by John Benteen
The man was more than a little woozy now with his drink. To himself he hummed some minor-keyed Indian love song. Once, he spat and said a terse obscenity. Shifted restlessly, moved the rifle from one arm to the other. The five men by the fire still slept like corpses.
Fargo edged around the rock, with six feet to cover. He held his breath, left arm poised, knife in his right hand. Now he was only a foot from the guard. He leaned there against the boulder, gathering himself like a panther about to spring. Then he moved swiftly, and his left arm shot out and as it hit the guard’s face, the man opened his mouth to yell and Fargo’s wrist went in and blocked the sound, and Fargo cut deeply through the throat with the Batangas knife, severing not only arteries but vocal cords.
Then he struck for the heart.
That finished the man, and Fargo eased him down, wholly without sound. He drew the man’s Colt, a Frontier Model .45, from its tight holster, checked it, found it fully loaded. He put away the knife, and with the Colt in his left hand pulled his own .38.
Still no one by the fire had stirred. Fargo stepped out from behind the rock. Since he was ambidextrous, he could shoot as accurately with his left hand as with his right. Deliberately, he opened fire with both guns.
The picketed horses plunged and whinnied as the reports shattered the night. But with Fargo firing both Colts simultaneously, only one man had time to scream. He sat up in his blankets, and he let out his yell as the slug from Fargo’s left gun found his chest. The others only twitched, dying in their sleep. The whole fusillade lasted only seconds. The echoing report of the gunfire lingered seconds longer, but by then, Fargo was already in the camp. One man stirred Fargo finished him. Then he went to work.
An hour later, as he neared the place where Liz was waiting, he whistled loudly. The eyes of Texas are upon you, All the live-long day …
“Fargo?” The voice came reedily from the darkness.
“It’s all right, Liz,” he said. “I’ve got us extra horses, saddles, bridles, canteens and grub, and plenty of guns and ammo. We’ll head out for Columbus as soon as we eat. And by damn,”— there was exhilaration and reaction both in his voice—“nothin’ can stop us now!”
Chapter Eight
It was easier, but not all that easy. On the morning of the sixth, they struck out, with jerky and cold tortillas in their bellies, canteens full of water for themselves and mounts, saddles, bridles, to ease the strain of riding, blankets to warm them and big hats to shade them from the sun. They had horses to ride in relays, and, best of all, from Fargo’s point of view, plenty of guns and ammunition. But they still must dodge not only Federales, but O’Brien’s men and the men of Villa as well, plus God knows how many bandit gangs operating independently.
It would, thought Fargo, be a race down to the wire. All through that day, he pushed mercilessly along, exhausting the horses, riding boldly in the open, and exhausting Liz as well as himself. He could, with his iron muscles, stay in the saddle three days at a stretch if it came to that, but the girl simply had not so much stamina and strength. He had to rest on her account, and the delay chafed him, but it was vital. She was his back up, two stories were better than one, she could swear to all he said, and, besides, he liked her. She had guts, ironclad and brassbound. Like himself, she had been forged in the fires of adversity, and what had come out of that was pure, hard steel. Even if he could have, he would not have abandoned her now.
So, on the morning of the seventh, they were still a long, hard ride from Columbus. And late in starting because Liz was so played out. But, doggedly, she kept pace with him, and they ate up ground inexorably. They saw no troops.
Villa, Fargo thought, must have drawn back his men. The Federales had not filled the vacuum. So only O’Brien and his army lay between them and the border. If they turned east, they’d likely collide with it. So they had to head for Columbus, run the race to the end.
O’Brien. The name triggered strange things in Fargo’s mind. This man had deliberately tried to make himself into another Fargo, and there was such irony in that thought that Fargo grinned wolfishly. This whole thing boiled down to who was better, the original or the copy. Well, the original would give everything he had to wipe the copy’s nose. Fargo kept on going, even when nearly blind with fatigue and saddle-weariness.
Then it was the night of the seventh. Fargo recognized his surroundings, knew they still had sixty miles to cover to reach Columbus. They could do that, maybe, before nightfall of the eighth, when O’Brien must stage his attack.
