The Phantom Gunman (A Neal Fargo Adventure. Book 11)

by John Benteen

  Some folks swore that glory-seeking Pat Garrett never did gun down Billy the Kid in that darkened adobe house in New Mexico. Fargo never thought about it one way or the other, until a man with foxy eyes backed his argument with $25,000. For that kind of money, Fargo hoped Billy was alive and well, because his job was to kill the Kid all over again … and to make sure that, this time, he stayed dead.

  PHANTOM GUNMAN

  FARGO 11

  By John Benteen

  First published by Belmont Tower in 1971

  Copyright © 1971, 2016 by Benjamin L. Haas

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2016

  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 © 2016 by Edward Martin

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  This book is for Jim Henderson, who rode all across Lincoln County with its author.

  Chapter One

  It was hot in the adobe hut. Sweat ran down Fargo’s flanks as he began to dress.

  The girl, Luz, looked at him from the bed, cover thrown with a certain modesty across her naked body. “Where do you go?”

  Fargo picked up the tequila bottle on the table, shook it. The bottle was empty. “There are only two things to do in a place like this. We just did one of ’em. So I’m going to get another bottle.”

  She frowned. “You drink too much.”

  Fargo did not answer that. He was a big man, better than six feet tall, wide in the shoulders, deep in the chest, narrow in the hips. Although he was only in his early thirties, his hair, close-cropped, had gone prematurely snow white, a sharp contrast to the sun browned face beneath it, which was the color of saddle leather. It was a face of astonishing ugliness, its nose broken more than once, chin and cheekbones craggy, mouth wide and thin, one ear slightly cauliflowered from days when he had fought in the prize ring. It was a hard, forbidding face, and yet something about it drew women’s eyes. For most of his life, Fargo had been a professional fighting man and soldier of fortune, and every brutal year of his career had left its record on that countenance.

  Now he finished buttoning khaki shirt over a torso rippling with muscle and scarred with old wounds. He had already donned canvas pants over high-topped, dusty cavalry boots. From the table, he took a battered old U.S. Army campaign hat, broad-brimmed and peak-crowned, and clamped it on his head at a jaunty angle.

  Still, he was not fully dressed, never was without a gun. The .38 Colt Officer’s Model revolver hung in its holster from a cartridge-studded belt draped over the chair. He adjusted the belt around his flat belly, seated the scabbard, instinctively loosened the gun. His eyes flickered to the corner of the room, where he had stacked his Winchester and his sawed-off shotgun. But even though Mexico in 1910 was coming apart at the seams, wracked with banditry and revolution, it did not seem necessary to lug all that hardware across the plaza of a little Chihuahua village just to go to the cantina.

  “Back in a minute,” he said, and went out into the blinding sun.

  The heat and glare did not bother him. He’d been in Cuba with Roosevelt’s Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War. Afterwards, he’d served in the cavalry in the newly acquired Philippines. Since then, he’d fought in one small war after another all through Central America. In between, he’d punched cows, worked in mines and oil fields, logged big timber in the Northwest, tried his hand in Alaska. Besides the stint in the prize ring, he’d put in time as a professional gambler, had once, even when down on his luck, been bouncer in a Louisiana whorehouse. To a man like him, who had spent most of his life in lonesome, dangerous places, climate did not matter.

  Rosarita was only a scattering of adobe huts around a dusty center, high in the desert a hundred miles from the Rio. There were times when a man needed rest: the wound he had picked up in Central America a few months before had not been minor, and neither had the malaria. This had been a good place to loaf and heal, although he knew he’d never get the malaria completely out of his system.

  Anyhow, the people here were his friends, the tequila was cheap, and Luz, the young widow of an old man recently dead, had looked after him well in every respect. Still, it was getting close to time to go back to work. Head north, cross the Rio, see what jobs were opening up for fighting men. There was always gunrunning, if he could lay his hands on a little capital...

