by John Benteen
The old man raised his head. “Handle nitro?”
“That’s right. Brasher’s five producing wells are right in the heart of Golconda, one, two, three, four, five, like that.” He held up five fingers. “I’m gonna blow ’em. And when they go, it’ll suck everybody in Golconda off. Then I’ll have a clear shot at Brasher and Ross Friday.”
“You can’t handle nitro,” the old man said. “It takes years of experience to handle such a bitch as that.”
“I’ll learn tonight, if you’ll show me,” Fargo said. “I’ve handled every goddamn thing else that’ll blow up.”
“But not nitro. It’s different.” Slowly, the old man arose. “No. Nobody knows how to handle the nitro but me.”
Fargo looked at him. “You’re tired, Uncle John.”
A new timbre came into the old man’s voice. “I ain’t that tired. You want to blow all five of Brasher’s wells?”
“That was my intention.”
The old man was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I been up the trail; I fought Comanches, I fought outlaws when I was with the Rangers; I fought Mexicans. I’ve blowed in wells and blowed out fires. I’m livin’ on borrowed time anyhow. And in all the time I’ve done that, I’ve never met a bastard like Brasher.” A fire kindled in his eyes as he looked at Fargo.
“You forget the nitro,” he said. “I’ll blow Brasher’s goddamn wells for you.”
Fargo was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Lin and his men could cover you.” He turned to Gordon. “You want to try it?”
Now it was Gordon’s turn to be silent. Presently, he asked: “Uncle John, I’ll trust your word, because I’ve known about you for years. How big is this field? How rich?”
“It’s the richest quarter section, this one we’re standin’ on, that I’ve ever seen in all my days,” the old man said. “The oil’s down there, Gordon.”
“And we get a cut, right Neal?”
“Right. Enough of a cut to make every one of you rich.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “It’s my land, and I’ll go along with that.”
Gordon stroked his long, sharp chin. After a moment, he said: “Then we’re in.”
“All right,” Fargo said promptly. “I want you and your men to travel with Uncle John. Protect him, make sure nobody blows his nitro too early. He’s an old hand, he’ll lead the way. He can find Brasher’s producing wells, and if you’ll knock down Brasher’s guards, he can blow them.”
“And where’ll you be?” Uncle John Morris asked.
“In Golconda,” said Fargo, and his grin was savage, wicked. “Occupying the attention of Brasher and Ross Friday.”
“You’ll need help,” Gordon said quickly.
“No,” said Fargo. “I’ve got my shotgun, my rifle, and my pistol. That’s all the help I’ll need. You blow Brasher’s wells, and I’ll tend to the rest.”
~*~
They took their time about getting started. Uncle John had to pack the nitroglycerin, and everybody stood well away while he did it. He packed each flask separately; there were only four left after the two he’d used in blowing up Friday’s ambush earlier; but Fargo had brought replacements from Tulsa.
Carefully, the old man packed one flask in each of five boxes, being finicky about the packing that held it in place. Then each box was lashed onto a mule or horse taken from the freight wagons Fargo had just brought in. With the string in a long line, Uncle John took the lead horse’s rope. “Everybody keep clear,” he said. “One of these critters stumbles, falls, we’ve had it.”
“What do you aim to do?” Gordon asked.
“It’s rough on the critters,” Uncle John said. “But each one of ’em is a walkin’ bomb. Now you got the idea? All I need is the gun hands to protect ’em.”
Fargo grinned. “It’s your baby.”
“Then let’s get started,” Uncle John said.
But before they left, just as Fargo was mounting up, Tess Kendall came to him. “Yes,” Fargo said, looking down at her.
He felt the points of her breasts through her dress, through his shirt. “For God’s sake, be careful.”
“I always am,” Fargo said, kissed her, and swung into the saddle, the slung shotgun bobbing, his bandoliers clanking.
There was no trouble on the way to Golconda. Brasher figured, Fargo assumed, that he’d made a clean sweep. A mile out of town, with the lights of the place glittering, the illuminated oil rigs looking like Christmas trees against the darkness, Fargo reined in. “All right, Lin,” he said. “Uncle John, swing out to the right. From here on, you’re on your own. I’m going down the main drag. I won’t have time to pay attention to what’s happening to you, and you better not bother about what’s happening to me.”
