by John Benteen
Then Jane Osterman said, “Very well, Mr. Fargo. If you will be at the Owl’s Head ranch at five this afternoon, I’ll turn fifteen thousand over to you in gold or currency, whichever you choose.”
Fargo’s teeth clamped together hard on the cigar. All the others turned to look at her. “Jane!” Varnell exploded. “We just said we didn’t have that kind of money—”
“I have that kind of money,” she answered evenly. “The first fifteen thousand, anyway. I’ll pay that if the rest of you will guarantee the second fifteen thousand.”
Again that hush. Then Gilliam said, “Girl, where’d you git that kind of cash? Heinie Osterman was broke as the rest of us.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Jane said.
“Hell, I’ve known him for twenty years, and he never had an extra dollar to his name—”
“All right,” she said. “I guess the secret’s out now. Jud, Heinz was a German, and the Germans make the Scotch look like spendthrifts. Yes, he played the part of a man living from one round-up to the next, and he fooled you all. He fooled me too. But he did have money all the time—money that came the hard way, scrimping and doing without. I won’t tell you how much, but it’s enough to pay that fifteen thousand.” She paused. “I didn’t know it either until I read his will and went through his papers. But I’ll guarantee Fargo’s advance if the rest of you will guarantee the other fifteen thousand.”
After a moment, George Trace said sharply, “Ain’t that a pretty lopsided deal, Mrs. Osterman?”
“Maybe. But ...” Her voice trembled slightly. “I’m not saying Heinz Osterman was the best husband a woman could have. But he was kind to me and decent and ... I don’t think a man like him should die and his murderer go unpunished. I’ll spend fifteen thousand of what he left me, to save the ranch he built and to avenge his death.”
Jud Gilliam looked at Varnell. “Well, that puts a different light on it. Maybe—”
Before he could finish, George Trace stood up, thumbs hooked in red sash. “Mrs. Osterman, don’t throw your money down a rat hole.”
As Fargo turned, Trace’s blue eyes met his, then swept the others. “You heard Fargo say it earlier: I can organize a range defense. This is my kind of work, the thing I’ve specialized in for thirty years—and I’ll save your herds without askin’ thirty thousand dollars. You pay dues to the Association and those dues buy my services. All I ask is, you give me a chance—”
“George, you don’t have a chance alone against all those Mexes,” Varnell said quickly. “No disrespect, but you can’t be everywhere at once and cut down twenty or thirty raiders single-handed ...”
“I don’t aim to. Instead of givin’ Fargo thirty thousand dollars, though, you give me five. I’ll hire some men I know, good men, and with them I’ll hit those cattle lifters every time they cross the border. A few bloody noses, they’ll lay off. I know those greasers, they got no stayin’ power.” His voice was edged. “Maybe I ain’t quite as flashy as Fargo. But I was fightin’ for a livin’ while he was wettin’ his pants. I know my business, and I’ll get results. Just give me a fair chance.”
Fargo understood the bitterness in Trace’s voice and bearing. Men like Trace were proud, had to be to take the risks they did for peanuts. Trace was not accustomed to being shoved aside, playing second fiddle to anyone, least of all Neal Fargo. He was like an old herd bull, resentful of any younger stronger challenger, and he would not give way without a fight. Fargo, with no enthusiasm for the job, crushed out his cigar. “Jack, maybe Trace is right.”
“And maybe not. George, we know there ain’t any better man at what you do than you. But you don’t know Mexico and Fargo does. He’s told us more in five minutes about what we’re up against than we could have learned in a month of Sundays any other way. And if Jane will make it possible for the rest of us to get together and raise Fargo’s money—Well, I want to put a resolution before the board. Gentlemen, I suggest that it be resolved that we hire Neal Fargo to eliminate Lopez Belmonte. Jane will advance him fifteen thousand dollars. We’ll stand good for the other fifteen after the rustling is stopped. I further suggest that we scratch around and find another five thousand for George Trace to hire the men he needs. That way, we’ve got a double defense—George up here and Fargo in Mexico to cut the trouble out at the root. Meanwhile, we contact other Association members and see if we can get them to share some of the cost. Let’s take a vote.”