Had to, in fact. “Liz,” Fargo said. "If we can ride all night, we can make it with time to spare. You up to it?”
The girl swayed in the saddle. “Neal, I’m so tired.”
“Liz, you got to think about what’s at stake ... ”
“All right. I’ll try. Lead on.”
She clung to the saddle-horn with both hands as Fargo led the way through rough country. When he looked back, she swayed on her mount. They reached a wash’s edge, Fargo reined in. Twenty feet _ down, a tricky slope. He turned. Just in time to see Liz fall.
She merely sighed, toppled from her saddle. Fargo yelled just in time to keep a led horse from stepping on her. Then he was off the stallion, bending over her. “Liz!” He cradled her in his arms, slapped her face. “Liz. You all right?”
She opened her eyes, stared at him blankly, then closed them again. Fargo let out a long breath. She was beat, dead beat. There was no way they could go on until she’d rested.
Well, Fargo thought, she’d earned the rest. Earned it with her raw courage. Besides, there was nothing he could do.
So he made camp, laid down extra blankets, put her on them, hobbled the horses, lay down beside her, sheltered her with arms and body from the cold wind. She slept as if she were dead; he gave her, with cold practicality, the six hours exactly he thought would revive her. In between time, he caught some sleep himself. The sun was coming up when he awakened her.
“Liz!” He poured coffee into her, fed her beef and the last of the tortillas. But she was still dazed, groggy. Somehow, he got her into the saddle. Nearly sixty miles to make, and maybe O’Brien and his men in between and time needed too, to make the Army in Columbus believe their story and regroup its men ...
They could, of course, collide with O’Brien at any time. That would be fatal, and Fargo had to keep watch. He had never been through such a day. The girl clung, somehow, to the saddle, still exhausted; he rode on, came back, led her forward, and by now he was half-insane with fatigue himself.
At sunset, he knew they were still four hours, maybe five, from the border. But, again, there had to be a rest. “Fargo,” Liz managed thickly, “I’m so sorry ... ”
“You get an hour, no more.” She took it, and he loaded her on her horse again, and they rode on through heavy chaparral. Now it was dark, and Fargo had to pick his way very slowly through the clawing thorny brush, and keep close watch. If O’Brien had stayed on schedule, his men would be out there somewhere ... He threaded through the brush with shotgun up, riding the black stallion. Liz followed on the sorrel; they had let the other horses go, now.
And then, suddenly, the stallion snorted, and Fargo reined in. Liz raised her head. “What?”
Fargo, in the shadow of a clump of mesquite, leaned over, clamped a hand across her mouth. “They’re out there,” he whispered bitterly in her ear. “The whole goddam chaparral is full of them. Liz, we’re too late. O’Brien’s between us and Columbus!”
Beneath his grasp, she began to shudder uncontrollably. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed behind his hand. “Oh, Neal, I’m so sorry ... ”
“Hush. It can’t be helped.”
“But ... what can we do?” she whispered softly.
“Nothing, now,” Fargo said into her ear. “There’s five hundred men out there and we can’t sneak through them. All we can do is wait. Once they hit, then we can go in.”
“But it’ll be war, then—”
“Not if we stay alive to tell our st
ory. Wait. There’s nothing to do but wait.”
Dismounted, they hunkered in the brush and closed their horses’ nostrils with their hands. The chaparral whispered on either side with the movement of troops getting into position. Once five men, wearing the golden hats of Villa’s Dorados, passed within twenty feet of them. “Colonel O’Brien is a smart man,” one said. “He says we’ll rob the gringo bank.”
“All gringos are rich,” another answered. “When we divide it, we’ll be rich, too … Now, hurry! We’ve got to be in Las Palomas in an hour!”
Las Palomas! Fargo thought. So they’d jump off from the Mexican village across the Fronteriza from Columbus. All right, that gave him a chance after all ...
Then they had passed by. Fargo judged it was nearly eleven when the brush ahead, riffling with the passage of hundreds of men, was nearly clear. His mind worked quickly. They had to be in the village at midnight. An hour to form up ... they’d jump off at one! He edged on forward through the chaparral, reached its margin, threw himself down. Beyond, he saw flats, a road winding across it like a white scar in the moonlight, a church spire thrust against the sky. Past that, the wire fence of the border, the moon-gleaming tracks of the Southern Pacific, and the sleeping huddle of buildings that was Columbus.
