golconda.

  ~*~

  Men stared at the cavalcade moving down the main street: Fargo on the sorrel, the bay with its pair of bodies. Fargo kept a straight face and rode up in front of the Drillers’ Rest. A crowd gathered as he hitched both horses to the rack after dismounting.

  Fargo said: “Who’s the law in this town?”

  “Well,” somebody blurted, “Clay Samson was, but—”

  The swinging doors of the saloon clashed. Then Ross Friday’s voice said: “What the hell—?”

  Fargo turned. Friday crossed the sidewalk, came down to stand by Fargo and the two horses. Fargo’s eyes narrowed as he saw what glittered on Friday’s shirtfront.

  “Something new?” he asked wryly.

  Friday looked at the bodies, then down at the badge. “Yeah. I’m City Marshal of Golconda now. Turned out Samson was the last one. I didn’t know when I plugged him that he was the law. But Tull always gives the badge to his top gun. Neal, what in hell have you got here?”

  “Couple of road-agents,” said Fargo easily. “They braced me outside of town, tried to rob me. If there’s any reward on ’em, I claim it.”

  Friday’s cold eyes met his, then went to the bodies. “That damn riot gun of yours?” he asked.

  ‘Yeah, I used the Fox.”

  Before Friday could answer, the doors of the Drillers’ Rest slammed again. Tull Brasher was there, in black. He stared at the corpses, head down. “What the hell—?”

  Friday turned. “Fargo ran into a couple of bandits, Tull.”

  Brasher’s face went red. “Bandits? They’re—” He broke off.

  Friday looked at him thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “Bound to be bandits. They braced Fargo on the high road. Only bandits would’ve done that—without me knowing about it. Right, Tull?”

  Brasher hesitated, then laughed softly. “I don’t know what they were, but they’re sure coyote bait now. All right, they were bandits. Where did you run into them, Fargo?”

  “On the road back from Curt Russell’s lease.”

  All the good humor went off Brasher’s face. ‘What were you doing out there?”

  “Why, we’re partners, now,” Fargo said. “Curt and me.”

  He heard Ross Friday’s indrawn breath. “Wait a minute, Neal. You’ve made up your mind? You’re not going to work for Tull?”

  Fargo shook his head. “Nope. Thought it all out. Believe the payoff will be bigger if I go in with Curt.”

  “You’ll get a payoff all right,” Brasher rasped, eyes suddenly full of rage. “But it won’t be the kind you’re figurin’ on. Stay clear of Russell, Fargo. He’s bad news.”

  “You threatenin’ me, Tull?” Fargo’s voice was gentle.

  “No. I’m just telling you. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll pay attention.” Brasher turned abruptly and went back into the saloon.

  Friday took out tobacco and papers, began to roll a smoke. “Neal,” he said gravely, “I hate—”

  “Don’t worry,” Fargo said. “You won’t have to roust me. I’m moving out of Golconda. Out of your jurisdiction.”

  “Russell’s place? You know better than that. Any place Tull don’t want you to be is my jurisdiction.”

  “That’s up to you and Tull. As I understand it now, though, I’ve got about thirty-six hours left in Golconda, according
to our talk this morning.”

  Friday hesitated. Then: “Yeah. Yeah, you got that much time here.”

  “I won’t need it all.”

  Suddenly, disgustedly, Friday threw the cigarette away without lighting it. “Don’t use any more of it than you can help. Maybe Tull will change his mind; maybe I’ll have to come after you earlier.”

  “You do and it’ll be bad, Ross, for one of us or the other.” Fargo gathered the reins of the sorrel. “You’ll take care of these stiffs?”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Obliged.” Fargo put his foot in the stirrup, mounted, and rode down the street to a rough-board building. Over the door a sign said: TELEGRAPH OFFICE. He was aware that his two wires would be sent to Tull Brasher as well as to their intended destinations. But he really didn’t give a damn.

  ~*~

  If Golconda boomed during the day, it exploded at night. Every driller and roughneck not working a tour—they pronounced it tower—on a rig hit the saloons and honky-tonks. The gamblers, pimps, whores and percentage girls were ready for them. As for law—that was a joke. It would have taken a company of soldiers to police Golconda and keep it tame; Ross Friday didn’t even make the effort.