  It was siesta time and the plaza was deserted. The cantina was closed, and Fargo knocked loudly on the door. Presently, Francisco Ramirez, the proprietor, opened up. Paunchy, hair tousled, he blinked at Fargo with sleepy eyes; then the irritation on his face vanished. Ramirez had not forgotten a certain incident a few years before, when a bunch of wandering pistoleros had ridden into this village when Fargo happened to be there. The bandits had tried to pick the place clean of money and women, including Ramirez’s pretty daughter. Fargo had led the villagers’ counterattack against them; and, for a time, the buzzards and coyotes had feasted well around Rosarita on bodies dragged out into the desert and abandoned there. “Ah, Neal,” Ramirez grunted. “Come in.”

  The bar was small, dirt-floored, cool after the heat outside. Ramirez padded behind the counter. “What’ll you have?”

  “Shot of tequila, bottle to go.”

  “Si.” Ramirez poured the drink, set out lime and salt. Fargo leaned against the bar lazily, tossing off the first drink, sipping another. Then he straightened up, all the slack gone from his body and his posture. Outside, in the plaza, a dog was suddenly barking furiously.

  Fargo went to the door, edged it open. He stared at the two riders putting their horses into the plaza at its far end. Both were Americans, one tall and lean, the other short and dumpy. The short one looked innocuous, harmless, but, Fargo saw immediately, the tall one had gunman written all over him.

  He closed the door again. Ramirez, having looked over his shoulder, frowned. “Two Anglos here? Why? Neal. Do they come for you?”

  Fargo’s eyes, gray and cool, narrowed as he shook his head. “No reason why. I’m not wanted by the law anywhere. Hell, nobody even knows I’m here.” All the same, as he went back to the bar, he touched the Colt again, making sure it was loose in its leather.

  Bit chains jingled and saddles squeaked as the horses were reined up outside the cantina. Fargo faced the door, a drink in his left hand, his right dangling by his gun. “By God,” somebody said outside, in English, “at least we kin git a drink. My throat’s full of alkali.”

  “No. No, Brazos. If he’s here, you don’t want booze in you when you go up against him!”

  “The hell with that! Booze or no, I’ll do what I’m paid to do. And don’t get in my way, Miller.”

  There was fear, mingled with exasperation, in the answer. “Suit yourself, then, Brazos. It’s your hide.”

  Boots thudded on the hard-packed clay. The door scraped open; then they were there. Fargo took advantage of the second when they had paused just inside to accustom their eyes to dimness after sun glare to scrutinize them closer.

  The tall one had narrow shoulders, long arms, big hands. Beneath his flat-crowned hat, his face was cadaverous, his eyes slits of green. Fa
rgo’s gaze, flicking over dirty range clothes, halted at the two low-slung Colt .45’s, their holsters tied down with rawhide. Slowly, carefully, Fargo set down his glass.

  Then their vision had cleared, and the green eyes widened a little in that vulture’s face. The tall one, Brazos, came a couple of paces farther into the room. The short one dodged from behind him toward a corner. He was middle-aged, his face reddened with sun, but not tanned; and he was sweating profusely. Unless he carried a hide-out somewhere, he was unarmed.

  “Gentlemen,” Fargo said thinly, “Come in, have a drink.”

  Brazos smiled, his mouth almost lipless. “Don’t mind if I do.” He came to the bar. “Tequila.” His voice was high and raspy. “Miller? What’ll you have?”

  “N-nothing. Nothing right now.” Miller’s voice trembled a little.

  “Serve the man, Pancho,” Fargo said to Ramirez. “Norteamericanos. You’re a long way from home.”

  “You, too,” Brazos said. Fargo noticed little brass-headed tacks driven into the cedar butts of his guns. Ten of them, anyhow. He knew what they stood for. Brazos took the drink Ramirez poured, tossed it off, sighed.

  Meanwhile, Fargo waited. The atmosphere of the room was taut, almost crackling, with impending violence. To Fargo, nothing about this made sense, but he was certain now that Brazos had come here looking for him and meant to kill him if he could, and that he would have to kill Brazos instead to stay alive. But why? There were no rewards out for him, and though he had enemies aplenty, he knew of none who would not have come after him in person instead of sending a hired gun.