“I’m for it,” Jud Gilliam said promptly. “What about you other hairpins?”
Trace opened his mouth to protest, but already the other ranchers were muttering assent. “Then,” Varnell said decisively, “the resolution is passed unanimously. Neal, when do you start to work?”
“The minute I get my money.”
“I’ll have that for you later this afternoon at the Owl’s Head,” Jane Osterman said, arising. “Now, I’ve got to see my banker. May I expect you about five, Mr. Fargo?”
“I’ll be there,” Fargo said.
“Good. Well, until then.” She went out. The men followed her with their eyes until the door closed behind her.
“That’s a lot of woman,” Jud Gilliam said. “Well, I’ll be damned. All this time, Heinie fooled us. Poormouthin’ and he really had a stake stashed away. Ain’t that just like a Dutchy?” He stood up. “Fargo, glad to have you on our side. Any help I can give, you just holler.” Then he went out, spurs jingling.
One by one, the others followed, until only Varnell and Trace remained. Trace lit a cigarette. “Well, Fargo, it looks like we both won, sort of. I reckon we’ll have to work together. Mind tellin’ me what your plans are?”
“Trace, I don’t really have any, yet.”
“Well, when you’ve got some ...”
“I’ll keep them to myself.”
Trace’s brows went up, his blue eyes flared. “You don’t trust me?”
“It ain’t a question of trust. You’re a pro and I’m a pro. You ought to know why I can’t tell you—or anybody else.”
“Damn it, Fargo, if I got to take responsibility this side of the Rio—”
“What I do yon side doesn’t affect you one damn bit. Trace, I’ve got to operate in secret, get through three Mexican armies and Lopez’s pistoleros to get to him. And I’m not riskin’ my neck by tellin’ another soul.”
Trace turned to Varnell. “Jack—”
Varnell spread his hands, grinning faintly. “Save your breath, George. I know Fargo of old. You might as well try to get a Missouri mule to recite the Lord’s Prayer as make him tell somethin’ he don’t want to. Don’t look at me.”
Trace’s face worked. “All right,” he rasped. “Fair enough. But if you get in trouble down there, don’t look to me to help you!” Before Fargo could answer, he stalked out, leaving Fargo and Varnell alone.
After a moment, Varnell said, “Neal, maybe you were a little short with him. And he might have a point ... If there was some line of communication—”
“There can’t be,” Fargo said with finality.
“We could set it up through me,” Varnell said. “Nobody else would have to know where you were or what you aimed to do unless you needed help.”
Slowly, Fargo shook his head. “Not even you, Jack.”
Varnell grinned, but his eyes were narrowed. “You don’t trust even me?”
“You’re one of two men in this world I do trust,” Fargo said, meaning it. “The other is the Colonel, our old boss in the Rough Riders. But I wouldn’t even tell him what I aim to do or how I aim to do it. No offense, Jack, but if my neck gets chopped off down yonder, then it’s nobody’s responsibility and nobody’s grief but mine.”
“Fair enough.” Varnell stood up. “Well, the hell with it. You got time before you meet Jane Osterman. Let’s wander over to the Home Corral and split a bottle and talk about the old days. A lot of water’s passed under the bridge since last we drank together!”
~*~
Two hours later, five or six drinks of good bourbon in his bell
y, Fargo loped westward on a livery horse, bound for the Osterman ranch. The Winchester was in a saddle scabbard, the shotgun slung barrels down over his shoulder, extra shells clicking in jacket pocket. Part of him watched the sun bitten terrain alertly; with the rest, he thought of Jack Varnell, the situation here, and what lay ahead.
It had been good to see Jack again and drink with him. Basically, Varnell had not changed, even though he was settled down, now, and respectable, a leader in the county. Fargo had read the envy in his eyes as Jack listened to some of his adventures. “Damn, Neal,” he said. “I can’t help envyin’ you. Maybe I picked the wrong fork in the trail. Maybe instead of goin’ to ranchin’, I should have teamed up with you. We’d have made a hell of a pair.” He drank, spread his palms. “But I reckon the die is cast. I’m in too deep to get out now.”