  The telegraph office, like everything else in town, was open all night. When Fargo returned, answers to both his wires awaited. There was a shifty look in the eyes of the clerk. Fargo guessed that copies of both had already been sent to Brasher. Fargo grinned coldly as he read them.

  The first was from Oyster Bay, Long Island, New York: BANK DRAFT FOR YOUR LOAN MAILED TODAY. TWENTY THOUSAND ENOUGH? GOOD LUCK. COLONEL R.

  A certain warmth went through Fargo as he folded the slip of paper, put it in his pocket. He had not expected the Colonel to let him down, but twenty thousand was a lot of money. If this deal went sour, he would owe Roosevelt a job in repayment. And Roosevelt would undoubtedly have one for him: no longer in power, only a private citizen now, he still maneuvered affairs of state by the back door. Fargo had been in and out of that door more than once—with his guns on.

  He read the other wire: UNCLE JOHN CHECKED OUT, ALREADY BOUND FOR GOLCONDA STOP CONTACT HIM THERE. It was signed by the manager of Morris’ hotel in San Antonio, where Fargo had last seen him. Fargo’s grin widened. So Uncle John had scraped up some cash after all; he’d be in Golconda soon, pawing the dirt to get to work. That was fine; it would save some time.

  “Much obliged,” he told the clerk. “Hope Brasher gets as much kick out of these answers as I do.” Then he turned and walked out.

  Relieved by the news, Fargo went to drink and celebrate at the Drillers’ Rest. It would be the last time he’d be there for quite a while. In the morning, he’d move out to Russell’s.

  Entering, he was aware that all eyes fastened on him; word had gotten around town about his defiance of Brasher. He managed to find a place where his back was protected. He sipped his drink slowly, watching the traffic of the place.

  Tess Kendall’s girls were doing a land office business. Up and down the stairs, they went to the rooms on the second floor with burly, muddy oilmen in tow. Tess, Fargo thought, would be a rich woman before long. He felt a stirring in his loins. He wanted Tess. But she had decided to throw in with Brasher, too. All right, he did not blame her for that. She wanted Brasher’s money and she needed Brasher’s protection. Business was business. But he blamed Brasher, which, he thought, was one more thing between them.

  Fargo took a second drink. The babble in the place reached a crescendo as the night wore on. Poker, faro, blackjack, and craps were all under way in a room at the back. He was surprised that Tess was not there, dealing. She usually let her girls handle the trade while she ran a poker game. Maybe business was so good tonight—

  Then the uproar in the Drillers’ Rest was split by the high, shrill, terrified scream of a woman. “Damn you, Brasher, take your hands of her!” another woman yelled; and Fargo came up out of his chair like a panther. The woman screamed again, in pain, and Fargo ran for the stairs.

  He knocked men aside, took the steps three or four at a time. He came to the balcony that ran along the back of the room. The scream came again; this time broken off short, ending in a grunt of pain. The sound came from behind a door at the far end of the gallery. Fargo ran for it, threw his weight on it.

  Locked though it was, its flimsiness crashed beneath his sinewy weight. The door slammed inward. Drawing the Colt, Fargo leaped across the threshold. He halted, gun up, at the sight that met his eyes.

  It was no cubicle for ordinary customers; it was a nicely furnished bedroom: Tess’s, he knew immediately. On the double bed, naked to the waist, hands clasped across her breasts, sat Tess’s young niece, Maggie. Her eyes were wide with terror, her hair stranded down across her shoulders. Tess herself, a trickle of blood oozing from a cut lip, one eye already swelling shut, was crouched against the wall, snarling like a lioness. In the center of the room, fists clenched, Brasher stood, swaying with drunkenness, clad only in pants. His great torso was layered with fat, but nonetheless powerful, hairy. He blinked at Fargo in surprise. “You! Damn—”

  “Fargo,” husked Tess. “Thank God.”

  Fargo heard footsteps pounding on the stairs, the balcony. “What is this?” he rasped. “Quick!”

  “That louse—” Tess’ voice shook with hatred, her eyes gleamed with it as she stared at Brasher. “He broke in on Maggie, tried to ... to rape her. I caught him, he hit me. Get us outa here, Fargo! Both of us! I’m through!”

