Fargo 18

by John Benteen

  Fargo ran up the slope, stiffly, toward the huge pile of cinnabar tailings, rusty red, near the tipple. Harrod, shoving Lola ahead of him toward the stable, did not see him. He gained the pile of tailings, clambered up again, and then fell behind a rusted ore cart parked near the mouth of the abandoned mine. There he waited, grinning. From here, he could not see what was happening, but he knew that sooner or later Harrod would find Murphy and Jimmy-the-Blade, both dead. And then he would know there was an enemy on the bench. He could not know that it was Neal Fargo. Neal Fargo was dead, and even if he weren’t, he couldn’t possibly have gotten here ahead of Harrod.

  So, alone now, Harrod would waste no time. He’d shove Lola up to the mine, fast as possible. He wanted to get his hands on that money, get out of here. Menaced by an unseen enemy, without his killer friends to side him, unless he were superhuman, he should be feeling panic.

  He was. Below, Fargo heard rocks rattle. He peered around the ore cart. They were coming now, Lola struggling up the slope, Harrod right behind her. But the terrain was so steep, so rough, that Harrod could not hold the girl. He only had a gun trained on her, and Fargo heard him growl, “Faster, damn you. We’ve got to get under cover!”

  Lola was panting, white-faced, a parody of the lovely woman she once had been. “Rex, please—” she gasped.

  “Move!” Harrod rasped. His head swiveled as he searched the bench below. His face, too, was pale. Fargo grinned. Colt in hand, he waited.

  Gasping, Lola struggled past, fell to her knees at the mine’s mouth. Ten yards behind, Harrod came up strongly. Then Fargo stepped from behind the ore cart, gun lined.

  “Rex,” he said. “Drop it.”

  Harrod stared at him and at the Colt lined on his chest, and it was more the shock of recognition than the gun that froze him. “You,” he whispered after a long second. “It can’t be.”

  “But it is,” Fargo said, grinning wolfishly. “Drop that gun.”

  Harrod bit his lip. But slowly his hand unclenched and the pistol, a Webley, fell into the rocks. “Fargo,” he said. “Fargo, listen ...”

  “Neal—” Lola blurted behind him. “Neal, is it really you?”

  “Me,” Fargo said. “You stay right where you are.” He came forward. “Down the hill, Rex.”

  Harrod stared at the gun. “What are you gonna do with me?”

  “Kill you,” Fargo said.

  “Listen—”

  “Down the hill.”

  Harrod obeyed. His knees were weak and his gait awkward as he went down the slope.

  “Neal!” Lola called from behind him. But he paid her no attention.

  They reached the level. Fargo marched Harrod out in front of the Super’s house. “Stop right there,” he said when Harrod stood on an absolutely level patch of ground.

  Harrod turned. “Fargo, for God’s sake—” Then his eyes widened as Fargo threw the .38 aside, into the brush. The shotgun, handled more gently, was unslung and followed it. Then the Batangas knife. “I said I’d kill you,” Fargo grated. “But I aim to do it with my hands.”

  Ten

  For a full half minute Rex Harrod stared incredulously at Neal Fargo. Then a kind of smile quirked his face. “With your hands?”

  “There’s no crooked referee now,” Fargo said.

  “Why,” Harrod said, “you’re crazy. You’ve gone nuts.” His big hands came up, his body falling into a graceful boxer’s crouch. “With my hands, I eat your kind for breakfast.”

  “Eat,” said Fargo and he came in, fists up. He was stiff and sore and had a bad left arm. But Harrod was stiff, too, from two days of unaccustomed riding. That should even off, Fargo thought, and besides, he’d been free while Harrod was in prison, and his condition should be better. He felt a cold, lustful confidence as he took the offensive.

  And it vanished as Harrod came to meet him. A left jabbed out faster than a striking snake, caught Fargo on the shoulder, rocked him. He lashed out with a jab of his own, but it only hit Harrod’s guard. A right coming across missed, and Harrod, by some magic, was on balance to drive in his own right beneath Fargo’s guard and rock him backward. Then Harrod came in, light as dandelion fluff on his feet, deadly as a charging bull in an arena. Fargo had been out of the ring for years, fought rough and tumble in close combat. He had almost forgotten what it was like to confront a pro.