“You’re the last man I’d expect to see leadin’ the settled life,” Fargo said.
“Sometimes I feel that way, too. But ... to tell the truth, Neal, since the last time I saw you, I served a year in Brownsville.”
“Prison? What for?”
“Manslaughter,” Jack said. “I was still hellin’ around, punchin’ cows for forty a month and found, totin’ a gun, stirrin’ up trouble anywhere I could find it. Then this joker braced me in a bar. He went for his gun, and it was a square shake. Trouble was, I was just too damned fast for him. Bored him before he got his cutter clear of leather. It was a law town, with a Ranger stationed there. Seems this hombre had political connections—not enough to get me sent up for murder, but enough so self-defense didn’t hold water. They compromised, gave me a year.”
His face was bleak. “A year in Brownsville makes you think. Me, I thought the kind of life I was leadin’ wasn’t gettin’ me anywhere at all. I made up my mind to change my ways when I got out, and I did. Saved my money, made a few cattle deals, kind of pyramided it, built up some credit ... Then I had a chance to buy this ranch down here, completely stocked. Did so, seven years ago ... and it’s been a struggle ever since. Every time it looks like I’ll hit break-even, something happens. When the war in Europe started and the price of cattle went sky-high, I thought I had it locked. Then this goddam rustlin’ started, and if it don’t end pretty quick, I’ll go under—and so will all the other ranchers you met today, except Jane Osterman, maybe.” He shook his head. “Ain’t that somethin’? Who’d have thought old poormouth Heinie had so much squirreled away? Look at the old bastard, run-over boot heels, patched Levis, haywire and rawhide wrappin’s on all his gear, you’d have thought he was the poorest rancher in the county. Well, he fooled us all.”
Fargo took out two thin black cigars, handed Varnell one. “He was older than his wife?”
“By thirty years, I’d reckon. It sure made a lot of talk when Heinie went off to El Paso, stayed two weeks, and come home married to Jane. But the way I hear it, she was from the east, her husband had just got killed—he was a professional gambler and not a very good one—and she was stranded and up to her ears in debt. Heinie bailed her out and she married him out of gratitude. But she made him a good wife. Maybe she loved the old Dutchy after all. She must, to ante up fifteen thousand to avenge his death.”
“The border jumpers killed him, you said?”
“Right. Heinie rode day and night to guard his stock and he must have put up a good fight. They found him dead out on the range next mornin’, with a couple of his hands, plenty of spent hulls all around. That was when we called in Trace. He’s done his best, but it ain’t good enough. Not his fault, one man can’t do it all. We figured he needed help, and so we sent for you. Or rather I did. And ...” He stared down into his glass. “Christ, I wish I was goin’ down there with you.”
“Well, it can’t be,” Fargo said.
“No.” Then Jack brightened. “Neal, you remember that time you and I went out on night-scout in Cuba? And then we thought we found a Spanish picket in the brush, heard somethin’ rustlin’? And you went in with your bayonet and jabbed it ... ”
Fargo laughed. “A damn army mule that strayed off. He liked to have kicked me into next week when I jabbed that steel in his rump.”
Varnell chuckled. “Right. And you remember what the Colonel said when we reported.” He made his voice high and scratchy. “‘Bully, Fargo! I knew if any man could find a piece of ass in Cuba, it would be you!’”
Both men had laughed and drank again.
And, Fargo thought, scanning the countryside, it would have been good to have Jack siding him in Mexico. But for what lay ahead, there was only one way to work—the way he always did, alone.
Three
THE OSTERMAN HOME RANCH didn’t look like a spread belonging to someone who could lay out fifteen thousand dollars in a single chunk. An unpainted frame house with maybe four rooms, rickety bunkhouse and cook shack, jerry-built corrals of mesquite poles and haywire. In one of those, though, were several horses that drew Fargo’s eye. Cavalry remount geldings, sired by a government stud, now all at least five years old and some older: fine horses, every one, with hot blood in them.
Tying the livery mount to the hitch rack before the house he went up on the board porch, started to knock. Before his fist hit the door, Jane Osterman opened it. “Well,” she said, “you’re a little late.”
