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

by John Benteen

  He stood there a moment longer, looking at them, feeling the weight of their hostility and suspicion. “If there’s a doctor in town,” he said, stepping over Savitts’ spraddled legs, “maybe he’d like to take a look at this thing.” He gestured toward the sprawled body; then, turning his back on all of them, he went out of the saloon.

  Chapter Four

  Fargo’s left hand wasn’t broken, but it would be useless for a good twenty-four hours. Back in his hotel room, he soaked it in hot brine, his only consolation the fact that Savitts would be out of action for a much longer spell. Meanwhile, the bounty hunter had done more damage with his mouth than with his fists.

  Hunting the Kid here in Lincoln County was like going into heavy brush after a rogue grizzly, something Fargo had done more than once. When you were after smart, deadly game like that, you didn’t stomp around and shoot off your mouth and wave your gun. You went slow and easy and kept your eyes open and were ready for anything—and made sure you saw your game before it saw you. Because, if you didn’t, it just might appear from nowhere and tear your head off before you even knew it was there. Billy Bonney wasn’t nearly as big as a grizzly, but he was a lot more dangerous, and this was his home grounds: he knew this country the way a bear knew his own private territory.

  He would know, now, too, that the hunter was after him. And he would do one of two things: either go to earth where he could not be found—or set out to get Fargo before Fargo got him. Either way, things were not going to be as Fargo wanted them.

  Well, he thought, drying the hand, there was no help for that now. Nothing to do but play the cards as they fell. Meanwhile, his stomach growled with emptiness. He was a marked man on the streets of Carrizozo now, but he still had to have something to eat.

  Under the circumstances, he thought it better to wear the Colt on his hip. He could clear leather just a shade faster that way, and Lincoln County was not a place to be slow on the draw. When he had transferred it from the shoulder holster, he left the room, went out to the street. In the west, the low rays of last sunlight emphasized the black streak of the jumbled lava malpais, a long narrow badlands of naked rock, a few miles away. There was, he guessed, maybe an hour of daylight left.

  He had already spotted a restaurant half a block down the street. He cast a wary eye around, saw nothing to alarm him and made for it. But he’d taken only a half dozen long strides before he stopped short. From the south came the drum roll of hoof beats: a dozen horses running hard.

  Fargo stepped into the lee of an alley, let his hand drop to the gun’s butt. Then the riders swept around a corner and into view, pounding down the main street of the town. Fargo stared at them—and at the woman who rode in their lead.

  She was not tall, and her hair shone silver beneath her hat in the dying light. She wore a leather jacket, white blouse, divided leather skirt, sat her tall bay expertly, back straight, head high. And, he saw, there was a Winchester in a saddle scabbard beneath her right leg. This, he realized at once, had to be Sue McSween Barber; and the hard-bitten bunch behind her were her Tres Rios cowboys.

  From his hiding place, he watched them sweep by. Every one of them was armed, and none of them looked like men it would be healthy to tangle with. Sue Barber ran a tough crew. But, from the glimpse of her that Fargo had as she passed, he thought that she was probably, in her own way, tougher than any of them. There were not many men alive who had seen as much gunplay in their time as she had.

  And, he thought, in the old days Billy the Kid had been her husband’s top gun. If he had come back to Lincoln, she and all her riders would doubtless be on his side. A rough bunch to buck, but only part of the odds he would be up against now that Savitts had shot off his mouth.

  They were past, now, and out of sight again, probably bound for the general store down at the crossroads that was the real heart of town. Fargo stepped out of the alley, went on to the restaurant. He would just as soon eat and get out of their way before they came back to begin tearing Carrizozo apart on their payday spree.

  The restaurant was crowded, but he managed to get a small table in one corner. He was aware of curious eyes on him, and some that were more than curious, resentful, full of enmity. No doubt about it. Everybody in Carrizozo knew him now.

  He smiled without any humor, met their gazes and took a certain small satisfaction in watching them shuttle away. When the waitress came, he ordered steak and potatoes and black coffee; and when it was brought, he ate with good appetite, but alert to all the comings and goings in the room.

  When Sue McSween Barber, trailed by a couple of tall, gun-hung cowhands, entered the place and halted, he knew at once who she was looking for.