“Right,” said the old man. “We’ve got more to do than we can say grace over. You play your game, Fargo, we’ll play ours and we’ll all, God willin’, meet back at Lily’s.” He stuck out a work-roughened hand and Fargo took it. Then Fargo spurred the sorrel.
Just outside of town he reined it in to a trot. Unslinging the shotgun, he laid it across the saddlebow. He held it with his left hand. His right, letting the sorrel have its head except for the slightest grip on the reins, was on his thigh near the holstered .38 with its cylinder of notched bullets.
Golconda was all lit up, wide awake, blazing. It had streetlights, a rarity in a Western town, but these were fueled with otherwise useless natural gas drawn off from the oil wells; and over everything hung the rank odor of raw petroleum and raw gas. People thronged the sidewalks; Fargo, riding tensely, ready to use the shotgun whenever he had to, saw more than one pair of eyes widen, more than one mouth gape at the sight of him. At least two men that he saw hurried down the sidewalk toward the Drillers’ Rest, and Fargo grinned coldly.
Then he was opposite that saloon; he turned the sorrel toward the hitch-rack.
Even before he could swing down Ross Friday was there.
The man came out on the plank sidewalk, the two Smith & Wessons in holsters on each hip. He stopped, planted his feet wide, looked up at the mounted Fargo.
“Neal,” he said. “What are you doin’ here?”
Fargo grinned. He could have twitched his fingers on the triggers of the shotgun and blasted Friday into eternity. But he was not going to do that, and Friday knew he wasn’t.
“Why, Ross,” he said. “You told me when I came into Golconda it was going to be showdown.”
“And so it is,” said Friday. “If you don’t use that riot gun.”
“I don’t aim to,” said Fargo. It all fitted together. If he and Friday engaged in a gun duel, it would draw everybody in Golconda. Somewhere around the outskirts, Uncle John and his walking bombs were sneaking. The more attention he could divert from them, the better. And there was nothing like an old-time shoot-out to do that. Not even the guards, not even the drillers and the roughnecks on the wells, could resist the temptation of coming to witness that—if Friday gave him enough time for the word to get around.
Fargo swung down, easily, loosely. “I’ll tell you, Ross.” He let the shotgun dangle at his side. “I figured on putting the Fox out of circulation until you and me had it out. You know, we fought together so hard, so long, and I admired you so much, that it hit me that I’d never rest easy until I tried you.”
Friday smiled.
“I always felt the same about you, Neal, deep down inside.”
“But it’s got to be even up,” Fargo said. “Nobody else. You can have both guns if you want to. One’s enough for me.”
“I only wear the second one to impress people,” Friday said. “If I can’t kill you with the first one, I sure as hell ain’t going to do it with the second.”
“That’s the way I figure it,” said Fargo. “Now. How we gonna work it?”
“Why,” said Friday, “I imagine you’re thirsty and would like a drink.”
“I figure on having one.”
Friday gestured to the Drillers’ Rest, the star on his chest glea
ming in the lamplight. “Go ahead, Neal. I’ll wander up the street, have a cup of coffee. When shall we meet?”
Fargo thumbed from his pants a heavy gold watch—a railroad watch, remorselessly accurate. “Oh ... twenty minutes?”
Friday took out his own watch, compared its time with Fargo’s. “All right,” he said. “In twenty minutes, I come out of the Chinaman’s. I expect to see you come out of the Rest.”
“I’ll be there,” Fargo jerked his head toward the saloon. “Brasher inside?”
“Yeah.” Then Friday said, “I reckon I better go in with you, speak to him. I don’t want him on your back. I want this between me and you.”
They entered the saloon together. Brasher was at the bar, and Fargo did not recognize the girl in the lowcut dress with him until she turned around. Then he halted. “Hello, Maggie. You collecting your pay now?”
She looked at him defiantly. “You had your chance with me,” she said. “You wouldn’t take it. Don’t blame me if I made a deal with Tull. I told you—I don’t intend to be poor again.”
