by John Benteen
The mansion was fantastic. Especially out here in the mountain wilderness of the northern Philippines, it was beyond belief.
And yet it existed, towering above Fargo and all the rest, on the hillside, after they had spurred up from the village. There it was with its white, rambling wings, its huge main columns, its spacious veranda and the gallery above. It was not a house at all. It was a dream, a vision. When the column halted before its immensity, even Fargo was dazed at its size, its beauty, and its lavishness. He had seen the plantation houses of the Old South; but this was one of them raised to the ultimate power.
Even as Spott Carter cut his bonds and Fargo swung down, he was wondering where Spott’s father could possibly have got the money to build such a labyrinthine castle. But almost at once, he had a rough idea. The Confederate Treasury. As Grant approached, it had been hauled South precipitously, under guard of the cavalry. Some of it had been captured by the Federals, but some of it had disappeared forever. Fargo, swinging down before this towering mansion in the jungle, thought he knew, now, where part of that missing money had gone.
But he did not venture comment, as he and Jade Ching, Chuang, O’Bannon and Weatherbee were hustled up the veranda steps. When they entered the vast house, its high ceilings towered over them. Guards prodded them through a foyer to a drawing room, its ceiling wrought beautifully with plaster frescoes and medallions, its furniture magnificent.
The room itself was enormous; their footsteps echoed as they walked its length. At its far end, a figure slumped in a chair. Another, in white, stood beside it. Closer on, they resolved themselves into an old man and a girl. The old man, deep in his throne like seat, wore gray, like the gray of Spott’s uniform, a slouch hat; and a cavalry saber was almost ludicrous on his withered legs. For he was dried up, wasted, seemingly nothing but bones and parchment skin. Fargo looked into his eyes and knew at once that he was in the presence of a madman.
Those eyes focused on him like two burning coals.
“You’re Fargo, eh?” The voice was soft, quavering, and yet there was steel in it.
“I’m Fargo.”
The old man gave a rattling laugh. “Ha. Ha, ah, ha. Yankee soldier. Thought you were tough, eh?” His withered hand curled around that of the girl, which rested on the back of his chair as she stood behind him. “There’s your Yankee soldier, for you, Marcy. Don’t he look tough now?”
Fargo’s eyes went to her. She was tall, blonde, her eyes gray, her skin white, her features as precisely lovely as those of a cameo. He judged that she was not over twenty-two. Her breasts were almost startlingly large beneath the tight watered silk of her old-fashioned dress. She made no answer. The waxen hand fell away from hers. The old man, with white mustache, white beard, and the eyes and nose of a questing hawk, hitched himself up in the chair. He looked at Jade Ching, then at O’Bannon and Weatherbee and the cargadores and the hard-faced Chuang. “Well,” he muttered. “Quite a haul. Quite a haul ... the girl ought to be worth a hundred thousand, easy. Spott, you and Marcy see that good care’s taken of her—the best, you hear? This young lady’s a walkin’ gold mine.”
“Right, Daddy. And what about the others?”
The old man leaned back in his chair, staring at them, stroking his beard. Then he said, “I think we’ll have ’em shot. What the hell, they’re Yankees.” He flipped his wrist almost negligently. “Take ’em out and execute ’em. Better still, turn ’em over to Borang and his Moros. Let them do it. They ain’t had no infidels to play with in a long time and they’re gettin’ restless. They can amuse themselves for quite a while with a catch like this. Only, tell Borang to watch ’em close. I can tell a dangerous man when I see one, and this Fargo’s dangerous as a rattlesnake.”
Then the girl stepped around the chair. “Father—”
“Yeah, Marcy.”
“Why kill them? Why not use them?”
The old man looked around at her, frowning. “Use ’em?
“Yes.” She was staring at Fargo; her big breasts rose beneath the tight fabric. “We know from what they did to our two details that they’re all good fighters. They’d be a lot more valuable to us on our side than they would be dead.”
“Don’t be a fool—” Spott Carter began. His father broke in.