  Fargo laid down his fork. His hand moved beneath the table, loosening the Colt in its holster. Then she was coming toward him. Despite the leather skirt and riding boots, her walk was graceful, wholly feminine. Sixty-five, Cathy had said. But if she had been thirty years younger, Fargo thought, looking at her admiringly...

  Then she stood over him. Her face was small-featured and delicate, deeply tanned, but her brown eyes were bold and commanding. “Excuse me,” she said. “You must be Mr. Fargo.”

  He pushed back the chair, stood up. “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes went from her to the two men behind her. They were young, husky, and had the look of knowing what to do with the hardware in their holsters. Their faces were grim as they sized him up at the same time.

  “I wonder if we might talk for a few minutes,” she went on. “I’m Sue McSween Barber.”

  “Sure,” Fargo said. “But do we need all this company?”

  She smiled, but only with her mouth. “My men aren’t going to harm anybody unless somebody tries to harm me. This is Tom Whitfield, my foreman; Sam Brewer, his segundo. Gentlemen, Mr. Fargo.”

  Whitfield had sandy hair, blue eyes, was as tall as Fargo. Brewer was shorter, darker. Neither was over thirty. And neither put out a hand or smiled. “They might be little angels,” Fargo said thinly, “but I don’t talk good when I’ve got to watch a couple of pistoleros while I do it. It makes me nervous.”

  She was looking at him with cool appraisal and great interest. “I think you’re a man I’d hate to get nervous. All right, Tom, Sam. Go have yourselves a drink.”

  Whitfield shook his head. “Now, listen, Miss Sue—”

  “I gave you an order,” she said, in a voice as hard as flint.

  Whitfield sighed, gave Fargo one last threatening look. Then he grunted something at Brewer and they went out.

  Fargo held a chair for the woman. “Sit down.”

  “Thank you.” When he had seated himself opposite her, she said, “I hear you had a fight with a man named Savitts. And didn’t leave much of him.”

  Fargo shrugged. “I hear something else, too,” she said, and she looked at him directly, meaningfully. Then she said, “All right, Mr. Fargo. How much is Selman paying you to start the Lincoln County War up again?”

  Fargo sat rigidly for a second. Then he answered smoothly, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. Savitts accused you of coming here to find Billy Bonney and kill him. You hit him for that. To shut him up.”

  “The way I always heard it, Billy Bonney’s been dead for thirty years.”

  She nodded, without expression on her face. “Of course he has.”

  “Then it would be kind of a waste of time for me to come here looking for him, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Then she added, “It might also be fatal.”

  Fargo did not answer that. He took out a cigar. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Please do.”

  He took his time about lighting it. When he had exhaled smoke, he said, “Mrs. Barber, I don’t like to be threatened. Savitts threatened me. That’s why I hit him.”

  Her mouth thinned now. “Mr. Fargo, I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve heard of you before now, and I know what kind of man you are. You’ve got a reason for being in Lincoln County and it has something to do with g
uns and money, because guns are what you work with and money’s all that means anything to you. Let’s both agree, then, that Billy the Kid’s been dead for thirty years. You can still cause plenty of trouble in Lincoln County by spreading the rumor that he’s alive. Maybe more trouble than you can handle. If you’re smart, you’ll go back to Selman and tell him you’ve changed your mind about the job.”

  “Selman,” Fargo murmured. “That’s twice you’ve said that name.”

  “It’s not a name that has a pleasant sound here in Lincoln County. It’s a name that’s been hated here for thirty years. Or maybe you never heard of Selman’s Scouts.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “I haven’t.”

  “A bunch of outlaws, rustlers, gunmen—and rapists.” Her voice was bitter. “The Rangers chased them out of Texas and they came here because the law had broken down. They were animals, Mr. Fargo, beasts! They were too brutal even for Dolan and his faction! Toward the closing days of the war, they rode roughshod all over the county. No man was safe, nor his home, nor his goods, nor his wife or daughter. Even when Pat Garrett became sheriff, he couldn’t deal with them. He tried, but they were too much for him.”

  “So?”

  “Their leader was a man who called himself John Selman. But he was a great one for aliases, he also called himself John Gunter and John Gross. He changed his name a lot more often than he changed his shirt. But whatever he called himself, he was a swine.”