“I see,” murmured Fargo.
Then Brasher growled, hand near his hip, “What do you want, Fargo?”
“I think you know,” Fargo said. “I came back from Tulsa to find our well blown up.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Brasher said easily. “But I’ll tell you this. If I was you, I wouldn’t try to spud in again out there. The next one might blow up, too.” Then his eyes went to Friday. “Ross, where do you stand in this?”
“Fargo and I have got something to settle. We’re going to settle it out there on the street—the two of us. I told him not to come back to town.”
Brasher stared. “Showdown?”
“Showdown,” Friday said. “And, Tull, I want it to be an even break; I don’t want you on his back.”
Brasher was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It’s your affair, Ross. You take him. Make sure you do. You got a free hand, both of you.” Suddenly he chuckled. “Hell. Have a drink, Fargo. It’ll be your last one, so it’s on the house. Come on, Maggie honey. We’ll go upstairs and watch it from a window. It might be the last shootout like this in the whole damned West!”
Maggie looked at Fargo savagely. “Kill him, Friday,” she said, and she and Brasher turned away.
Friday eyed the shotgun on Fargo’s shoulder. “What about that riot gun? You’re not going to use it against me.”
“No. But I’m not going to turn loose of it in Brasher’s town. It’s you, me, and pistols.”
“The way it ought to be,” said Friday easily. “See you later, Neal.” And he went out.
Fargo had his drink, made it last. He felt a curious sense of unreality. As Brasher had said, it might be the last, this shootout. The West was fading rapidly, and maybe he and Friday and men of their stripe were fading with it. Then he snorted in self-derision.
No. Maybe not here, but somewhere in the world there would always be work for men like them—professionals. But for now he had to think about surviving, being smarter, faster, than his adversary.
Still, in a measure, Brasher was right. The law was closing in, and this might be the last time two gunmen faced each other in such a showdown.
Fargo nursed the drink carefully, finished it at last, and took out the railroad watch.
It was time to go.
He turned to the swinging doors, pushed through them. Outside, on the walk, he hesitated, looking up and down the street. The sidewalks were crowded. Every man in Golconda had decided to risk a stray bullet in order to see the battle.
Fargo grinned. The more that were here, the clearer field Uncle John Morris had.
He stepped out into the flickeringly lit, dusty street, loosening the .38 in its holster. He was going to have to be fast, very fast. That spring-clip, double-action rig of Friday’s was most efficient.
But there was a trick to it all. The kind of trick experienced gunfighters knew. It was a matter of range and a matter of aim. The fastest draw did not necessarily win. At close range, that spring-clip rig could be deadly; but at thirty yards, the man with the most accurate aim would win. The trick was not to get too close to Friday, not to give him the advantage of being able to shoot from the hip
Fargo turned, looked north.
Up there, the door of the Chinaman’s restaurant opened; Ross Friday came out, stepped down off the walk. With his hands dangling at his sides, he moved slowly south, his gait cat-like, unhurried.
Fargo walked north.
Windows on either side of the street were crowded. People jammed the sidewalks. Their drawn breaths made a sound like the wind in pines.
All of Fargo’s consciousness was now focused on the oncoming Friday. He forgot everybody and everything else in the world. To him, this was better than anything; better than women, better than drink, better than money. This was the supreme adventure. In this moment he was totally alive in a way that most men never knew. Live or die, this moment of intensity was worth it. His whole body was like a finely tuned instrument, a perfect mechanism that would respond instinctively and accurately when the time came. Friday, he knew, felt exactly the same.
Step by step, they moved toward each other; Friday’s small figure grew larger; the range closed. A hundred and fifty yards, a hundred, seventy-five ... Fargo saw that Friday had removed the badge from his coat. Probably had written a resignation. That was the way Ross did things; if Fargo got him, there would be no trouble over Fargo’s having killed a peace officer.
In Friday’s place, Fargo would have done the same thing.
Fifty yards now. The orange gas light flickered, played, over the two men, cast weird shadows on the street; it would be tricky shooting. And it could come at any time. Forty ...
