by John Benteen
These cars were so constructed that each was separate. There was no entry or exit from one car to the other; the only doors were on the side, like that of a trolley. Fargo slipped the bolt, cramming shells into the shotgun again. The door flew open. He leaped, landed on the ungraveled roadbed in slippery mud. Regaining his balance, he darted around the corner of the car.
The three men were tugging desperately at the coupling, guns slung. One of them looked up, saw Fargo. His eyes widened, and he gave a yell. It was the last sound he ever made. Fargo did not even aim the shotgun. The three of them were in a tight group. He just pointed the weapon forward and his fingers jerked both triggers. There was no way he could miss. The wall of buckshot plowed into the trio. Then the train began to move.
Fargo had a glimpse of a man’s body across the track, saw wheels slice through it. The other two corpses had fallen clear, almost reduced to rags by the buckshot. The train picked up speed as Fargo spun around. His foot slipped in the mud, he fell to his knees. The shotgun dropped. He scrambled up, reaching for it as he did so. The coach rocked past him. He heard O’Bannon’s cry: “Fargo! For Christ’s sake!”
O’Bannon had unlocked the door at the end of the car. He stood there on the step, one hand around the grab bar, his arm outstretched. Fargo scrambled forward, slipping in the mud, slinging the shotgun. His hand caught O’Bannon’s. He was jerked off his feet, nearly thrown under those deadly wheels. For a heart stopping second, he was dragged along like a rag doll at the end of O’Bannon’s arm. His hand was wet, muddy; he felt it beginning to slip. Then O’Bannon gave a mighty tug.
It gave Fargo the edge he needed. His feet caught, gained purchase. He leaped and O’Bannon pulled backward, nearly falling over. Fargo landed on the step, his other hand, flailing, seized the doorjamb. The hinged door, flying, slammed against him, almost knocked him loose. But then O’Bannon, cursing, pulled him the rest of the way into the car. They landed together on the floor in a heap, Fargo panting.
“All right, ye big ape,” O’Bannon rasped. “Ye can get the hell off of me, now.” But his voice was shaky.
Fargo scrambled to his feet, shaking a little with reaction. He was drenched and muddy. His eyes swept the bullet-splintered coach. “Everybody all right?” He gasped the words.
Chuang got to his feet. He bent, helped up Jade Ching. Her eyes were wide and she was trembling. “Fargo,” she breathed. She shook her head wildly; he saw that she was on the edge of hysteria.
His big arm went around her; he held her for a moment, feeling her warm and soft against his hard, wet body. She clung to him, still shaking. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right, now.” Then he raised his head.
Chuang, the bodyguard, was standing there looking at him. Those hard, black eyes in the round, scarred face were like chips of volcanic glass; the mouth was a twisted slash of hatred. Chuang held a hatchet, and it was half raised. He put his other hand on Jade Ching’s shoulder, pulled her away, speaking thinly to her in Chinese. Then he said, in English: “She is the intended wife of another man, Mr. Fargo. You will keep your hands off her or I shall kill you.”
Fargo felt a flare of anger. “You try and I’ll take that hatchet and—” but Jade Ching intervened. Angrily, she rattled Chinese at Chuang. He spoke back tersely, but he lowered the hatchet. Then she turned to Fargo. “I’m sorry,” she said wearily and she collapsed on a seat.
Fargo snarled at Chuang: “See to her.” Then he looked at the others. “Any wounds?”
“A bullet nick not worth mentioning,” the Irishman said. “Weatherbee and our two Filipino friends got off Scot-free. By damn, Fargo, you and that shotgun are worth a regiment!”
Fargo ran his hand through rain soaked hair. “That’s why I carry it. You can’t beat it for close work.” He went to a pack under a seat, fumbled in it, and brought out a bottle of bourbon. “Now,” he said. “Now, I think we’re entitled to one drink all around.”
He took it, passed the bottle to O’Bannon, and found a cleaning kit. Carefully he began to work on the shotgun. O’Bannon swigged long and deeply from the bottle, passed it to Weatherbee. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “That was a damned big band of ladrones.”