  “And what happened to this swine?” Fargo asked easily, concealing curiosity behind a poker face.

  “Billy the Kid was an outlaw himself by then, had turned cattle rustler. But a different breed of outlaw from Selman. And this was, after all, his stamping grounds, and the people Selman was robbing and raping and killing were his friends ...”

  “So he went after Selman?” Fargo saw again the empty sleeve, heard the rasp of hatred in Selman’s voice.

  “The Kid and his crew fought Selman, drove him and his so-called Scouts out of the country, back to Texas where they belonged … what was left of them. Selman himself was wounded. I understand that later on, the Rangers got him; he pulled time in prison in Texas. Nobody has heard of John Selman since then. But there’s a Thad Selman living outside of El Paso who’s built himself up an empire in Texas.” Her lip curled. “I’m sure you know about him. He operates the same way John Selman used to. Only he’s got enough money and political power now to get away with it.”

  Fargo did not answer that. Instead, he said: “Let’s get back to Billy the Kid. If Garrett couldn’t handle Selman and the Kid took care of Selman for him, that would have been quite a favor to Pat, wouldn’t it?”

  Her eyes met his, then looked away. “Yes,” she said. “It might have been.”

  “Maybe a big enough favor for Pat to agree to rig a deal with Billy Bonney. Suppose there was some small-time punk in Fort Sumner, somebody that looked something like the Kid, maybe was even trying to imitate him. Maybe even tried to pass himself off as Billy from time to time. A lot of punks try that with any famous gunman.”

  “I imagine you’d know,” the woman said thinly.

  “I’ve had people use my name,” Fargo said. “I think most of them came to regret it. That’s beside the point. Let’s say this punk was passing himself off as Billy. Let’s say that if he disappeared, nobody would miss him. Let’s say that Garrett shot somebody who claimed to be Billy at Pete Maxwell’s house, identified him as the Kid, buried him in a hell of a hurry.”

  Sue Barber sat up straight. “You’re talking fairy tales.”

  “Sure. I’m only pointing out that Garrett and the Kid, the real Kid, were friends, and Garrett owed him an especial favor for getting rid of Selman. Plus, claiming credit for the Kid’s death would make Garrett a big man. Did. Made him famous. He even wrote a book about the Kid, I understand.”

  “It’s still all a fairy tale. If Garrett didn’t kill Billy, why has nobody seen the Kid since?”

  Fargo smiled at her. “Maybe a lot of people have. But maybe they were all his friends and kept their mouths shut. It could be, you know, that the Kid wanted to start over. He could even have hauled out for Mexico or some such and stayed there for a long time. Until the story of his death took root, was accepted everywhere. Then he could come back to his old stamping grounds without worrying. After all, anybody who claimed to recognize him would be called crazy; how could Billy the Kid still be alive?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “How could he still be alive?”

  “Then why should it matter if I waste my time lookin’ for a dead man?”

  She hesitated, looking at him. Then she said, “Because Lincoln County, even after all this time, is still like a stick of dynamite, capped and fused. Selman wants to blow it up. He’s using you for the match.”

  Her lips thinned. “The war went on too long, did too much damage. People say it’s over; it isn’t. There’s a truce, that’s all. Thirty years isn’t such a long time, Mr. Fargo. Not time enough to forget. Take me, for instance. Do you think it’s been long enough to erase the memory of seeing my husband shot down before my eyes, of watching my home go up in flames? Do you think I have lost my hatred of the people who did that to me?”

  Fargo did not answer. “It’s the same,” she went on, “with the survivors and their children of the Dolan faction. Dolan’s gone, but the people he had on his side are still around, and they have long memories, too. There are still a lot of uncollected debts on both sides, if you see what I mean.”

  Fargo nodded.

  “And so the Dolan and McSween people still face each other like two packs of wolves. For thirty years, we’ve fought against each other politically and in business, but we haven’t come to using guns again—yet.”

  “You’d be leader of the McSween faction. Who leads the Dolan bunch?”

  “Nobody, really, until a few months ago. Then a man named Trent hit the town of Lincoln. Harry Trent, he calls himself. Supposed to be a lawyer. Actually, he’s a rabble-rouser. He’s been stirring up the Dolan people against us, organizing them. And I know what he’s after. When the time’s right, when he’s sure he can get away with it, he’ll make war on us again.”