Fargo paid no attention to Friday’s hands. He kept his eyes focused on Friday’s face, watched the man’s eyes. His own face was carefully expressionless, his own eyes deliberately cold and dead.
Thirty-five yards ... Friday still came on, with short, small steps, his body loose and easy. Fargo moved on too. Thirty yards, and it had to come soon, in seconds-Eighty feet, seventy, sixty ... Then, as if in a dream, it happened. All in a clock-tick, a fraction of a second, but to Fargo it seemed to take place in slow motion. Friday’s eyes flickered; and Fargo’s hand moved. He felt it clasp the butt of the .38, drag it with what seemed excruciating slowness from leather, bring it into line. At the same instant he stepped aside. There was no difference in the speed of their draws, but the spring clip holster gave Friday a faint, crucial edge in the time it took the gun barrel to clear. As his Smith & Wesson sprang free, Friday fired from the hip.
If Fargo hadn’t sidestepped, he would have been dead. Friday’s bullet slapped past, not an inch from his body. In the heartbeat of time it took Friday to realize he’d missed, Fargo brought the Colt down into line for aimed fire.
Understanding what had happened, Friday shifted stance, took aim for his second shot. But he was too late. Fargo’s gun barrel tracked him and Fargo pulled the trigger. The notched bullet slammed into Friday’s chest, expanded with terrible impact, and hammered Friday flat on his back into the dust. Friday’s Smith & Wesson went off as he landed, its bullet plowed into the dirt as it rolled from his hand. His booted feet kicked once. Ross Friday was dead.
Still caught up in that dream-like sensation, Fargo stood motionless, looking at the body of the man who would have killed him. He knew there was no need for a second shot; his marksman’s instinct told him that the first shot had gone exactly where aimed. Yet, instinctively, he kept the gun pointed at Friday’s body as he moved forward slowly.
Fargo stood over Friday, looking down. He remained like that for a long minute, then let out a gusty sigh and holstered the gun. It had been quick, clean; Ross Friday had not felt a thing.
Fargo turned to walk back down the street. Then he snapped out of the dream. He saw the town again, lights blazing, saw the lighted derricks against the sky. He saw the sidewalks cleared almost magic
ally of bystanders. And he saw Tull Brasher, too, with a dozen men ranged behind him. They all had guns drawn at Fargo. Brasher himself held a Colt in each hand, not twenty feet from Fargo.
“Stand fast,” he said, grinning coldly. “You make one move toward that riot gun and you’re a dead man. Get those hands up.”
“A double cross,” Fargo said. “You promised Friday—”
“I promised him nothing except I’d give him a chance to kill you fair and square. He didn’t do it. Now you get it my way. Raise your hands and keep ’em raised.”
There was no way out. He could fire the shotgun into that dead drop, but he would not survive the fire they would unleash at the same instant. Reading his death warrant in Brasher’s eyes, Fargo slowly raised his hands.
“That’s better,” Brasher said. The lights of the streetlamps flickered and glared on his ruddy face. He raised one Colt, centered it on Fargo’s chest.
“You’ve got a hundred witnesses,” Fargo said. He was stalling for time, desperately. “More. All to swear to this murder.”
“Not a murder. An execution. For killing our marshal.” Brasher was still grinning. “These are my people, Fargo, my town; I own ’em all. I don’t have to worry about anything I do. And I’m fed up with you, plumb fed up. Now, you’re finished. Now, you—”
Then everything happened at once. The very earth under their feet rolled, shook. There was a tremendous, thundering explosion, directly behind the Drillers’ Rest. Every light on the street blinked off. Flame from Brasher’s guns lanced the darkness. And Fargo, with the quickness of a cat, threw himself to one side, heard the rip of lead go past, loosed both barrels of the shotgun toward the gun flashes.
Men screamed. There was no time to reload the shotgun; Fargo drew his Colt. At the same moment, another explosion, then another and another and another. The ground rolled as if with earthquake. Hard on the echo of the blowing nitro came a loud, strange, sullen rumble. Guns flared, and bullets sliced the darkness around Fargo. He threw himself flat. Then the oil came.