“It wasn’t outlaws,” Fargo said. “Too many of them.”
“Then who—”
Fargo looked out the shattered window. The train was rocketing now, bound for the safety of the station at Tarlac, up ahead. “My guess,” he said, “is that they were sent by the man who calls himself General Luna.”
~*~
It was a guess confirmed by Lieutenant Royster, the American officer in charge of the Constabulary detail. He was fresh out of military school and obviously shaken by this, his first firefight. “We managed to get our hands on one of them, Mr. Fargo,’’ he said in the station at Tarlac. “He was wounded and didn’t live long. But his last words were that the new Katipunan would avenge him.’’ He frowned. “What’s the Katipunan?’
“The old revolutionary organization. It seems to have been revived.”
The lieutenant looked anxious. “You think they’ll try again?”
“Not at this train,” Fargo said, and went back to the coach. There, as the train pulled out, he sat thoughtfully, staring into the twilight. It had been a damned bold attack, and damned close—comparatively speaking—to Manila; even closer to the Army Post at Fort Stotsenberg. The new Katipunan were confident and aggressive. Whoever their General Luna was, he was willing to take risks. No wonder. A hundred thousand in money and a woman who would bring a fine ransom would underwrite building a damned big army.
Fargo shook his head. He could understand the Filipinos’ yearning for independence. He knew, too, how bravely they had fought for it in the days of the Insurrection. But he could not totally sympathize with this new attempt at insurrection. The Islands would eventually have their independence anyhow; that much was understood. Meanwhile, American rule was not oppressive; for the first time, roads were being built, railroads, schools; and a prosperity it had never before known had come to Luzon. A new insurrection, if it succeeded, would tear all that down. Moreover, even if the Islands did gain immediate independence, they would be easy prey for other conquerors. Japan, since its victory over Russia, was stirring, feeling its own muscle. Pull out the United States Army and the Filipinos would be under a far more merciless Japanese rule before they knew what had happened.
Not that a new revolution had a prayer of succeeding. The government was caught short right now, but it would not hesitate to send whatever force was needed to crush it. Meanwhile, the only thing General Luna would accomplish would be to get a lot of his countrymen killed needlessly.
Then he looked up as Jade Ching sat down beside him. “Do we spend the night in Dagupan?” she asked.
Fargo nodded. “Yes. It ought to be fairly safe there. The navy usually has forces in Lingayen Gulf. Also, there’ll be army there. We should be able to pick up a convoy at least as far as Baguio, in the mountains, After that, we’ll be on our own.”
“I see.” She shifted nervously on the seat; it brought her thigh into contact with his. He waited for her to take it away, but she did not. Aware of the glare of Chuang fastened on both of them, he moved his own leg.
“Afraid?” he asked.
“Of course. For more reasons than one.”
“Maybe your husband will turn out to be exactly the man you want.”
“There are other reasons,” she said.
“Such as—”
She drew in a deep breath. “I can’t tell you, now, Maybe you will learn more about them later.”There was something strange in her voice. Fargo looked at her narrowly, but she looked away. Her leg touched his briefly again—perhaps an accident—and then she got up and moved across the aisle.
~*~
The railroad ran on to San Fernando in La Union province, farther up the coast, but Dagupan was the point where they had to make their turn east into the interior. It was a town of nearly twenty t
housand, a curious mixture of the substantial and flimsy, the new and the old; and, like all Oriental towns, it stank. Fargo and the others worked late into the night, unloading and caring for horses and gear. The animals were turned into corrals used by the small detail of cavalry stationed here, its numbers even further depleted by transfers to Mindanao, and Fargo ascertained that a military convoy would be leaving for Baguio, high in the mountains, next morning. Unrest was so great in this section of the island that it had become necessary to escort civilian traffic over the precarious road to the mountain city, which was really the last outpost before the wilderness of the north.
