by John Benteen
He grinned. “And I owe it all to you. For being so damned hard and ruthless and furnishing me with a model. And now the student outdoes his teacher. Fargo, tell me all you know.”
“I know you’ll never make it,” Fargo said.
“Today,” O’Brien said, grin widening, “is the fourth of March. On the eighth, I hit Columbus. If you’re still alive, see me on the ninth and ask whether I’ll make it.”
When Fargo didn’t answer, O’Brien shrugged. “Well, I thought we’d have to soften you up. Me I wouldn’t like to be buried up to my neck in the horse corral all night. Those horses walking around —you never can tell when one of ’em will step on you. You have to keep yelling and yelling, and you yell yourself hoarse, and maybe you make one mad and he kicks you in the head.”
Fargo thought of several things to say, but he said none of them, because he knew O’Brien meant exactly what he’d said.
“No food, no water, and constant danger every minute, for maybe twelve hours. We don’t have too much time, but that ought to give you time to ponder.” He paused, aiming the gun at Fargo. “Or maybe you don’t need it.”
When only silence met that, he said, “Arriguela. Bring a shovel.”
~*~
Fargo dug the hole himself, sweating under the muzzles of four guns in the hot sun. By the time he finished, he was starving, and his mouth was dry as cotton. He threw down the shovel. “O’Brien—”
“You want to talk, eh?”
Fargo looked into those hard black eyes. Then he understood. He could tell O’Brien everything he knew, and it would take a half hour. Then O’Brien would kill him, for that was what he would have done with such a captive himself. He was far too dangerous to be dealt with; the deal was false. No. If he allowed himself to be buried, he could live a while; if he talked, he would die right away.
And there was this about it. While you were alive, you had a chance. But when you were dead, you had no chance at all.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to talk.”
“Into the hole,” O’Brien said and shoved him. They buried him then. Standing up. Tamped the heavy weight of soil hard in around his hands, which were tied in front of him. Up to his shoulders. It almost crushed his chest made it agony to breathe. When they were through, that white head, the cavalry hat still perched on it, was all there was above the ground; the rest of Fargo was invisible.
“String the rope corral here,” O’Brien said, “and turn in all the horses.” He grinned, nodded to Fargo, and walked away. There were several rope corrals; a single one could not hold mounts for five hundred men. This was a troop corral. The Federal soldiers put up posts, strung rawhide ropes, and turned a hundred mounts, some hot-blooded, some scrubby, a mixture of mares, geldings, stallions, into the corral. The animals snorted ran back and forth and circled. That was normal procedure for freshly-corralled horses: they would settle down when each had found his place in horse society.
That knowledge did Fargo no good at all. At ground level, he saw a wilderness of brawny legs, hundreds of flinty, iron-shod hooves. They all seemed to race straight for him at once, and even a glancing blow from one of than could split his skull. And, save for his voice, he was helpless.
So he used his voice. “Hiiyaaah!” he screamed. “Hiyaahhh!”
A hundred hooves stampeded toward him. He had no idea of what was coming from behind. He yelled and screamed and wagged his white head and the cavalry hat fell off and the white hair gleamed in the sunlight, and it was enough, but barely. They were upset by that white, screaming thing on the corral floor. They sheered off, a little, but Fargo knew the longest seconds of his life as the ground shook and vibrated with thundering hooves slashing down inches from his face. One kicked out, laid open his cheek. His ears rang, but he kept on screaming, wagging his head frantically. Like an echo, a scream came from somewhere else outside the corral. At first he thought it was illusion: then he knew: it was Liz.
The horses bundled behind him. Fargo kept on turning his head, right to left, as far as it would go, hollering. Still the earth shook as all those animals trotted around him. But, gradually, it seemed to him, that he was a little, anyhow, in the clear. They gave him room, made space around that strange thing protruding from the dirt.
Presently they settled down, but Fargo could not. He had to make sure no stray stepped on him accidentally. The dirt crushed against his chest, made every breath a torture, the constant yelling only increased his agonizing thirst, his vocal cords and throat felt bloody down inside ...