  He took punishment now. Harrod was everywhere and nowhere, battering him back. As to height, Harrod had a slight edge, as to weight, they were equally matched. And as to speed—

  Again Fargo felt the crucial lack in his left arm—lack of speed, lack of strength. He had not realized, quite, how crucial that lack could be against a man like Harrod. His guard a fraction of a second slow in coming up let a staggering blow slip past that sent him reeling back. When he recovered, coming in, his own left jab lacked steam, was harmless. And Harrod, experienced, wise in the way of fist fighting, sensed that immediately.

  “Something wrong with the old left, Fargo?” His white teeth gleamed in his handsome face as he changed stance, bored in.

  Fargo turned, trying to correct his own footwork to allow for the weak left. Loose and easy, laughing softly, Harrod shifted weight, offset that. Fargo went after him, covering with the left, using the right for all it was worth. Harrod guarded easily, shifted, dodged. Fargo got in one good blow to Harrod’s chin.

  It staggered Harrod, but before he could follow up, Harrod’s left flicked out, caught him in the belly. Air whooshed from Fargo’s lungs and Harrod laughed again and came in fast.

  “By God, I’ll kill you this time!” he rasped and hammered Fargo’s head from side to side. Fargo responded with a weak left, a hard right that bounced off to Harrod’s guard. Back and back Harrod drove him, and now Fargo knew he had one hope left and only one, and cowering himself almost as if in cowardice, he back-pedaled and, sure of the kill, Harrod came after him.

  And now Fargo’s old footwork was coming back, and he used it. For the moment, Harrod was not a prizefighter now, but a bull in the ring, and Fargo had even, down in Mexico, tried his hand as a matador. And when the bull came after you, bigger, stronger, far more deadly than yourself, you did not throw yourself on his horns. You stayed away and let the bull exhaust himself. Then, when his weary, wounded neck dropped, you went in over the horns for the kill—and you had only the one chance.

  He took punishment, but now it was deliberate—just enough to lure Harrod on. Otherwise, he whirled, dodged, retreated, and Harrod, eager for the kill, came remorselessly after him. There was no referee to call the rounds now, no bell to ring, and no respite in the fighting. Fargo danced forward, lured Harrod, let Harrod’s fist slash his cheek open, then was backing quickly again, and Harrod, sure of himself, wanting to end it, kept on charging.

  But Harrod had been prison-penned for months. While Fargo had ridden and sometimes walked all across the West, Harrod had been sitting in a cell or marching around a prison yard. Even before then he had lived a far different life from that Neal Fargo led. Maybe Harrod had worked out in a gym a few hours a week; the rest of the time had been spent indoors, in a city. Fargo had worked out every day of his life since he was old enough to walk: hard labor, danger, risk, hours in the saddle or on foot in rough country, and his lungs and heart and muscles were stretched to the limit sometimes for weeks on end. Despite the battering it had taken recently, his body was still rawhide and whipcord, and though his arm was gone, he still had the incredible endurance of a man whose natural habitat was desert, mountains, and the high plains. He had to count on that now, count on outlasting Harrod, wearing him down.

  A hawk, soaring overhead, would have seen the two men fight back and forth across the bench for minutes. Harrod was always on the attack, Fargo always on the defensive. And that same hawk, if there had been one, would have seen, as the combat dragged out, a subtle change in both men. Fargo was calling on reserves of speed, agility. There was blood on his face and his ribs ached from the battering he’d taken, but if anything
he moved more swiftly, nimbly.

  Harrod was swift and nimble, too. Damn him, Fargo thought, won’t he ever tire? But there was no thought of giving up, of making a dash for one of the weapons thrown into the brush. That hot, furious hatred was still there in him, that itching of his knuckles only partly satisfied. He sucked in breath, kept moving.

  And then it began to happen. Harrod caught him with a right, squarely, almost by accident. It should have broken Fargo’s jaw. It merely knocked his head around. And when a left jab followed, it no longer had that sledgehammer force. Fargo felt hope ignite in him like a flame. He dodged back a little farther, and now he heard the whistle of Harrod’s breath, saw the man’s mouth coming open, gulping air. And when Harrod came after him this time, he was slower, by a fraction, his movements no longer light but subtly wooden.

  “God damn you!” Harrod husked. “Stand and fight!” He made one last surge. Fargo dodged away. Then he feinted with the slow left. Harrod’s response was almost as slow. And Fargo grinned. Now the bull was ready for the matador. Time to sink the espada, put the sword in between the horns—maybe.