“Honey, don’t you understand? These men are Yankee soldiers. They are loyal to the United States.” He sat up straight, eyes glittering, and his voice trembled with hatred. “They are our enemy! I would rather clasp a snake to my bosom than take them into our army!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marcy said. “They’re soldiers of fortune. They’re mercenaries, they fight for pay. If they joined us, they could become rich. Maybe there’s even an artilleryman among them. You need an artilleryman.”
Spott Carter’s face twisted with anger. “I can train the artillerymen we need.” He looked at his father. “You know what Marcy wants. You know what she’s got her eyes on. It ain’t artillery.”
Marcy’s face turned pink, but her eyes did not waver. Her voice was cool, and there was an undercurrent of ferocious hatred submerged beneath it. “You don’t have to be jealous, Spott. I know my assignment. I’ll carry it out—when you’re man enough to make it possible. Despite your foul mind, what I’m thinking of is this war.” She drew in a deep breath. “It’s quite a thing, you know, to declare war on the United States. Anybody who does that needs all the help he can get—even we Carters.”
Then O’Bannon spoke. “Make war on the United States? You think, after twenty years in the army, I’d—”
“Shut up.” Fargo cut him off in a voice like iron. Then he looked straight at the old man, Will Carter. “General Carter,” he said. “What kind of artillery have you got?”
“You see?” There was excitement in Marcy’s voice.
Carter stared back at him. “Be quiet, Marcy. Why do you want to know, Fargo?”
“Because I’ve handled artillery in my time. Especially pack artillery, mountain guns. That’s the only thing you can use with any effectiveness up here. I’ll guarantee to take any piece you’ve got here and outshoot Spott or anybody else in this place with it.” Spott Carter made a sound in his throat. But something was kindling in the eyes of the old man. “That’s tall talk, boy. Spott’s a damned good artilleryman. I trained him myself.”
“I don’t give a damn who trained him. If it’s a gun I know, I’ll outshoot him.”
“You’re not gonna talk your way out of an execution,” Spott said. “I told you, we know all about you, Fargo. Hell, yes. You’d be worth a whole battalion on our side. But you can’t be trusted. Besides—” He looked at Marcy again. “Besides, you might ruin certain plans ...” Then he turned to his father. “It would just be too dangerous. These men would betray us. You’ve made your decision. Now, I’ll see that it’s carried out.”
“Wait.” The old man raised a hand. He looked at Fargo. “We’ve got a lot of guns, but most are pretty old. My people in South America picked ’em up as surplus after the Spanish-American war; they came from Cuba. Some of ’em were used here in the early days, too. But our stocks of ammunition are limited. When we go into action, every round is gonna have to count. That means we’ve got to have pinpoint shootin’.” He stroked his beard. “We’ve got the Hotchkiss two-pounder mountain guns and we’ve got dynamite guns.”
“Dynamite guns?” Fargo was surprised. “You mean the Sims-Dudley pneumatic guns?”
“That’s right. Two and a half inch bore, with an explosive projectile fired by compressed air. You ever used them?”
“Yes, in Cuba.”
There was silence for a while. Fargo stood tautly. If there just weren’t another outburst from that hotheaded O’Bannon ... the girl had given him a chance, a bit of leverage to use. At least a possibility of playing for time. That was what they needed now. And there was something bad, something vicious, between Spott Carter—General Luna—and his sister. Maybe that bad thing could, given time, be twisted to Fargo’s advantage. Anyhow, anythin
g was better than immediate execution, especially at the hands of Moros.
When the old man spoke, it was as if to himself. “What I’ve got to do first is to take Baguio. I’ve got to take those guns in and mount them over the town, blow it apart, then attack in force. If there was somebody to command those guns while Spott led the attack—” then his voice changed. “But you’re a goddamned American, Fargo. I can’t trust you. You may be a mercenary, but—”
Fargo said quietly: “I fight where the money is. That’s where I put my loyalty. I’ve fought on both sides in the Mexican Revolution, and that’s not the only war I’ve changed sides in when the money was right.” He was indeed dealing with a madman, probably two, for Spott had certainly been infected from childhood with his father’s insanity. And he had to be persuasive in terms that a madman could understand. He had to shoot high. “If you could drive the Americans out of these Islands, you’d have yourself one of the richest empires anybody ever heard of. A cut of that would be worth fighting against anybody for— including the United States Army.”