  Brazos motioned for another drink. “Many other Anglos in town?”

  “I’m the only one,” Fargo said.

  “Well,” said Brazos. “You hear that, Miller? That makes it simple. We didn’t even have to look for him.” His eyes came back to Fargo. “I reckon your name is Neal Fargo.”

  “It is that,” Fargo said.

  “Fine. You’ve saved me a lot of time,” said Brazos and he moved slightly away from the bar. “You see, Fargo, a man’s paying me a lot of money to kill you.”

  “Then you ought to have come at night. Quiet. Taken me by surprise and bushwhacked me.”

  “Yeah. Would make more sense that way. But that ain’t the way the man that hired me wants it. He laid down the condition that I had to take you in a stand-up gunfight. Well, for two thousand bucks, he gets what he wants.”

  “You work cheap,” Fargo said, contempt plain in his voice. “I hope you got paid in advance, so you can spend it in hell.”

  Brazos laughed. “Actually, I aim to spend it in El Paso. Got a gal there. You really are Neal Fargo?”

  “Sure as chalk’s white.” Then Fargo added: “Ramirez. Cover Miller.”

  “Don’t worry about Miller.” Brazos took a step backwards. “He’s just along to make sure I do what I’m paid to. He’s got no guns, ain’t in this.”

  Fargo stood with hands at his sides. “Least you can do is tell me who sent you.”

  “A man named Selman.”

  “I don’t know any Selman.” He was, in that moment, outwardly cool, inwardly he was taut and poised and feeling a strange kind of happiness. Until now he’d not realized how bored he’d become in Rosarita. He needed fighting, danger, the way a hophead needs his drugs. “I don’t know you, either.”

  “Brazos Keller. They know me in the oil fields. There’s still plenty of action there, and I’ve been up against the best there is. Of course, they say you’re good, too. We’ll soon find out.” Then, without changing expression or his tone of voice, Keller drew.

  He was fast, all right. His right hand flashed down in a blur. He was so fast, in fact, that he had his gun completely clear of leather before Fargo shot him through the chest.

  Fargo’s Colt was loaded with hollow-points. Such slugs expanded, fragmented almost explosively, in flesh; and two of them were enough to pick Keller’s body off its feet and throw it backwards through the door. Keller landed half in, half out of the cantina, and did not move; he was dead before his body struck the ground.

  Fargo did not waste a glance on him, whirled instead and trained the Colt on Miller.

  The smaller man’s face was paper-white, mouth slack and gaping. “Jesus,” he whispered. “I never even saw you draw.” Then, frantically, his hands shot above his head. “For God’s sake, Mr. Fargo, don’t shoot me! I’m your friend, not your enemy! That’s why I’m here! Because, by killin’ Keller, you just earned yourself a chance to make twenty-five thousand dollars!”

  Chapter Two

  Luz had cried when Fargo had ridden out of Rosarita. It had bothered him a little, but not much. Besides, that had been days ago, and she was forgotten now.

  The ranch was in the lush Rio Grande valley near Ysleta, east of El Paso. The house was huge, at the end of a long graveled drive flanked on either side with rows of enormous cottonwoods, a sprawling mansion adorned with all the curlicues and gimcracks, the towers and turrets, of the kind of architecture that had been popular before the turn of the century. The tires of the buggy crunched on stone as Miller popped the reins down on the horse’s rump and it increased its gait. Beside him sat Fargo, clad in white shirt and tie, a corduroy jacket concealing the .38 which now rode in a shoulder holster, neatly creased pants, and cavalry boots polished and gleaming.

  As they neared the house, his mind went back to the interior of the little cantina in that Mexican village. The air in the room had been sharp with gunsmoke as he’d stared at the trembling Miller. “What? What’s that you said?”

  “I mean it,” Miller had chattered. “Honest to God, Mr. Fargo, that was my orders. If you killed Brazos Keller, I was to bring you to Mr. Selman in El Paso. Because he’s got a job for you, and it pays twenty-five thousand dollars!”

