Massacre River (A Neal Fargo Western) #5

by John Benteen

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Fargo went to Manila on the promise of a high-paying job with plenty of action. Chinese businessman Jonathan Ching wanted him to transport a small fortune to an associate in Luzon. At once Fargo realized that missions didn’t come much tougher. If the jungle didn’t kill him first, then the murderous Moro headhunters would. But then the job got even more complicated. Ching also wanted Fargo to deliver his beautiful daughter, Jade, to the man to whom she had been betrothed at birth. If the mission failed, Ching would lose face—an unthinkable fate for the Chinaman. So it fell to Fargo and a wild-fighting Irishman named O’Bannon to pull off the impossible mission ... or die the worst way possible in the trying!

  MASSACRE RIVER

  FARGO 5

  By John Benteen

  First published by Belmont Tower in 1973

  Copyright © 1973, 2014 by Benjamin L. Haas

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: October 2014

  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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2014 by Edward Martin. edwrd984.deviantart.com

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges. Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  Chapter One

  Under a scalding tropic sun, the stink of Manila was terrific. It was the smell of Asia, rising from the mud flats of the bay, the slow, rancid current of the garbage-choked Pasig River that divided the city; from tightly packed slums where, in alleys between huts of nipa palm and bamboo, children, dogs, and pigs wallowed and played together in filthy mire. It came, too, from the market places, where flyblown barrels of chicken entrails turned green in the noontime heat and even fresh-caught fish spoiled within two hours. And from the cemeteries—where, despite the sanitary regulations of the American Government, paupers’ corpses were thrown into ditches to rot, joined by cadavers pulled from crypts whose families had been delinquent in paying rent—dispossessed bones and decaying flesh. It was an odor compounded of seething life and stinking death; and Fargo, back in the Philippines after a long absence, had quickly become accustomed to it and no longer even noticed it. He had smelled the like of it before, often. Cuba, Panama, even worse places in Central America; Mexico; and, a decade ago, Manila itself, when he had been a sergeant in the cavalry here in the Philippines during the Insurrection. The stink of the city now was an improvement over what it had been then, before the Americans had, to some slight degree, cleaned it up.

  Besides, he liked the smell of far places, found it exciting. To Neal Fargo, places like this smelled of money.

  Now, striding along Rizal Avenue, the main street of the city, he towered over the shorter Filipinos who made up the bulk of the throng on its crowded sidewalks. Over six feet, wide of shoulder, narrow of hip, he wore a white linen suit, its jacket cut full to hide the bulge of a holstered Colt .38 revolver under his left arm. Beneath an ancient, battered cavalry campaign hat perched at a jaunty angle, his close-cropped hair was silver white, prematurely, for he was only in his late thirties. His face was hard, weathered, and ugly, dominated by gray eyes, a nose broken more than once, a wide, thin mouth. One ear was slightly cauliflowered, the result of a year spent as a professional prizefighter. He had the long, lean legs of a horseman, but his walk was not awkward like a horseman’s; he moved like a panther, lightly, on the balls of his feet; and the combination of hard, virile face, lean body and grace of movement made women lift their eyes and look at him more than once.

  Expertly, he dodged a couple of pickpockets who, working as a team, made a pass at him, one supposedly capturing his attention while the other lifted his wallet. From the doorway of a rancid bar, a pimp reached for him, and Fargo struck away the hand. He stepped wide around a small boy urinating in the gutter and paused at an intersection to let three or four carromatos—two wheeled horse-drawn jitneys—go past. Then he walked on, came to another corner, and turned right.