  “This isn’t the 1870’s. The law would stop him.”

  Sue McSween Barber laughed contemptuously. “There was law here last time—and it was Dolan’s law. History repeats itself. No, the law won’t stop him. Only one thing holds him in check.” She met Fargo’s eyes. “Selman sent Trent in to start the war again. We’re in the minority, and the Dolan bunch could overwhelm us. When they do, Selman could get his hands on all the things he wants that we’ve refused to sell him. The range land, the silver mine on my ranch, the gold mine at White Oaks: All that would be up for grabs. But—”

  Fargo understood now. “But as long as the Dolan bunch thinks Billy the Kid is still alive and would fight on your side, they’re afraid. They’re balking.”

  She nodded. “That’s right. He’s ready to strike, Trent is, but first he has to be sure that Billy Bonney is really dead. And—” her eyes were full of anger as she looked at Fargo “—Selman hired you to make sure of that.”

  Fargo did not answer that, but he saw the pattern now and understood the stakes for which Selman was playing, why it was worth twenty-five thousand, Selman’s personal grudge aside, to be sure, once and for all, of the death of Billy the Kid.

  “Selman did send you, didn’t he?” Sue Barber pressed him.

  Fargo said quietly, “Who sent me is my own business. But there’s no point in lying now. Yes, my job is to find Billy the Kid if he’s still alive and put a finish to him. That’s what I aim to do. What Trent, the Dolan bunch, or Selman are up to on the side is none of my business.”

  “You have taken on a tough and very dangerous job.” Her voice was full of warning.

  “They’re the only kind I handle. And once I take one, I carry it out.” He smiled faintly. “You made a mistake, Mrs. Barber. A bad mistake. You threatened me. And by doing that, you proved t
o me that I’m not on a wild-goose chase. The Kid is still alive and somewhere near here, where I can get to him. So I aim to do that. And I’ll tell you right now, anybody who gets in my way is gonna be sorry.”

  “That works two ways, Mr. Fargo,” Sue Barber said thinly. “I knew Billy Bonney of old. If he were still alive and you came up against him, you wouldn’t have a chance. But you’ll never find him, you’ll never come up against him. If you try, you won’t live long enough for that. Unfortunately, Lincoln County is still an easy place for a man to get killed in.”

  “Most of the places I work are,” Fargo said.

  Sue Barber stood up. “Then go ahead,” she snapped. “Try it. But don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

  Fargo also arose. “All right, ma’am. We understand each other. Turn loose your wolves. But don’t be surprised if some of ’em lose their hides before this is over.”

  She looked at him for a long moment with contempt. Then she whirled, strode out, back straight. Fargo watched her go. Again, mentally, he cursed Savitts. He had seen the Tres Rios crew; they were going to be a hard bunch to buck; and there was no doubt in his mind, now, that Sue McSween Barber would be sending them against him. And they were only part of the old McSween crowd.

  She was right, Fargo thought. Lincoln County was still an easy place to die in. But he had warned her, too. If he died here, he would take somebody with him.

  He left the restaurant, walked warily back to his hotel.

  At least she had told him what his next move must be.

  Tomorrow he would ride across the mountains to the town of Lincoln. It had been the blazing center of the Lincoln County War of the Seventies and Eighties. If a new one flared, that was where it would begin.

  And so that was where, undoubtedly, he would find Billy Bonney.

  Chapter Five

  The County was split in two by a spur of the Rockies. On a tall, strong roan he had bought in Carrizozo, Fargo crossed the hills, bound for Lincoln.

  The journey took all day. Great ridges, hogbacks, buttes clad with juniper towered over him on either side. He rode with the Winchester across his saddle bow, for there were a thousand places from which he could be ambushed. He passed Capitan, in the shadow of the mountain range that had given it its name, then the turn-off to old Fort Stanton, not long since abandoned by the army and recently turned into a hospital for merchant seamen. Probably the withdrawal of troops from there had cleared the way for the old feuds and enmities to flame again ... The winding road crossed, then paralleled, the Rio Bonito, a narrow shallow stream watering this part of the county; it was partly for control of it that so much blood had been spilled.