The Border Jumpers (A Fargo Western Book 16)

by John Benteen

  ~*~

  It was precisely three o’clock when Fargo knocked on the door of the meeting room upstairs in the Town Hall. Immediately it was opened by a tall, rangy man in his late thirties, jet black hair gray at the temples, dark eyes fanned with weather wrinkles. His wide mouth split in a grin of pleasure, his hand shot out. “Hello, Neal! How you doin’, you old buzzard?”

  “Jack!” Fargo’s own grin was full of pleasure, and he pumped the other’s hand with vigor. A different set of memories came surging in on him. Still in their teens, he and Jack Varnell had punched cows together in Pecos County on the Llano Estacado, raised hell on Saturday nights, gone off together to join Bucky O’Neill’s Battalion of the Rough Riders, when America had gone to war with Spain. The years, he saw, had not changed Jack much, his tall figure was unmarred by fat or flab, his manner still deceptively easy-going and good-natured. But, Fargo remembered, Varnell had had no equal at taking a cow town apart on payday in his youth, and he had picked up two medals for bravery under fire at Kettle Hill, in Cuba. Arouse him, and he was dangerous as a capped stick of dynamite.

  Varnell clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on in, I’ll introduce you around.” Fargo entered, and Varnell turned to face the four other men in the room. “Folks, this is the man I sent for, Neal Fargo. I reckon most of you have heard of him.”

  “Well, we’ve heard your stories about him, anyhow,” one of the group, gray headed, gray-mustached, in range clothes, obviously an old-time cattleman, said, stepping forward. “Mr. Fargo, I’m Jud Gilliam. We appreciate your coming. My brand’s the Diamond G. This here’s Phil Howard, brands Triple Six; Bud Lancer, owns the Seven-up … ”

  “And me,” Varnell said, as Fargo shook hands with the others, “I’ve gone straight, too. My brand’s the Flying V.” His grin faded, as he turned to a man who stood slightly apart from the rest. “And this gentleman, Fargo, is George Trace, of whom you’re bound to have heard.”

  “Fargo,” Trace said coolly, coming forward, putting out his hand.

  Taking it, Fargo returned the appraising stare Trace was giving him. Neal Fargo was on his way to becoming a legend, but George Trace already was one, though from a different era. He was in his late fifties, short, stocky, built like a bull, his eyes blue lakes in a weathered parchment map of face. He wore a broad brimmed Stetson, white shirt and tie, a business suit despite the heat. The pants legs were tucked into boots, and a red sash, Spanish style, wrapped around his waist, added a flare of color at variance with his sober dress. Trace wore a gun, a single ivory-butted Colt in a buscadero holster on his right hip. His reputation as a range detective—and executioner of stock thieves—was grim and towering, dating from the bloody Johnson County War in Wyoming, twenty-five years before. Now Fargo sensed a strange hostility in him.

  “Mr. Trace,” he said, with equal coolness.

  There was a moment of silence. Then Jack Varnell said, “All right, Neal, you’ve met everybody. Now, let’s get down to business.”

  “Can’t,” Jud Gilliam said. “Jane Osterman isn’t here.”

  “Yes, I am,” a woman’s voice said from the doorway.

  Fargo, turned, taking off his hat.

  Like an actress making an entrance on stage, she came into the room, and she was something to see.

  She was, Fargo guessed, in her early thirties, and wearing well. Hair the color of hammered gold, piled richly on top of her head, a flawlessly chiseled face, skin ivory white, eyes startlingly large and dark, a deep violet. Red mouth, smiling faintly, and a body to match the face, with ripe curves of bosom pushing taut the blouse beneath the doeskin jacket, a narrow waist, slender hips, long legs in a divided riding skirt. Confident and self-possessed, she came to Fargo, putting out a hand. “You’d be Mr. Fargo. I am Mrs. Osterman.”

  “Jane’s the secretary of this group,” Jack Varnell said. “She owns the Owl’s Head outfit, east of here.”

  Her hand was slender, soft, cool, in Fargo’s. Her eyes met his boldly. “I am very glad you could come, Mr. Fargo.” Somehow she made it sound extremely personal. As she drew her hand away, her eyes lingered a moment on that scarred, ugly face and he thought something moved in them. “I hope you can help us solve our problems—and get revenge for my husband’s death.”