Fargo stared at her. She had let her blonde hair down so that it fell in a shimmering cascade around her shoulders. Had changed clothes, wore now a white dress hugging every line of her richly curved body. It was unbuttoned enough to reveal a first faint vee of breast. Her violet eyes seemed to swirl, her red mouth smiled. “Come in.”
Fargo entered a sparsely furnished front room, which a woman’s touch had not been able to soften. “Sorry I’m late. Jack and I had a few drinks.”
She shrugged. “It makes no difference. I wasn’t going anywhere. And all four of the hands are out north of here with the cook and wagon, holding stock as far from the Rio as possible. I’m glad to see anybody at any time. This is the most lonesome place in the whole world.”
“I guess it would be ... ” Fargo started to add, “for a widow.” But since she wore no trace of mourning, he bit that off.
“This way,” Jane Osterman said and led him down a short hall into another room. When he entered it, Fargo’s eyes narrowed. It was a bedroom, and far different from the rest of the house, luxuriously furnished, with satin covers on the bed, ruffled curtains on the window. It smelled of perfume, cosmetics. But in one corner there was a desk, a filing cabinet, and a safe and a pair of chairs.
“Sit down, please,” Jane Osterman said. She went to the file cabinet, opened it as Fargo took a chair. From it, she brought out a bottle of bourbon, two glasses, and a thick manila envelope. She handed that last to Fargo. “There,” she said softly, “is your money, Mr. Fargo. And ... while you’re counting it, I thought you might like a drink to seal the bargain.”
Fargo nodded. “That would be nice.” His eyes flickered over her, and she met his gaze, coolly, boldly, and then he knew. To him, it was an old, old story. His scarred, battered, ugly features affected a certain kind of woman as catnip affects a cat. Jane Osterman was young, lusty, and, he judged, had been without a man since longer than her husband’s death. Heinie Osterman, thirty years older than her, obsessed with work, was not likely to have been able really to satisfy a woman like this. Fargo opened the envelope, rifled through the bills it contained, a thick sheaf of hundreds. Then he tucked the packet in his pocket. All right, he thought. As long as there are no strings attached ...
Sitting down behind her desk, she poured two drinks, shoved one to Fargo. They were stiff ones. She raised her glass. “Here is to your success,” she said. “Heinz will rest easier, I’m sure, when you’ve brought his murderer to account.”
“I’ll try,” said Fargo. He drank. She wore perfume, its musky fragrance tantalizing in the narrow confines of the room. He was pretty sure there was nothing under the white dress. Nothing, that is, except Jane Osterman—and that would be quite a lot.
“Yeah,” said Fargo. “I’ll bet you do.”
She drained her glass, stood up, came around the table. “Time is short, dreadfully short. I learned that a long time ago. I guess Jack told you about me. That my first husband was a gambler. And not a very good one. He tried to cheat, and he couldn’t even do that properly and somebody shot him for it ... and I needed help, and Heinz Osterman gave it to me, the nice old man. So lonely, and ... But this was not exactly what I expected when I married him. Still, I didn’t rebel, I kept my part of the bargain. Only ... Listen, Fargo, do you hear it?”
As she came to him, Neal Fargo stood up. “Hear what?”
“The wind,” she said. “The goddamned wind. It blows out here all the time. It’s like a buzzing in your ears you can’t get rid of. It drives me crazy.”
“Only Texas wind,” Fargo said.
“I hate it,” said Jane Osterman. “Oh, God, how I hate that wind.” She looked up at him. “Neal,” she said, violet eyes enormous, red lips slightly parted. “Put your hands over my ears so I can’t hear the wind.”
Fargo looked down at her a moment, then smiled crookedly. “Yes,” he said, and he put his hands over her ears, and with her head fixed like that, looking up, he bent and kissed her.
She returned the kiss with open mouth and hungry tongue. Her breasts, large and soft, unhaltered, flattened against his chest as her body surged close to his, hips moving, grinding. Her arms went around him, under his jacket, and her nails were sharp as they dug through the fabric of his shirt.