The sun was like a hammer; and he had no hat to shield his head from its brutality. The burn on the back of his skull pained him fiercely. And yet, he could not keep on. He had to rest. His voice faded, his head slumped forward. Maybe, he thought dazedly, it would be better to talk to O’Brien and die cleanly after all. O’Brien had said it, so had Liz. He was just a whore. Why suffer like this to protect Villa, protect his country, what could one man do that made a difference?
Then he heard it. The deep-throated snorting penetrated his fogged consciousness. The heavy hoofbeats shook the ground around him. He raised his head, opened heavy-lidded eyes, to stare at the big black stallion curveting around him, crested neck arched, tail like a flag, swart hide gleaming in the sunlight. He’d seen that horse before. Yes. O’Brien’s mount.
Now, king of the corral, with all others watching, drawn aside, it circled him. The brown flinty hoofs with their gleaming steel shoes threw dust in his eyes as the big stud made its circuit. Then it halted, straight in front of him. It put down its head, bared its teeth, shook its neck so that its jet mane flew, pawed the dirt, whinnied.
And Fargo knew: it was on the prod. Maybe it had tried to mount a mare not quite ready and taken a kick; maybe it just felt its oats. Anyhow, it would deal with this strange thing in its remuda.
That big horse, powerful muscles rippling as it pawed earth and snorted, looked like black death itself, poised twenty feet before Fargo’s face. Fargo yelled: but his voice was not much more than a rasp and the stud ignored it. Instead, snorting, it came forward, prancing, neck and back arched delicately. It almost ran right over Fargo, backed off just in time. Then it towered above him, seeming to block out all daylight. He could see the hoofs, the strong legs, the little “chestnuts” inside them, the powerful chest. And then, slowly, the stallion’s head itself, velvet lips peeled away from huge blade-like teeth, snaked down to confront him.
A stallion fought as much with its jaws as with its feet. Those great teeth could snap off Fargo’s head like the blade of a guillotine, only not as cleanly and painlessly.
He smelled the horse’s breath. The teeth seemed enormous, six inches from his face; he saw the tongue, scarred by a spade bit. The horse’s nostrils seemed like caverns, its eyes like flames. The mouth opened as the head turned. One bite, only one, and it would take off Fargo’s face.
He swallowed hard, found what saliva was left in his mouth and throat, sucked in breath. Just as the stallion’s jaws opened tentatively, Fargo gave one last scream. “Yaah! Get out of here!”
His expelled breath went straight up the stallion’s nose. The horse jumped back, startled at the sudden sound. It whinnied, pawed the ground, flagged its tail, galloped off, then came back. Fargo watched it with a gruesome fascination as it marched up to within five feet of him. Put down its head. Eased forward once again. Slowly brought its nose up to six inches from his face. He had no voice left with which to yell. He drew in a long breath. It was his last weapon.
And a damned slim one. An old Cheyenne Indian had told him something, and a Californio, a Mexican-American expert in Jineta, the Spanish horseman’s art, had confirmed it. But he had never tried it. Now, there was nothing left. The horse’s bared teeth wide inches from his face; Fargo found more breath, and then, slowly, blew it out, straight up the stallion’s nostrils.
Nothing happened. Nothing happened for a long time. Fargo and the stallion were inches apart and it could slash off his face with it
s mighty jaws in any second. He blew once more up its nose. No use to yell. What was it the Cheyenne had said? You take a wild horse, the way to make it yourn is to breathe, straight down its nostrils. Mix your breath with the horse’s; and it will know you, always, and respect you.
The Californio had said, “Breathe up a horse’s nose. There’s something about that that tames the wildest stud, the most fiery colt. Of course, with a bad stud, the problem is to get that close.”
Well, there was no problem now, thought Fargo bitterly. “El Negro,” he husked. “Black one.” He expelled more breath up its nostrils.
Velvet lips peeled back from yellow teeth. The huge horse snorted, spraying Fargo’s face with saliva. Then, suddenly, it cantered off. Fargo turned his head to watch it race around the corral. It made two circuits. Then it blotted out the daylight. Because suddenly it was standing over him. Its forefeet were splayed out in front of him: when he looked up, all he could see was its black belly.