And down there on the flat, men boldly moved toward the village of Las Palomas in ragged ranks of horsemen. They closed in from the left and right and center, not too many, not too threatening, not enough to stir the wonder of any guards three or four miles away, if guards were watching. But inexorably grouping there, and soon.
Fargo turned, ran back through the chaparral, which was empty now of men. “Liz ... ”
“Fargo, I’m here.”
“Mount up. They’re already moving in. They’ll strike from Las Palomas. We’ve got to try to move around them, and we’ve got damned little time.” He dragged her to her feet, almost threw her on the stallion. “You ride this stud. If there’s fighting, you don’t look back, you head on for the border fence. First American soldier you find, I don’t care if you got to strip naked, you get him to take you across the fence. Then ask for the Officer of the Day ... ”
“Neal ... ”
“I’ll be there with you, if we’re lucky. It depends on how lucky. Let’s go!” He leaped on the sorrel, touched it with spurs. Reined out to the right, and both animals crashed through the thorny brush.
It was an excruciating ride, without chaps. The leather skirt shielded Liz a bit, but the thorns took their toll of what was left of Fargo’s pants. He disregarded wounds and rakes, kept both horses going flat out. And then the brush eased, and they broke from it and pounded toward the border fence a mile away. In the distance, up the line, a train hooted. The Drunkard’s Special, returning from El Paso. That meant it was nearly midnight …
“Neal!” Liz screamed. “Look!”
He turned, saw four men pounding toward them across the flat. O’Brien’s soldiers, a flanking guard who’d spotted them. The four riders were closing fast, aiming to cut them off.
There was no time to stand and fight. “Get down!” Fargo yelled, and bent low over his own mount’s neck and fired both shotgun barrels. The men were out of range, but spent pellets whizzed around them in a wide pattern, and they faltered. Then one leaped off his horse, lined his rifle. Fargo knew before be fired that he was the target. He swung behind the sorrel’s neck, and then the sorrel faltered, grunted, and the rifle’s roar cut the night. The horse went down. Fargo’s feet were already clear of stirrups, he landed staggering, but running. Liz checked the stud, brought it around. “Neal!” She kicked a foot from stirrup.
Fargo found the stirrup, cantle, swung up behind her. More lead snarled around them now. Fargo raked the stallion with his spurs, and the big black horse flew. The O’Brien men were closer, now, coming flat out, but the fence gleamed in the moonlight dead ahead, six feet high, of woven wire, with three strands of barbed wire pointing out to raise it to eight. The train’s whistle was closer, now; its chuffing sound blanked out the sound of gunfire as lead whistled around Fargo and Liz Baines. Like a great black snake, the train slid to halt in the station a mile down the line. Then Liz reined the stud up hard, for they had reached the fence. “Neal!” she yelled
“Stand up in the saddle, put your foot on the wove wire, swing over!” He was already off the stud holding the cheek strap of its bridle, forcing it up against the mesh. Liz asked no questions, did as he’d said. She scrambled to her feet in the saddle, a perfect target against the moonlight and the glow of the town’s streetlights. Fargo dared not shoot as lead whined around her, for fear of making the stud jump. Then she gasped. He saw her grab a post, swing across the border, lose her footing, fall six feet into the gravel on the side that put her in the United States of America.
That was all he needed. Fargo fired both barrels of the shotgun at the oncoming riders, saw two of them go down. He stepped into the stirrup, then into the saddle, jumped. The stud whinnied, ran from underneath him, went pounding off. A boot caught on the top strand of barbed wire, and he fell hard, weapons clashing, and was stunned for a moment. Then Liz was helping him up. More lead whined through the fence, but Fargo disregarded it. Gasping for breath, he seized her, they ran across the railroad tracks, rolled down the bank on the far side. All that shooting, he thought. Tha’s got to wake ’em up! He meant the guard details of the Thirteenth Cavalry.