  “Heinie Osterman was killed a month ago,” Varnell said. “We’ll come to that. Now, let’s get started.”

  Two

  THERE WAS A long conference table in the room, and Varnell motioned Fargo to a chair at one end. He took the other, Jane Osterman on his right, George Trace on his left, and the others sat down in between. The building had a tin roof and it was hot up here, even with the windows open. Trace took off his coat, hung it over the back of his chair, revealing a powerful, barrel-chested torso.

  “All right,” Varnell said. “This meeting of the directors of the Ocotillo County chapter of the Texas and Southwestern Stock Raisers Association is called to order.” He looked around the table. “Four weeks ago, when we discussed our problems and I recommended we try to get in touch with Neal Fargo, I was authorized to go ahead. It took a lot of work, he’s like a flea the way he jumps around, but I finally got a telegram to him. It didn’t tell you much, though, did it Neal?”

  Fargo grinned coolly. “It mentioned money and it had your name on it. That was enough.”

  “Good. Anyhow, we appreciate your coming.”

  “Okay,” Fargo said. “But get to the point. Why’d you send for me?”

  “In the hopes you can keep us from goin’ broke,” Varnell said. His lean face was serious. “It’s rustling, Neal. Just plain old-time cattle thievery like we thought had died out long ago. But now it’s come back—and on a damned big scale. Rustling ... and murder.”

  He went on. “What you see here isn’t all the ranchers in Ocotillo County, but it’s the ones who’ve been hit the hardest. We’re the biggest outfits and we’ve all got range that borders the Rio. Among us, I reckon we’ll run nigh a hundred thousand head of beef, all prime Hereford, and, of course, a lot of horses—includin’ cavalry remounts, bred up by remount studs loaned to us by the government.”

  Fargo nodded.

  “For the past five, six years,” Varnell went on, “the price of beef has been right down on the floor, and remounts, too. We’ve been cattle rich and cash poor, hangin’ on by our fingernails. Most of us have good-sized mortgages. Now, though, there’s a war in Europe and the price of beef and horses has shot sky-high. For the first time, it looks like we’ve got a chance of gittin’ out of the hole and makin’ some money. We’d already be there, if it wasn’t for the Mex revolution.” He smiled wryly. “But you know all about that. Word I get is that you’ve been in it up to your neck.”

  “I go where the action is.”

  “Yeah. Well, the action seems to be right here, now.” Varnell’s face darkened. “Too much action. What it boils down to, Neal, is this. The border jumpers are eatin’ us alive. Mex bandits, guerillas, soldiers, whatever—they’re stealin’ us blind. They’ll hit here, there, somewhere else, daytime, night-time never where and when you expect ’em, as few as half a dozen, as many as thirty or forty, dependin’ on the target they’ve picked. They’ll scoop up beef or remounts, shove ’em across the Rio, and kill anybody gets in their way. The further we push our beef away from the Rio, the more of ’em come, the bolder they git. There’s been six months of that, startin’ small, gettin’ worse all the time. You couldn’t even hardly call it rustlin’ any more—it’s downright war. And it’s ruinin’ us. Among us, we’ve lost close to three thousand head of beef alone—and likely two hundred head of horses. You figure you’re talkin’ about fifty bucks a steer and a hundred and a quarter a remount gelding and you get the idea.”

  Fargo whistled.

  “That ain’t the worst. Jane’s husband, Heinie, one of the oldest and most respected and toughest ranchers around here—he and some of his men caught a bunch of ’em a few weeks ago, had a runnin’ battle. They killed Heinie, and three of his m
en. I’ve lost one hand myself, they caught out on the range alone. And two, three days ago, the Army had an upscuttle with ’em and lost two soldiers. The whole damned situation’s out of hand, and it’s got to be stopped. That’s why we sent for you. To stop it.”

  Fargo was silent for a moment, taking out a cigar, biting off its end. When it was lit, he said, “What about the Rangers?”

  “We’ve raised hell with every politician up in Austin,” Jud Gilliam put in fiercely. “But then, so’s every other cattleman along the border. There ain’t enough Rangers to go around, and we backed the wrong horse in the last election, so we’re suckin’ hind tit—excuse me, Janie. We hollered at the Federal government until they finally turned loose of a troop of Cavalry from Bliss and sent it over—but dadburned if it didn’t turn out to be mostly a bunch of dudes, a Philadelphia reserve outfit. Most of ’em know as much about this kind of country as a pig does about Thursday. Now that some have got themselves killed, maybe the Army’ll send in real troops. But by the time they get the paperwork done, we’ll lose a lot more beef.”