  This street was narrow, walled on either side by balconied two-story buildings and an occasional one of stone or stucco. Within a block, the character of the crowd had changed; there were fewer Tagalogs, the short, brown Filipinos who comprised the majority race of the islands, and more Chinese, taller, lighter, some in Western dress, some in coolie pajamas, and some in expensive silken robes. He was entering Manila’s Chinatown. Now, in addition to Tagalog, English or Spanish, the signs of business places bore Chinese characters, and from somewhere came the whining singsong sound, like a cat in pain, of the strange string instruments that made what the Chinese considered music. Fargo relaxed a trifle. Manila was a rough and dangerous city; and even with the American Army and Navy on hand, a man’s real protection was carried in his holster. But Chinatown had its own secret forces maintaining law and order; it was a city within a city, well run and peaceable; and if a man were safe anywhere in Manila, it was here—so long as he kept his hands off the Chinese women.

  Two more blocks: Fargo halted before one of the stone buildings, its downstairs windows barred with steel, like those of a jail. Its heavy wooden doors were closed; but they bore a sign. Beneath the ideographs was written in English: Jonathan Ching—Imports and Exports. Fargo tried the door; it opened and he entered.

  He was in a long, dim corridor that seemed to run straight on through to a warehouse at the rear. There were doors on either side, but they were closed. On Fargo’s right and on his left, stairs ran upward; but there was no sign to indicate which he should take. Then one of the doors opened; a young man with pale yellow skin, black hair and almond eyes appeared, dressed in a flawlessly white linen suit of Western cut. He bowed slightly, his gaze running over Fargo curiously. His voice was soft, his English faintly accented. “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

  “My name’s Neal Fargo. I’m looking for Mr. Ching.”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Ching is expecting you, sir. If you will come this way ...” He led Fargo up the narrow stair to the right.

  On the second floor, they were confronted by huge double doors of mahogany. The brass hardware was decorated with ornately wrought dragons. The young man opened one of the doors and gestured Fargo in. The room was big, hung with rich draperies bearing also a motif of fire-breathing dragons worked in yellow and blue against deep red; there were screens with delicate misty scenes of Oriental landscapes painted on them, and wall paintings of the same sort—hanging scrolls, unframed. The floor was tiled mosaic, again the dragon; the walls paneled in dark, polished wood. In such a setting, the mahogany desk piled high with files and papers, and the two or three leather easy chairs looked startlingly out of place.

  The young man indicated a chair. “If you will have a seat, Mr. Ching will be with you in a moment.” He crossed the room, passed through a smaller door at the rear. Fargo sat down, took a long, black, thin cigar from his pocket, bit off its end, and lit it. Blowing smoke, he crossed his legs, revealing, beneath his pants not shoes, but high, polished cavalry boots. Nothing in his negligent posture indicated his extreme alertness; but when he also folded his arms, the gesture brought his right hand very close to the gun-butt beneath his coat. It was not that he expected trouble; but trouble was, after all, his business, and he was here on business now.

  Then the smaller door at the rear opened again and a man came
in. He halted just inside the room and looked at Fargo keenly with deep-set black eyes. Slowly, he smiled; then he came forward with hand extended. “Mr. Fargo. How do you do? I am Jonathan Ching.”

  ~*~

  Jonathan Ching was surprisingly tall for a Chinese, almost as tall as Fargo. He was thick and well fed, his yellowish face round and sleek, his neatly combed black hair tinged with gray. A long, thin mustache fell away on either side of his mouth, drooping ends dangling below his chin. Like the young man who had brought Fargo here, he wore a white suit. His hand was soft, pudgy, a little damp. “I am glad to see you,” he said. “You have made a long journey on my behalf.” His English was perfect, inflected with the accent of the British Isles. “You do not know how grateful I am to you for coming.”

  Fargo shrugged. “You paid my expenses from the States, you wrote that you had a proposition that would be profitable—and certain influential people told me that I would do well to follow it up.”

  “Yes. I’m proud to say that I do have rather good connections in the United States. I flatter myself that I have been of some assistance to such people as your General Pershing when he was stationed on Mindanao, and to the various American Governors General who administer the Philippines. I’m happy that they gave you a recommendation on my behalf. Won’t you sit down? Would you like a drink? I can offer you Chinese rice wine, which I am afraid you would find perhaps a bit heavy—but I myself am very fond of American bourbon, and perhaps you would like the same.”