  He presented himself, made an easy target for Harrod to hit. Harrod took the bait, lunged, clumsily this time. Fargo was not there. All at once, new reserves, a second wind, coming into play, he was like a panther. He went in over Harrod’s guard. He felt Harrod’s handsome nose, never touched, Harrod boasted, in the ring before, crunch beneath his right. That blow smashed bone and cartilage, smeared Harrod’s nose across his face, blood suddenly pouring. He even saw the shock and tears that filled Harrod’s eyes. Harrod lashed out wildly. Fargo dodged in between the flailing fists, which were no longer snake-quick and lethal now. He saw the look of fear, despair, that suddenly crossed Harrod’s face. The big man could dish out pain and mutilation, but he couldn’t take it. Fargo’s right smashed his mouth, driving lips back hard against white teeth. He felt the teeth give, and he heard Harrod gag.

  Harrod hit him then, twice, one-two, but compared to what had gone before, those blows were only baby taps. Fargo took them, came in, left only guarding, right busy and remorseless. Another blow to Harrod’s mouth drove teeth completely loose. And another, and Harrod’s right eye suddenly closed. And another, and Harrod fended wildly, weakly, and Fargo smashed in again, and caught Harrod on the jaw, and Harrod’s hands dropped. Suddenly Harrod stood there, swaying. Fargo sucked in breath, and, almost, his resolve vanished. Harrod was totally helpless, ruined, already. Maybe just end it, turn him over to the Rangers—

  Then, as Fargo went in quickly, Harrod kicked him in the groin.

  It took him by surprise, but that was his own fault. The bull was always dangerous until it died. Pain flamed up in him and erased the last indecision, the last hesitation, and, gut knotted with it, teeth clenched against it, he forged through a red mist that settled before his eyes. He heard Harrod grunt, was vaguely aware of his own right fist smashing and smashing again and again and again, and then there was nothing left to smash. The pain ebbed. Fargo stood there, trembling, spitting dryly, sucking in great gulps of air. His vision cleared. He stared at Rex Harrod—or what had been Rex Harrod—sprawled on the dusty earth before him.

  Harrod’s right eye was swollen closed. His left was wide open, staring glassily and immobile at the sky. Fargo had seen that look too often not to recognize it. He turned away from Harrod, staggered to his weapons, reclaimed them. And then, from the mine shaft, he heard a scream.

  He turned, summoning the last of his strength, stared up the slope. The scream came again. Then, in the entrance of the shaft, Lola Dane appeared. In her hands she carried a large metal box.

  “Lola! What the hell—” Wearily, shotgun ready, Fargo lurched up the hill. But, howling, crying hysterically, she was already running down the slope. Irishmen said banshees screamed that way before a death; the closest to it he had heard was a she-cougar in heat one night deep in the Sierra Madre.

  “Lola—?”

  She stumbled, fell, as she reached the level. The box went flying. Lola rolled over, buried her face in her hands. “The bastard!” she moaned. “Oh, the bastard! After all this!”

  Fargo stared at her a moment, then went to the box. While he had battled with Harrod, she had run into the mine and found the money, planning to take off, he guessed while the two of them fought. But now—

  His bruised hands were clumsy as he removed the box lid.

  There was nothing in there but a piece of paper. Fargo blinked. It was the label off an Arbuckle coffee can. Fargo picked it up, turned it over.

  The writing on the back of it had been put there with the blunt leaden nose of a cartridge. It was hard to read, but he finally made it out.

  Dere unknown friend, it said. For 37 yars Ive roamed these goddam mountains lookin for the big strike. I never expected to find it here. But now by God I can leve these goddam mountains and have a decent ole age. You hav made it possible an I thank you. Way my legs was givin out I could not have gone another yer. New England and cool wether here I come and the Devil can have Texas back. Best of luck. A happy man (an rich at last!)

  Fargo looked at it. He thought of the burro droppings he had seen earlier. Remembered the coffee can without a label in the super’s house. Saw in his mind’s eye some bearded, crippled desert rat making a hopeless foray into the mine, searching every shaft and stope. Imagined him catching sight of the box, wherever Lola had hidden it. And opening it, expecting nothing more than candles or blasting caps ...