  “I see.” Fargo nodded. His eyes shuttled to Trace. “And Mr. Trace, where do you fit in?”

  Trace’s lined face was expressionless as he looked back. “The Stock Raisers’ Association sent me over to see what I could do. But ...” there was an edge of bitterness in his voice “ ... these people didn’t give me much time to do anything before they sent for you.”

  Varnell turned to him. “George, we weren’t takin’ a slap at you. And we need you, need you bad—workin’ on this side of the Rio. Organizin’ our defense against the rustlers, protectin’ what stock we got left. But ... we got to face it. You don’t know Mexico and Fargo does. And it’s gonna take somebody who knows Mexico and can work with you to get the job done. Fargo, you’ve been up to your ears in that fightin’ down there. Who do you think is behind this rustlin’? Villa? They say you’re good friends with him. Maybe you could persuade him to put a stop to it. We’ve been sorta sympathetic toward him so far, he seems like a real man, but we’re losin’ our sympathy fast for any of that bunch.”

  Fargo looked at him quizzically. “Was that your idea? For me to ride down there and ask Pancho Villa to please, kindly, put a stop to stealin’ American beef?”

  “It was one suggestion,” Varnell said thinly. “We got some others. You think it is Villa?”

  “Hell’s fire,” Fargo said. “It could be Villa, yeah. It could be Huerta and his Federales. It could be Obregon, it might even be Zapata, though he’s a thousand miles south and he’d have to pass through Villa’s territory. But he and Villa get along. It could be anybody, everybody.”

  “Whoever it is, he’s organized,” Trace said. “That’s clear to me. Organized for large scale rustling. Fargo, does the name Lopez Belmonte mean anything to you?”

  Fargo sat up straight, staring at Trace. “Yeah, it means something. Where’d you hear it?”

  “The Army passed it on. That dust-up they had with the border jumpers—one Mex got shot out of his saddle and left behind. They tried to question him before he died. He spoke no English, though, and those horse soldiers had no Spanish, not even Mextex. But one of them thought he heard the name Lopez Belmonte. They thought maybe it was the Mexican’s name, but it wasn’t. He had identification on him and his name was Montoya.”

  Fargo took his cigar from his mouth. “All right, gentlemen. You’ve told me all I need to know. And I might as well catch the next train east and finish the little spree I was havin’ when I got your telegram.”

  “Neal!” Varnell said. “What the hell?”

  “You can’t afford me,” Fargo said. “Not for what I’d have to do. Gentlemen, absorb your losses and be happy they ain’t any higher. George Trace was fighting while I was still in knee pants. Maybe he can figure out something to protect your stock. Maybe the Army will send in more troopers. But Lopez Belmonte comes high. For me to tackle him would cost you thirty thousand dollars. Fifteen now and fifteen when I’d stopped the rustling.”

  ~*~

  A hot gust of wind blew through the room. A wasp droned. “Varnell, I told you,” George Trace said, voice touched with triumph. “I knew—”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars,” Jud Gilliam cut in. “Hell, Fargo, there ain’t that much free cash in this whole county—not until after fall roundup and shipment.”

  “I figured that. But I wouldn’t work for less. I wouldn’t dirty up a gun-barrel for less than five thousand. Generally my rock-bottom’s ten, most times I average twenty. Lopez Belmonte comes a lot higher.”

  Varnell looked downcast, confused ... “Neal. I knew you charged. But ... All right, I won’t try to beat you down for friendship’s sake. Only, why does this Lopez Belmonte come so high?”

  “Because,” Fargo said, “he supplies Pancho Villa with beef. Not only that, he also supplies Obregon and Huerta and every other fighting faction in Northern Mexico. So when you tackle him, you aren’t just takin’ on Lopez Belmonte. You’re takin’ on every army operatin’ in Chihuahua—includin’ Lopez’s own.”

  They stared at him. Then the woman said, “Mr. Fargo, I don’t understand.”

  “Nobody who didn’t know Mexico inside and out would. Okay, I’ll explain.” As he went on, the others listened intently and Jane Osterman never took her eyes from him.