It stood there through most of the endless afternoon, leaving only occasionally. He would never know a longer half a day. A casual shift of hoof, a snap of those big jaws—But, at least, when it left, it had staked out its territory and it was boss in this corral. No other horses came near Fargo.
The stallion was enough. His faith in folklore was skimpy: they said a rattlesnake wouldn’t cross a horsehair rope, but he’d seen a sidewinder do it. He had no idea that he’d actually charmed or tamed the horse. But he had intrigued it. He was not its enemy now so much as its plaything. That did not help much, but it helped enough. For he was still alive when sundown came.
But, he thought, only barely. Thirst and hunger were twin blades piercing him; the weight of dirt seemed to have collapsed his lungs; every muscle in his body ached, and his buried limbs were dead. Only his head was still alive, and that depended on the grace of the stallion’s hooves, which more than once raked his ears.
Just before dark, O’Brien appeared. “Fargo?”
Fargo did not even bother to raise his head. All he could see was O’Brien’s spurred boots.
“So you’re still alive. Want to talk?”
Fargo tried to spit on a boot, but no spit came.
“So,” O’Brien chuckled, and he drew a sharp-roweled spur across Fargo’s cheek. “We’ll dig you up tomorrow morning and see how you feel.” Then he went away.
The sun lowered behind the basin’s rim. Fargo hardly knew anything anymore. Sometimes the horse was there, sometimes not. In the darkness, hooves stamped all around his head. His voice was gone; he lived only by a gambler’s chance.
Finally, because there was nothing else to do, he slept.
Chapter Seven
At first, as dirt flew in his eyes, he thought he was done for, the stallion pawing around him before it trampled him. Then he jerked awake. And it was not the black horse’s face that he stared into, but the pale face of Liz Baines beneath rumpled, dirt-smeared hair.
“Hush,” she whispered. “Don’t say a word.” She went on digging with her hands, like a dog unearthing a buried bone. All around them in the corral, the horses moved restlessly.
For the moment, Fargo had no strength for questions. Her flying hands, broken nails bleeding, ripped away loose dirt from his head and shoulders. Every inch that vanished lessened the pressure on him. “Liz,” he managed to whisper in her ear. “Dig straight down and free my hands.”
She changed the direction of her digging. Fargo looked around. Horses made a circle all about them. The stars overhead and the position of the moon told him that it was nearly two o’clock. He felt the weight of earth on his wrists lighten, wriggled convulsively, got his bound hands free. They were wholly numb. “Untie those piggin strings,” he husked.
“I got no knife.”
“Then use your teeth.”
She hesitated, looking at him wide-eyed. He did not know how she had got here or anything, but if she could only free his hands … Then she was gnawing at his bonds, like an animal at a bone. She had good, sharp teeth. She spat once, then kept on biting. He felt a thong part, then another.
And suddenly his hands were free. Numb and dead, but loose, and he braced them on the sides of the hole in which he was buried, and as Liz went on digging frantically, he lifted. Freedom seemed to bring its own strength with it. Dirt sucked against his legs; he strained harder. Then his legs were loose. He rolled back coming out of the hole. He lay there, panting. “Don’t move, don’t say anything,” he whispered, “until I git some circulation back.” The stallion cantered up, its face came close to his. “Just don’t move,” he whispered to Liz. “This horse will take your head off.”
She lay across his body, the stallion over both of them. This time, there was no rebellion in her. She remained absolutely motionless. The big black stud sniffed her, then snorted, turned away. Fargo bit his lip as his feet and hands, arms and legs, were racked with the agony of returning circulation. Still, Liz lay motionless across him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered finally. “I’m really sorry.”
“Hush.” Then after minutes, he was all right. He could rise and walk, and maybe he could even run and fight. He put his mouth close to her ear. “What’s the situation?”
“All I know is that everybody seems to be asleep, except for the guards on the ridges. The whole valley’s silent.”
Fargo got to his knees. “Jimenez?”
“I’ll tell you about that later.”
“All right,” said Fargo. “Over here among the horses, where they can’t see us.” He had no need to whisper; his voice was wholly gone. They edged in behind some geldings.