Slowly, painfully, the old man got to his feet. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know. I do know one thing. You’ve made some tall brags about shooting. I want to see you shoot. Spott—help me. I want a dynamite gun unlimbered, up on the range. And I want to see what Fargo can do with it.”
~*~
The old man could no longer ride a horse. He and Marcy traveled to the artillery range in a carromato. Under heavy guard, Fargo, O’Bannon, Weatherbee were allowed to mount up. The Filipino packers and Chuang were hustled off to imprisonment of some sort. Jade Ching, with three Filipina girls to attend her and a heavy guard of gun-toting Tagalogs to stand watch over her, was sent somewhere upstairs in the enormous house.
“Damn it, Fargo—” O’Bannon began again, as their horses moved down the hill toward the village. Fargo kicked him on the ankle, savagely, and the horse shied. Spott Carter, watching narrowly, said, “Look out there. Any bad move and you’re all dead men.”
They rode back through the village. Fargo saw, drilling in the square, a detail of Moros, unmistakable in their ornate jackets, turbans and breech clouts. The Apaches of the Philippines, they looked at the whites with hatred; their Datu snapped them back to attention, but his own gaze was no less ferocious.
There was an artillery park within the palisade. In it were nearly twenty cannons—half of them the Hotchkiss mountain guns, the other half Sims-Dudley 2.5-inchers. One of the latter was being drawn out of the village by a mule, toward a level stretch of ground more than two miles long. Apparently considerable training was given on this range; there were targets spaced at various ranges from five hundred yards on, rude mock-ups of bamboo or wood simulating houses and even other cannon.
The dynamite gun was quickly unlimbered at the edge of the range. Beside it was placed a box of the special projectiles it used. They were three feet long, looking not unlike rockets, with conical heads and a tail-piece projecting from the rear with vanes on its end that were the metal equivalents of the feathers on an arrow. Spott Carter gave the command to halt Rifles were trained on Fargo, O’Bannon and Weather-bee as they dismounted.
Beside the girl, the old man watched keenly from the cart. “All right, Fargo. Let’s see what you can do.”
Fargo and the others walked around the piece for a moment. It had been, Fargo realized, a good fifteen years since he had fired one of these guns. At the time, they had been considered a great improvement in warfare, for the nitroglycerin gelatin with which the shells were loaded was a terrific explosive. But it was also unstable and dangerous; and improvements in conventional cannons had rendered them obsolete. Nevertheless, they were fairly efficient weapons. They could do damage.
Spott Carter stood there hipshot, in his gray uniform, a sardonic smile on his handsome face. “All right, Fargo. You might as well start big. Let’s see you take that farthest target.” He gestured with his rifle. “The one all the way down range.”
Fargo squinted into the sun. The maximum range of the piece was two miles. At that distance, the target Carter indicated was only a dot. Fargo realized that his hands were sweating slightly. On the accuracy of this round might hinge the lives of all of them.
“Right. Come on, O’Bannon. Weatherbee.” The guard was light, manually set for deflection. Fargo supervised its placing and pointing. He opened the double breech. Then he inserted one of the rocket-shaped shells into the upper of the gun’s two tubes. The Sims-Dudley was a smoothbore; the vanes on the tail of the projectile provided rotation for the projectile. Fargo seated it carefully. Then he took from the ammunition supply a firing cartridge. This he inserted into the combustion chamber in the lower tube. Then he closed the double breeches. The explosion of the firing cartridge in the lower tube would compress air and fire the shell from the upper one.
Fargo worked the elevating wheel. Click by click, the long, thin tube of the gun came up, then reached maximum elevation. Fargo went to Carter. “I want field glasses.”
There was a pair around Carter’s neck. But Carter shook his head. “You don’t get ’em. If you’re that much of a hotshot cannoneer, you do this the hard way.”
Fargo met his eyes, then shrugged and turned away. He took another look at the target. There was something wrong. He could not say exactly what, but something. Then he knew. The target was too far away. It was just beyond the maximum range of the gun at maximum elevation. Carter would know that, having registered every inch of this ground. He’d had the gun unlimbered just short enough of what should have been its firing line to make sure that Fargo missed.