  “Lopez Belmonte,” Fargo said, “owns one of the biggest cattle ranches in Chihuahua, hell, in all of Mexico. You could put this whole county and all your stock in the middle of his holdings and he’d never notice it. He’s a Hidalgo, pure Spanish from a long line of Castilians—exactly the kind of man this revolution’s supposed to wipe out. And it has wiped out a lot of ’em, but Lopez was too smart to let it wipe out him. Because he made himself into the goose that lays the golden egg. He stays neutral in the revolution, backs no side. But he donates cattle to all of ’em, a hell of a lot of cattle. And with the other Gachupins—that’s what the Revolucionarios call the Spaniards—ruined and broken, he’s about the only big source of beef left in Chihuahua.

  “Villa needs beef,” Fargo went on, “he turns to Lopez. Obregon, Huerta’s armies, the same. Lopez plays ’em one against the other, and none of ’em dares to try to cut off the supplies to the others, because to do that, he’d have to kill Lopez Belmonte and then, once what beef there was was gone, where would more come from?”

  Gilliam said, “You mean, he’s like a cow they all milk. And if one side kills him to keep the others from gittin’ the milk, they all go hungry.”

  “Right. That’s Lopez’s life insurance—the fact that he can supply ’em with cattle. It’s how he stays alive and keeps his land. And, by damn, they’ll all fight to protect him from us gringos—and that’s why he’s worth thirty thousand dollars. Only, my guess is that Lopez is running out of life insurance and—”

  “And,” Trace cut in, mind quick and logical, “he’s gettin’ more up here. He’s running out of beef, so to keep the armies happy, he’s stealin’ Anglo beef to give to ’em.”

  “That’s it,” Fargo said. “They’ve probably picked his ranch nearly clean. But when they demand beef, he’s got to give it to them or go under. So, my guess is, he’s set up this rustlin’ operation. Probably moved a lot of men up here to the border, established bases to hold the stolen beef until he can drive it to whoever demands it, and there’s no way to stop him this side of killin’ him. Which will take some doin’. He may be in deep Chihuahua or he may be up here superintendin’ this thing personally. Either way, he’s under the protection of every soldier in Northern Mexico—and on top of that, he’s got a small army of his own.”

  Varnell asked, keenly interested, “You know him personally?”

  “I’ve met him,” Fargo said. “And he’s a hard case. His old man was the kind that used to hang a peon for stealing an egg from under a chicken, and Hernando Lopez Belmonte learned everything he knew from his father. He runs that ranch of his the way a warden runs a chain gang, and he brags he’s the best pistoler
o and Charro in Mexico—and likely he’s right. Big, good-looking scudder about my age and—you ever seen a man flogged with maguey?”

  “What?” Jane Osterman asked.

  “Maguey. They raise it to make rope and booze. Got a big broad leaf tough as leather, with spines on it like a ten-penny nail. Only time I saw Lopez Belmonte in action, it was one of those Sunday morning Charreadas—kind of like a rodeo—they have down there. He’d tailed up a steer and thrown it, and when it landed it broke its neck. One of his men laughed. Lopez didn’t like that, so he cut the man out with his rope, dragged him outside the corral, tied him up, and had him flogged with a maguey leaf. A cat of nine tails couldn’t have cut him up any worse. The Mex couldn’t even walk when they were through, and Lopez just stood there grinnin’.”

  “Ugh,” Jane Osterman said.

  “Anyway, that’s who’s takin’ your beef, my guess is. And there ain’t but two ways to stop him. One’s to put a solid screen of soldiers all along the Rio, from one end of the county to the other, which the Army ain’t about to do, or hire enough gunslingers to get the same effect, which would break you. The other is for somebody to go down into Chihuahua and wipe out Lopez Belmonte ... one man, that knows the country and the people and could do it without startin’ a war between this country and Mexico. Whoever that one man is, he’s got to buck every fightin’ man in Northern Mexico, and his chances of gettin’ out alive are slim as hell. Me, I hope you find that man—at a price you can afford. But I wouldn’t touch it myself for a cent less than thirty thousand—and it’s cheap at that.”

  ~*~

  The wasps buzzed outside. Fargo looked at the people around the table, saw the hopelessness on their faces. He hated not being able to help Jack Varnell, but friendship was one thing, business another. He had not exaggerated the situation, as a matter of fact, he would be a fool to take the job at any price, and he was as well satisfied that they couldn’t raise the cash.