“I got to have some guns,” Fargo said. “All my weapons are down yonder in that hut with O’Brien.”
“That sonofabitch,” said Liz bitterly. “Fargo, all I want is to get away from him. Always and forever.”
“A little while ago, it was me. But, no matter. I still got to have my weapons. It’s up to you to get ’em.”
She stiffened. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go down there to O’Brien’s hut. Sneak in, take the guns. Try not to wake him up. If you do, tell him you couldn’t stay away from him. You just had to crawl back in his bed.”
“Crawl in his bed,” she said throatily. “My God. All right. I’ll do it. You’ll wait here?”
“Right here,” Fargo said. But he knew that if she failed he would mount a barebacked horse, jump the fence and try to make it out, no matter what happened to her.
She scuttled away. While she was gone, he stamped among the horses, rousing circulation in his body. Every second stretched to a minute, and he winced against the pain. But then the stallion snorted. Fargo caught the outline of its head silhouetted against the sky, and its pricked ears. It faced in the opposite direction from which he had expected her to come, and he whirled tensely.
“Neal.” Her whisper carried.
Fargo ran to the edge of the rope corral. She was there, and he sucked in breath as he saw them, all of them, the precious tools of his trade. She had the two bandoliers, the shotgun, the cartridge belt and Colt, the Batangas knife. Her burden weighed her down and overflowed her hands. Fargo said, “Ahhh. Now we’re in business.”
“It was terrible,” she whispered. “I thought every step would be my last. But they’re asleep, all of ’em, even O’Brien. He never stirred when I took your guns.”
Fargo’s mouth quirked as he checked the sawed-off and found it loaded. All fatigue vanished now that he had the cold metal of the weapon in his hands. “He’s got a lot to learn,” he murmured. “He’s trusting to those guards up on the ridge. He may be good, but not as good as he thinks he is.” He passed her the cartridge belt and pistol. “You say you can shoot. Use this, and remember, no matter where you hit anybody, a hollow-point’ll stop him. Now ... ”
The handles of the Bantangas knife slipped back into his hands, unfolded. The ten-inch blade gleamed as he cut two pieces out of the rope that made the corral. A tall sorrel tried to dodge him, but he caught
it by one ear, brought its head down, knotted a jaw-bridle, Indian style, on its lower jaw. “Up,” he whispered, gave Liz Baines a boost. “Lean over his neck. When I give the signal, ride like hell for the cut up yonder at the north end. Anybody tries to stop you, shoot him or ride straight over him. I’ll be right with you.” He whirled away, another rope segment dangling.
The black stallion eyed him warily, snorted. Fargo was past all fear, and it caught no tang of apprehension, that odor that could so easily trigger such an animal to violence. It jerked its head, he seized its mane, looped the rope around its jaw. It stood trembling. Fargo braced his hands on its withers, leaped up, was then astride. The stallion reared; he gripped it with his thighs, lashed it with the rein-end.
“Ready, Liz,” he called softly, as it came down, recognizing the caliber of its rider. “Guide with your knees, hang on to the bridle and the mane. For God’s sake, don’t fall, I can’t come back for you.” Then he raised the shotgun.
Its double bellow seemed to shake the very night; its lancing tongues of flame were orange, as he fired over the horses into the sleeping camp, where he saw the dark blots of men rolled in blankets. Before the sound had died, he was ramming in two more shells—and the horses were stampeding.
“Yaahhhh!” Fargo screamed, or tried to, strained voice breaking.
“Yahhhhh!” Liz cried and lashed her sorrel.
Like a rocket, it took off through the gap in the corral. Nearly a hundred other animals, startled, terrified, poured through the hole. Fargo was behind them, herding with the stallion, using what voice he had left to urge them on.
They thundered at full tilt out onto the valley floor, whinnying, snorting, fanning out, and the other hundreds in the other corral heard them and, in the way of horses, wanted to follow. They threw themselves against the ropes, and the ropes gave, for they were more for show than strength, and all at once the basin was full of stampeding animals, charging back and forth in all directions.