But that was one advantage of the dynamite gun. It was light. “Come on,” Fargo said, and he bent to the trail of the piece. He snapped orders. O’Bannon and Weatherbee helped him pick up the trail. Then, manually, they pushed the gun forward.
“Hey,” Carter said, and he took a step forward.
“I’m the gunner,” Fargo said sweating. “This thing’s got a two-mile range.”
Weatherbee leaned into the wheel as Fargo and O’Bannon pushed the trail. The gun rolled forward easily over the level ground. Behind Fargo, the old man cackled. “Ha. Ha, ha. Outfoxed you, didn’t he, Spott?”
Fargo pushed the gun fifty yards, gave the command to halt. He turned, panting, to confront Carter. “All right, General Luna,” he said thinly. “You can measure the range if you want to, now. It ought to be right on two miles.”
“I don’t need to measure it,” Carter snapped, and, involuntarily his eyes went to a stake almost concealed in the grass. Fargo grinned. That was the two-mile marker. By keenness of eye and experience in measuring range, he had placed the trunnion of the piece exactly opposite the stake.
Now he sniffed the wind like a dog. About two miles an hour, coming from the left. He adjusted for that as he laid for deflection. Then he took up the slack in the elevating wheel. The gun’s muzzle was pointed as high as it could go.
Fargo reached for the lanyard. He was aware that his heart was pounding. It was important that this round be a dead-on hit. His accuracy would buy his life.
He had done all he could. He was satisfied. He pulled the lanyard.
The report of the firing cartridge was not loud. The recoil was slight. There was an interval of silence: the shell was on the way. Then, far out, the plain gave birth to a huge bloom of white smoke. The sound of the explosion reverberated in the hills. Smoke and dust obscured, veiled, the target. Fargo held his breath.
Then the wind whipped away the cloud. From the cart, the old man gave that cackling laugh. “By God, dead center! Plumb on! Even with my eyes, I can see that!”
Sure enough, the target had been totally obliterated. Fargo let out a long, pent-up breath.
Spott Carter said, grudgingly, “That was a damned fine shot. You know your business.”
“I can serve this gun at the rate of five, six rounds a minute if I have to.”
“That doesn’t make a damn. We still can’t trust you.”
>
“Maybe that’s your father’s decision to make.” Fargo strode past Carter to where the old man sat in the cart. “Satisfied? I can train every gunner you’ve got to do the same. But it’ll cost you.”
“Cost me?” The old man blinked. Behind Fargo, Spott said angrily, “Cost, hell. You’re in no position to dictate terms.”
A bold offense was the best defense. Fargo said: “You need me. But I come high. That’s all.” He looked back at the old man. “You can kill me and lose the best damned gunner in the Islands. Or you can pay me and have an artillery section that’ll be handled right.”
The old man rubbed his chin. “You’re a nervy bastard, ain’t you? I sort of like that about you. But I ain’t made up my mind yet. I got a lot of thinkin’ to do.” He looked at Spott. “We won’t kill ’em yet. Take ’em back to the house and lock ’em up upstairs.”
“Daddy—”
“You heard me, dammit! Take ’em back and lock ’em up. You and me’ll talk tonight and I’ll decide what to do with ’em by tomorrow mornin’!” He spoke to the driver of the cart, and the man turned the horse. “Come on, let’s git back to the house. It’s time for my nap.”
~*~
It was hard for Fargo to believe that any of this was real. He, O’Bannon, and Weatherbee were locked in a windowless room in one wing of that great old mansion which had absolutely no business being here in the Luzon back country. Downstairs, two deranged Southerners plotted making war on the United States.
O’Bannon and Weatherbee were even more flabbergasted. “Goddammit, Fargo!” the Irishman exploded as soon as the door was locked behind them. “If you think—”
Fargo put a finger to his lips, jerked his head toward the door. Four Tagalogs with rifles and bolos stood guard out there. Then he motioned O’Bannon to the far corner of the room. “Keep your fat Irish mouth shut. The only chance in hell we’ve got’s to convince those lunatics that we’re useful to them.”
“But they can’t do it!” O’Bannon muttered back, red-faced with the strain of keeping his voice down. “Can they?”