They received help from an unexpected source. Chuang disappeared briefly, returned with a detail of Chinese—members of his tong. They were hard-eyed men in a strange mixture of Oriental and Occidental garb; and they worked with a will. It was under their guard that the two chests of money were moved to a local hotel and stored in Fargo’s room. O’Bannon and Weatherbee shared the room adjoining Fargo’s, and Jade had the one next door on the other side. Chuang refused a room; he and his friends patrolled the corridor, and when Fargo went out on the balcony that ran across the entire front of the hotel, he saw a half dozen more of them on the street below, motionless as statues. Chuang was taking no chances with his master’s property—or his master’s daughter.
It was midnight before Fargo, alone in his room, finished washing mud and sweat off himself and, naked, lay down on the lumpy bed. He was acutely aware of the fortune in the two chests beneath the cot, and he had double-checked locks on both the doors to the corridor and to the balcony. Like a mistress, the loaded shotgun was cradled in his arm, and the pistol harness with the gun butt in easy reach, hung near his head. He had allowed himself one big jolt of whiskey, and he sighed as his muscles eased and the alcohol relaxed him. Then he slept.
He came awake in darkness, bolt upright and the shotgun in his hands. There was no interval between sleep and full alertness for him, and he held his breath, listening for a repetition of the sound that had jerked him up.
It came again, a faint whisper of it. His consciousness pinpointed it at once. Somebody was out there on the balcony, attempting to open the jalousied doors.
In total darkness, Fargo was on his feet like a great cat and padding forward, the shotgun pointed at the doors, his body out of line of fire from them. He edged up against the wall beside them and lined both muzzles at the jalousies. The doors moved slightly as somebody tried the knob. Then Fargo blinked. When the doors would not open, whoever was out there tapped softly.
Then he heard a whispered voice. “Fargo ...”
Fargo cursed softly. He reached for the lock, pulled it free. He kept the shotgun pointed.
“Who is it?” he rasped softly, but he already knew.
“Jade. Please let me in.”
Fargo opened the door. She was a shadow in the darkness. “What the hell—” he began, but she said, quickly: “Shhh. Please.”
He closed the doors, locked them. Laid the shotgun aside, found his pants, slipped into them. Then he lit a lamp.
He looked at her in its glow. She wore a satin robe, embroidered with the dragons of the House of Ching. It clung to her breasts, her waist, her hips, with sensual fidelity, and he knew immediately that there was nothing under it but her flesh. Her face was frightened, but she stood there boldly; and then he caught it, in the midst of her perfume: the tang of whiskey. She had got some from somewhere and had had a drink.
Before he could speak, she put out a small hand, took his wrist. “Please,” she whispered. “I must talk to you. It’s very important.”
“It better damn well be. Do you know I’ll have to kill Chuang if he finds you in here?”
“He will not find me here. He sits outside the door of my room in the corridor. It is locked from inside. I came out through the balcony, left that door locked behind me, too. He thinks I am asleep, and I was careful not to let the other members of his tong standing guard down there below see me.”
“All right,” Fargo muttered. “What do you want?”
Still holding his wrist, she sat down on the bed, pulled him down beside her. “You must let me escape,” she whispered.
“Escape?”
“Yes. I must get away before we reach the compound of Chea Swen-tai. I cannot face him, I cannot marry him.” Her hand tightened on his. “If I marry him, I am a dead woman.”
Fargo stared. “Don’t be a fool.”
“You do not understand.”
“Then maybe you’d better explain.”
She looked away. “Yes. Yes, I shall explain. Mr. Fargo, by Chinese law and Chinese custom, the bride must go to her bridegroom as a virgin. That is something I cannot do.”
Fargo was silent for a moment. “You mean—”
“There will be a very careful inspection. It is not one I can pass. During my time in England, Mr. Fargo, I ... I had several lovers. My father does not know this. But Chea Swen-tai will very quickly find it out. Then he will be outraged—at me and at my father for having sold him damaged goods. He would be within his rights to kill me. Perhaps he will. If not; I will have brought such disgrace upon my father’s house that I... shall have to kill myself.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Fargo rasped.