He and Liz lay crouched behind the tracks. The two riders neared the fence, then sheered off. They wheeled, galloped back toward Las Palomas. When Fargo saw them gone, he yanked Liz to her feet. “Come on!” Crouched low, they ran up the track toward the station and the border crossing, where there were soldiers on guard. Or should have been.
The Drunkard’s Special blew its whistle just as they reached its last car. It chugged off down the track. Fargo saw men on horseback, leading unsaddled horses, vanishing into the streets of Columbus. He whirled toward the station, ran up the steps. The station was brightly lighted: he crashed through the door. “Officer of the Day! Corporal of the Guard! God damn it, where is everybody?”
A tall lieutenant talking to the telegrapher whirled. His green eyes widened as he saw Fargo and Liz, and they must have looked like ghosts, dust-coated, scarred, bloody and desert-blasted by sun and wind and sand as they were. “What the hell!” he blurted, and he drew his Colt. “Stand fast!” he snapped. “Who’re you?”
“My name’s Neal Fargo! I want the Officer of the Day! Where the devil is he?”
“Lieutenant Castleman’s helping to bed down the polo team that just came back from El Paso—”
“Polo team?” Fargo blurted incredulously.” With the border crawling with Revolutionarios?”
“It was an important match,” the Lieutenant snapped impatiently. “Now, what—”
Fargo sucked in a long breath. “All right, who’re you?”
“I’m lieutenant Lucas, commander of the machine gun company here—”
“Then the hell with the O.D.,” said Fargo, a great weight lifting from him. “You’re the man I want to see.”
“About what?”
“You got to get your guns into position,” Fargo said. “They’ll be coming from Las Palomas any minute. But if you got your guns in place—”
Lucas kept his gun trained on Fargo. “I don’t know who you two hobos are, but I’m not falling for your guff. Now you, my friend, lay down all those guns and show me some identification and then maybe we’ll talk sense.”
“Didn’t you hear the shooting?” Fargo almost yelled.
“There’s always shooting over there,” Lucas said. “Show me your credentials. Who are you?”
Fargo raised the shotgun. Lucas tensed. Then Fargo passed it over butt first. “Read what’s engraved there,” he husked. “And then let’s get on the bit, man. We’ll place your guns and when they come over here we’ll blast the hell out of them ... ”
Lucas was frowning at the receiver of the shotgun. “To Neal Fargo, gratefully, fr
om T. Roosevelt.” His head jerked up. “So,” he said.
“Now, do you understand? Look, there’s five hundred Mexicans waiting across the river to raid Columbus any minute. The Army had better get into position or it’ll be caught cold.”
“Of course,” said Lucas wryly. “And I’m your grandma’s nephew. Fargo. The big gunrunner to the Villistas, eh? We know all about you and your shotgun. We’ve got orders to take you into custody and question you ... ” Suddenly he reversed the gun. “Don’t move. You’re under arrest, both of you.”
“Oh, hell,” Fargo said disgustedly. “Is there a telephone here? Get me General Pershing at Fort Bliss ... ”
“Maybe you can talk to him in the morning. Right now—” He jerked his head. “It’s one o’clock. Nobody wakes a General at this time of night.”
“One o’clock,” said Fargo sickly. “All right. I guess—”
And then his words were drowned in gunfire.
Chapter Nine
It came from down the line, a roaring fusillade. Five hundred rifles or side-arms roaring all at once, the drumming of two thousand hooves, and over it all, the wild cries of fighting men: “Viva Villa! Viva Mejico! Viva la Revolucion! Viva Villa, Villa, Villa ... ”
Lucas stood bolt upright, eyes batting. “A raid! Villa’s men!”
“They’re not Villa’s!” Fargo rasped, but Lucas didn’t even hear him. He whirled to the telegrapher. “Wire Fort Bliss! Columbus under attack from Pancho Villa!” Then, forgetting Fargo, still holding Fargo’s shotgun, he ran out the station door.
Fargo swallowed hard, swore, knocked Liz to the floor. “Stay down!” he rasped. “I’ll be back!” Drawing his Colt, he raced out the door after Lucas, jumped the platform’s edge. He saw Lucas dodging along the track, and his legs pumped to catch up with him. “Where’re your machine guns?” he yelled.