  “Bourbon would be fine.” Fargo sat down.

  “One moment.” Jonathan Ching struck a small gong on his desk; the sound was surprisingly loud in the large room. The door opened; a robed servant appeared; Ching said something in Chinese and the man vanished. Then Ching sat down behind his desk.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Fargo,” he said, opening a file before him. “You have quite a reputation. Born in the Territory of New Mexico, you have been a cattleman, a gold miner, a prizefighter, and have worked at many other strenuous occupations. You served with Theodore Roosevelt in his Rough Riders Regiment in Cuba and won a number of decorations. Afterwards, you were for a year or two here in the Philippines with the American cavalry, both on Luzon and on Mindanao in the south. Now, you are and have been for a number of years what is called, I believe, a soldier of fortune—a professional fighting man willing to go anywhere and do anything, provided the price is right. You have been involved in the present Revolution in Mexico, in smaller wars in Central America, and in a good many other activities, some of which—” he frowned “—seem rather murky. Apparently, as a fighting man, you are in a class by yourself.”

  He closed the folder, leaned back. “Nevertheless, here in the Philippines, fighting men are not scarce. The problem has been, from my standpoint, to find one absolutely reliable, one who, having named his price and struck a bargain, could be trusted implicitly. That is why I conducted such a searching investigation in the United States; when I received a recommendation from ex-President Roosevelt himself, I made up my mind: you are the man I want.”

  The bourbon came; after each had taken a drink, Ching opened a humidor, found a cigar and lit it “You see, I do business in the Western manner. We Chinese are prone to be flowery and indirect. I have found that such indirectness seems to irritate Westerners. Personally, having been educated in England

  and having traveled in the United States, I find that the Western style suits me better, too. So now I will get directly down to business. Are you familiar with the situation here on Luzon at present, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Not really.”

  Ching shook his head. “Chaotic, very chaotic. You will remember that the Filipinos were in rebellion against the Spaniards when the islands were ceded to your government after your Spanish-American war. And that they then turned against the Americans, determined to have their independence.”

  Fargo nodded. “Right. That was when I was in the cavalry here.”

  “Indeed. And now, more than a decade later, the Insurrection supposedly has been put down and the American Government is in full control. Unfortunately, Mr. Fargo, such is not the case.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. Not here on Luzon, anyhow. You are familiar with the Moros—the Mohammedans—of Mindanao, the large island to the south. As you are undoubtedly aware, they are among the world’s fiercest fighters. Your General Pershing—of course, he was not a general then—until recently, however, had them under control. Unlike most American officers, he took the trouble to learn their language and ways of thinking and was able to get along with them with a minimum of fighting. Now, however, he has gone back to the United States, and the Moros have broken out again. The fighting on Mindanao between them and your army is very fierce—and, unfortunately, you don’t have enough soldiers to go around. While the army fights in the Southern Islands, things go from bad to worse here on Luzon.”

  He arose, went to a scroll hanging on the wall, pulled it down, and it proved to be a map of the Philippine Archipelago—an enormous sprawl of islands dominated by Luzon in the north, Mindanao in the south. His hand went to the long, narrow blob that was Luzon. Not quite halfway up from the bottom, the hand paused.

  “Here is Manila. Indeed, your army, the Philippine Scouts, and the Philippine Constabulary exercise secure control over the city and over all this region immediately north and south—and, admittedly, most of the population and the wealth of the island, most of its civilization, is concentrated here. But once north of Pampanga and Tarlac provinces, the mountains really begin—they continue all the way to the tip of the island. Do you know much about Northern Luzon, Mr. Fargo?”

  “No.”