  “No!” Brasher gestured drunkenly to the girl on the bed. “She stays here. You, too, Tess. You my girls, you belong to me—”

  “Hell we do!” Tess snapped. She moved quickly across the room, whipped a blouse from a closet. “Put this on, honey—”

  Brasher grabbed her arm, pulled her around, slapped her with his open hand. “I said—!”

  In that instant, Fargo was across the room like a great cat. The gun barrel made an arc; the sound of its chopping into Brasher’s head was like an axe blade hitting hard wood. Brasher groaned, sank to his knees.

  Fargo whirled to menace the crowd that jammed the doorway with his Colt. “Back!” he snarled. “Back, all of you!” Then, to Tess: “All right, you want out of here, I’ll take you out. Get some clothes on her.”

  “No,” Brasher mumbled from the floor, dazed. Tess ignored him. She got a blouse on Maggie, fastened a couple of buttons. “Now my suitcase—” she began.

  “No time for that,” Fargo grated. “We’ll get your stuff later. Come on.”

  “All right. Come on, honey—” Tess put her arm around the dazed Maggie, led her to the door, walking wide around Brasher, who had slowly dropped into a sprawl. “We’re ready, Fargo.”

  Fargo grinned wolfishly at the crowd. “These ladies are leaving. I want everybody off this balcony, off the stairs. You hear? You got five seconds; then I start shootin’!”

  There was a stampede. In seconds, the balcony and stairs were cleared.

  Fargo led the way. The room below was deathly quiet as he and the two women walked along the balcony. The memory of those two corpses on the bay horse was fresh in the minds of the people down there. Now, Fargo thought, if only Ross Friday doesn’t show up, try to brace me …

  They made the length of the balcony, reached the stairs; no incident, the room still charged with that strange, tense hush. They went down the stairs. A lane cleared before Fargo, reaching from the foot of the stairs to the door. He wished desperately for the shotgun; if he only had the riot gun, no one would dare chance anything. But with only the pistol—some of Brasher’s gun hands were bound to be in this crowd. And he could not watch everybody at the same time.

  “Tess,” he snapped. “Turn around, walk backwards. Watch the rear. Holler if anybody tries anything—”

  Cool, experienced, she did as he bade, without question. This was the most tense and risky part of the escape; now—slowly, dominating the crowd with eyes and gun barrel, Fargo led the women along that lane toward the d
oor.

  Then, from above, Brasher’s thick voice rang out. “Stop ’em! Goddamnit, you men down there, stop ’em!”

  Fargo did not look around. Still that hush; now they were at the swinging doors. He half-turned, caught a glimpse of Brasher sagging against the doorjamb in the upstairs room. As he threatened the crowd with his Colt, the girls moved past Fargo; he heard the doors swing shut behind them. Fargo edged toward them, too.

  Then it came, seemingly from nowhere—a long, whistling, black-braided lash that coiled around Fargo’s Colt and jerked it from his hand, pulled it skittering across the floor. In that instant, a man laughed harshly, stepped out of the crowd into the open lane. He flipped the sixteen-foot bullwhip in his hand, its end uncurled from the Colt, its length popped along the floor with a sound like a pistol shot. “Yah, you didn’t count on Blacksnake Jorgenson, hah?”

  He was a huge, jut-jawed Swede, with pale eyes and a body like a huge block of granite. His thin lips twisted in cruel anticipation. “Jorgenson, he cut a mule to ribbons with a blacksnake, you know? Now, I cut you to little pieces, Mr. Fargo! I think Brasher pay me plenty then, hah? Get ready, Fargo!”

  And then like a thing alive, the long black lash snapped out, reaching, coiling, and Fargo felt a ring of fire encircle his shoulders. At the same instant, his hand went to his hip, came out with the Batangas knife. His wrist jerked as he flipped the catch; the twin hinged blades of buffalo horn swung back to expose ten inches of razor-sharp steel. Jorgenson saw it, his eyes glittered.

  “I take that away, too!” The whiplash drew back, shot out again. Fargo dodged; it missed the knife, but wrapped around his arm, pulled, threw him off balance. He hit the floor, aware of slashed shirt, chopped flesh, trickling blood. “Git him, Blacksnake!” Brasher yelled from above. “Chop him up! It’s worth a thousand.”