  Fargo did not lower the gun. Then, presently, he understood and turned his head to look at the body in the doorway. “So he was a test, eh?”

  “That’s right, sir, absolutely right. Mr. Selman goes about things in a funny way. He hired Keller because Brazos was the fastest man he could find in Texas and sent me here with him to find you. Keller was to go against you in a stand-up fight. If he killed you, he got two thousand dollars. If you killed him, I was to bring you to Mr. Selman. It’s a job he needed a man faster than Keller for.”

  Slowly Fargo holstered the gun. “Who’s Selman?”

  “You never heard of Thad Selman? One of the richest men in Texas. Selman Land, Cattle, Mining Company: into everything! And he never buys anything but the best, never hires anybody but the best.”

  Fargo grinned coldly. “You don’t look so hot to me.”

  “I’m no gunman, but when it comes to finding out things, well, it was me got the lead on where you were. Ran down all the information on you for him, about how your parents were killed by Apaches in New Mexico when you were a kid, how another couple took you in, worked you like a slave, you cut out when you were twelve, never came back.”

  “I know where I’ve been and what I’ve done.” Fargo’s voice cut off the flow of words.

  “Yeah, sure. Well, you’re everything they said you were, all right. When can you leave for El Paso with me?”

  “Who said I was going? That’s a long way and my time’s valuable. Suppose Selman and I don’t come to terms about this fancy job of his? Sometimes I’m particular what I do. Then I’ve wasted a couple of weeks.”

  Miller managed to smile. “You don’t know how Mr. Selman’s mind works. He thinks of everything. The two thousand I was to pay Keller is your travel money, whether you take the job or not.”

  “Well,” Fargo said. “Well, now, that puts a different light on things.”

  Miller relaxed a little. “You’ll go?”

  Fargo nodded. “I’ll go. This Selman sounds like a son of a bitch, but he does business in a way I can understand.”

  ~*~

  So they had ridden for the railroad from Chihuahua City to Ojinaga, sold their horses, and taken the train. In Pres
idio, across the river from the Mexican rail terminal, Fargo reclaimed an enormous trunk he had checked with the express agent there. Into this he packed most of his weapons and from it took town clothes. There wasn’t much to Presidio, but it offered American whiskey, poker tables, and white women, and Fargo took a day to enjoy them all, in defiance of Miller, who was not so much impatient with the delay as frightened by it. Then the train to El Paso, and now, Fargo thought with a certain curiosity as the buggy stopped before the house, he was about to meet the man whose idea of hiring you for a job was to try to kill you first.

  A Mexican servant took the horse. “Let’s go,” Miller said, jumping out of the vehicle. “We’re late already and Mr. Selman’ll be pawing the ground.” Fargo followed him up the steps and into the mansion. Miller led him from a big foyer down a long, carpeted hall, then stopped before a mahogany door. Sweat beaded his face as he knocked. From within, a voice growled: “Come in, dammit.” Miller opened the door and they entered a large room cluttered with files and papers. There were maps on the wall of sections and quarter sections, townships and claims. Behind a roll top desk in the center sat the man named Selman.

  He was in his middle sixties, a hulking, raw-boned giant of a man with a shag of iron gray hair. His face was tanned, its cheeks mottled with networks of fine blue veins, mark of a heavy drinker. His eyes were blue, too, and cold as chips of ice, his nose huge and gross, his mouth hard and humorless. He wore a black linen suit, and its right sleeve, empty, had been folded up and pinned; the arm that should have filled it was gone.

  “So you finally got here.” His voice was deep. “You’re a day late. What the hell’s your excuse?”

  Before Miller could answer, Fargo said: “Don’t chew on him. I took a day in Presidio to see the elephant.”

  Those ice-chip eyes concentrated their gaze on him. “You ain’t Keller. So you must be Fargo.”

  “I’m Fargo.”

  “Then Keller’s dead.”

  “Right,” said Fargo.