  “Indeed, no one does. A great deal of it remains unexplored, at least in the interior. Even though the Spaniards ruled here for hundreds of years, not even they ever really penetrated much of that land. And it is populated by tribes vastly different from the Tagalogs of the rice-bowl area. The Igorots, the Ifugayo— headhunters, practitioners even, it is said, of cannibalism. And the Negritos, coal-black pygmies, the most primitive of all. A people just as fierce and warlike in their own way as the terrible Moros of the south.”

  He sipped from his drink, went on. “Once north of Baguio, the only real outposts of civilization are the coastal towns, which can be reached by ship—but the coast itself is more than forbidding. And yet ...” his hand caressed the interior of the northern part of the island, on which mountains had been drawn in meticulous relief. “And yet, in this wilderness there is wealth, great wealth, Mr. Fargo. Quite possibly gold and silver, certainly timber—pine and mahogany. And these tribes, these savage tribes, hungry for trade, a whole new market no one has yet developed.”

  He smiled. “You know how we Chinese are. We are born traders and merchants. Wherever there’s a market or a chance for wealth, there we must go, whatever the risk. And so the young son of a very prominent Chinese family here in Manila has taken the plunge, as you Americans say. With great bravery and daring, he has mounted an expedition into the interior, established relations with the savage tribes, set up what they used to call in your American West a trading post and, as a reward for his courage, prospers greatly. Now that he has established a foothold, he intends to remain there. And so, Mr. Fargo, he needs a wife.”

  Fargo took his cigar from his mouth. “A wife? What has that to do with me?”

  Ching let his smile broaden. “Why, Mr. Fargo, it’s very simple. My oldest daughter has been betrothed to him since both were children. And although it will not be an easy journey—I have not yet mentioned the greatest dangers—I am prepared to pay you well to escort her north from Manila to her marriage bed— and to see that she arrives safely.” And then his smile went away. “No matter whom you may have to fight or kill.”

  Chapter Two

  For a moment, the big room was silent. Ching sat down again behind his desk. Fargo took his cigar from his mouth and finished his bourbon. Then he said: “Let me get this straight. You brought me all the way from th
e States to take your daughter to a place about what—three hundred miles north of Manila? So she could get married?”

  “I did, sir.” Ching’s voice was crisp.

  “Go on,” Fargo said. “There must be more to this than meets the eye.”

  “There is. Much more.” Ching struck the gong again; the servant instantly reappeared, refilled the glasses. “Those three hundred miles, Mr. Fargo, could easily be the longest, most dangerous journey of your life.”

  He went on, briskly. “I have said that the American Army’s control is slipping. As the soldiers are pulled out, sent south to fight the Moros, law and order are swiftly collapsing behind them. Luzon has always swarmed with bandit gangs; the worst ones had been broken up by the army and the Constabulary; now they are re-forming. From Manila north, neither the road nor the railroad are any longer secure. Well-organized and ruthless gangs of robbers, many of them veterans of the Insurrection, trained fighting men themselves, terrorize the countryside. But that’s not the worst of it.”

  “Well, let’s see,” Fargo said. “We’ve already discussed headhunters and bandits.” There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice. “What’s worse than those?”

  “The Katipunan,” said Ching.

  “The what?”

  “You should remember, Mr. Fargo. The Katipunan—Sons of the People—was the revolutionary force behind the rebellion against the Spaniards and the Americans. It was supposed to have been broken up years ago. Now, however, I understand it has been revived. Not down here in the Manila area, where it formerly was strongest, but somewhere in the North, in secrecy and in hiding. In short, Mr. Fargo, another revolution is brewing—and if it comes while your army is pinned down in the south by the Moros, the devastation on Luzon will be terrific.”

  Fargo stared at him. “Does the American Army know about this? The Government?”

  “I have tried to tell them. They are, however, disbelieving. They think they have converted all Filipinos on Luzon to loyalty to the United States. Little do they know how ferociously the United States is still hated by many, how strongly the will for independence endures. They will not listen to me— but General Luna is building a new army somewhere in secret in the north—perhaps in the very area through which you must take my daughter.”