“Shh. Do not raise your voice.” She still did not look at him. “It is true,” she said miserably. “It is all true. I can assure you. You must help me escape. I have brought certain valuables of my own, which I could sell to obtain money. I would give you part; with the rest, I would ... disappear. You could tell Chea and my father that I was killed or kidnapped or something. My father will grieve. But better grieve for a dead, but honorable daughter than one who lives, but has brought great disgrace upon him.”
“Listen—”
“Please,” she said with intensity. “I will give you all the money that can be raised by the sale of my valuables. I will give you anything … ” suddenly she stood up, backed a pace or two away. “This.” And, deftly, she unfastened the cord of the robe and let the garment drop.
Fargo stared at her smooth, rounded, lovely nakedness in the lamplight. The skin like ivory, the ripe, beautiful breasts with small, jutting nipples; the curve of her belly, the fullness of her hips, the long perfect legs. His mouth went dry, quite involuntarily, and he felt the surge of desire.
“This,” she said, and she came to him and took his hand and pressed it against her breasts. Her mouth came down on his, hungry and quite adept; and he knew she had told the truth; she had experience in making love. He felt the flicker of her tongue, bold, shameless. Then he wrenched his face away, stood up.
“Go back to your room,” he whispered. “I made a bargain with your father. I keep my word. What happens between you and Chea Swen-tai is your own affair; but getting you to him is mine.”
She stared back at him and read the determination in his eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she sighed. Then she saw the bottle of whiskey on the table. She turned, went to it, uncorked it and drank long and deep. Setting it down, she let out a long, shuddering breath. “Something else I learned in England,” she said. “To drink.” Then she turned on Fargo. “Very well. I know that you must keep your bargain. But— part of my offer still stands.”
Fargo stared at her with narrowed eyes.
She came toward him, boldly, without shame. Then her warmth pressed against him, breasts flattening on his chest. “Please,” she whispered. “At least for a little while. I watched you today, in that fight. I have never seen a man like you before. I want you, Fargo. Whether you will help me or not, I want you.” He felt her lower body rubbing against his. Then her arms were around his neck, her mouth on his.
Hell, Fargo thought savagely. He grated: “If you think—”
“I think nothing.” Her whispered words trembled with intensity. “I don’t want to think. That’s the whole idea, don’t you see? For a little while, I don’t want to think!”
And suddenly Fargo knew that she meant it and t
hat what he did or did not do with her would make no difference, and his response to her body and her mouth was too great, too imperious, to be resisted any longer. He cursed softly and caught her in his arms and pulled her down on the bed. Her hand left his shoulder, fumbled at the latch of his belt. Her body arched under his, already excited and receptive, yearning. He came at her with ferocity and heard her barely stifled moan of pleasure. Then there was no more thinking for either of them for a long time—only sensation.
Chapter Six
The convoy left at dawn.
It consisted of twenty cavalrymen under the leadership of a seasoned master sergeant named Murchison. Ten comprised the vanguard, ten the rearguard. In between came wagons, loaded with both Filipinos and Americans who had business in the mountain city, the summer capital to which the Governor General and his staff retreated to escape Manila’s terrible heat; other drays hauling freight; a few miscellaneous civilians on horseback, and Fargo’s crew and pack train.
In the beginning, Jade Ching, an experienced horsewoman, rode stirrup to stirrup with Fargo. Behind her, the bodyguard, less adept in the saddle, had a hard time keeping up, and there were intervals when they could talk softly to each other.
“You had no trouble getting back to your room?” Fargo asked.
“None.” She smiled wryly. “My protectors were more easily eluded than I dared hope.” She looked at him with those dark, enormous eyes. “You won’t reconsider?”
“No,” said Fargo. “I have my job to do.”
Jade sighed. “Well. It was worth it, anyhow. It was like ... nothing I ever experienced before.”
“I guess that’s a compliment,” Fargo said. “My guess is that you’ve experienced plenty.”
Jade looked away. “Yes. I only wish—but what does it matter what I wish now? It’s too late for regrets.”