  And finding in it a half million dollars in big bills.

  He looked at the coffee label and he put it back in the box and closed the box. He looked at the corpses on the bench and cocked his head up at the sky and saw the black flecks that were buzzards already gathering. He looked at Lola, who had double-crossed everybody for this half million, crying her heart out on the sand.

  And then Fargo said, “Well, there goes my banana republic.”

  And he threw back his head and began to laugh.

  Eleven

  The front room of Templeton’s house in Isleta was spacious, comfortably furnished. “I kept my promise,” Fargo said. “Harrod didn’t kill you, and Harrod’s dead. More than that. Thanks to Rose, here, and her beggin’ you off, I didn’t turn you into the Rangers. But you still owe Rose your half of the ranch.”

  There were four of them around the table: Fargo, Lola, Rose and Templeton. It was five days after Gaston had landed on the bench and taken Lola out, with orders from Fargo to keep her under guard until he arrived in El Paso. Fargo himself had ridden out of the mountains, relieved not to have to fly. Behind him, on the other horses, were the bodies of Harrod, Murphy and Jimmy-the-Blade.

  The Ranger captain’s name was Penny, Mart Penny, and he and Fargo had known one another for a long time, had played hide-and-seek along the border for years. Penny had pulled at his mustache after reading Fargo’s statement. “So he was mad at Miss Dane for throwin’ him over for another man. And he come for her when he broke out. And she’d hired you as her bodyguard and you killed ’em all.” Penny sighed. “It stinks, but that don’t matter, Neal. What matters is that they’re dead.”

  He’d stood up, crossed his office, spurs clanking. “He bragged he’d never hang. We figured to make damned sure he would. What we never counted on was somebody blowing up one corner of the wall with nitroglycerin. He got out slick, made such a fool of the warden and the guards that they wouldn’t even release the news to the public for four days. Otherwise, you’d have had more warnin’. I don’t reckon you could give us the nitro man, too?”

  “Not without usin’ a pair of tweezers and a piece of blottin’ paper for longer than I’d care to.”

  Penny laughed mirthlessly. Then he said, “Well, the assorted rewards on these three come to about seven, eight thousand dollars. I reckon you’ll want to claim ’em.”

  “Sure,” Fargo said.

  “Come around in a week. I’ll have the papers ready.”

  “Right.” Fargo had stood up.
“Thanks, Mart.”

  “My pleasure. The son of a bitch killed a Ranger. We owe you more than any reward. We’re in your debt.” He stroked his chin. “By the way, I understand the army’s reshufflin’ its troops and I’m re-disposin’ my Ranger company. Funny thing, but week after next, the Boquillas crossin’ of the Rio’s gonna be wide open for about three days. Anybody runnin’ guns into Mexico could get across and never have no trouble. Of course, I’d hate to think you were mixed up in anything like that.”

  “Who, me? Hell, Mart, you know I’m just a poor boy tryin’ to get along.”

  “Yeah.” Penny spat into a cuspidor. “Well, if you see Pancho, tell him I said howdy. Adios, Fargo.”

  “Adios, Mart.” And Fargo had gone out, his next stop Bill Gaston’s shack. Gaston had been relieved to get Lola off his hands.

  She had been sullen, quiet, all the way to Isleta. It was Fargo who’d had to tell the story to Rose and Templeton, and it was Fargo now who reminded Lola of her bargain.

  “The deed,” he said. “That was part of the deal.”

  Lola raised her head. And she had changed. The arrogance was gone now from her face, and her eyes were full of tears, and her mouth was suddenly soft and trembling. “But that,” she said quietly, almost like a child, “was when I thought I had a half million dollars waiting. I don’t have a half million dollars any more. If I give Rose my half of the ranch, I won’t have anything ...”

  Fargo said, “That’s your problem.”

  “Neal, no.” Rose’s voice was soft. “No, that’s not necessary. I don’t want her half of the ranch. She can keep it. She can keep it all.”

  “What?” Fargo stared at Rose. “You gone crazy?”

  Rose smiled. “Maybe.” She looked at Templeton. “You tell him, Lon.”

  Lon Templeton was a tall man in his late thirties, and a key one in Fargo’s operations across the border. Like Fargo, he had made a lot of money out of the Revolution: unlike Fargo, without fighting. But he had taken his risks, too, and Fargo respected him for that.