The Border Jumpers (A Fargo Western Book 16)

by John Benteen

  “But ...”

  “Later,” Fargo said.

  Sterling bit his lip, relaxed, and then they walked on. Behind, Brannigan’s laughter rang out in the silence of the afternoon.

  When they reached the horse lines, Sterling’s mount was ready. The lieutenant swung up. “Neal, I’m scared.”

  “If you weren’t, you’d be crazy. Don’t let it bother you, Tom. It’s no worse than handling rattlesnakes.”

  Sterling grinned and his eyes glinted. “That’s for sure,” he said, and then he swung his mount and spurred it and rode away, straight-backed, tall in the saddle. Fargo watched him until he was out of sight, and then went to check his weapons and catch another hour’s sleep. It was going to be a long, long night.

  ~*~

  It was always like this before a battle—the waiting was the worst part. Even Fargo, who had seen so much action, had a knot in his belly that would dissolve as soon as the shooting started. Meanwhile, he waited in concealment in a deep fold of earth with the Texas riders under the command of George Trace. Out on the level holding ground, more men, heavily armed and alerted, circled the bedded herd. In the cavalry camp, twenty soldiers stood to horse. Now, with a full moon riding high, it was nearly half-past ten. Fargo looked toward the Rio. Almost time. And he felt an unaccustomed qualm. It was a lot to load on a man as young and raw as Sterling. If he were wrong about Tom, a lot of good men would pay with their lives tonight ...

  And then it came, from far up the river—a sudden crackling like the popping of damp twigs in a campfire. Guns going off—a lot of them, Lopez Belmonte’s diversion had begun.

  Time crawled by. The shooting continued. Past eleven, now. Sterling should have broken off ... but there was no sign of that. The gunfire went on and on. Fargo’s heart began to sink. Still, he was like something carved as he stood by his horse.

  No matter how tonight turned out, of one thing he was certain. He had to get his shotgun back. Lopez Belmonte had it, and he had to find the man and kill him and take the Fox. Not really for the extra fifteen thousand dollars, but for the gun itself. It had a value, a significance, no dollars could measure. It was, in a way, a part of him, and without it he would be a different, lesser man. So tonight he would reclaim it or die trying. The odds, he guessed, were about fifty-fifty.

  Then he tensed. The rifle fire upriver was slackening. And now—

  Suddenly they were there.

  They came charging in out of darkness, shooting, shrieking like all the devils in hell let loose. And underneath the drumfire and the shouting, the roll of hooves, and Fargo was suddenly cold. This was more than any fifty, sixty riders! He had underestimated Lopez’s determination! A hundred Mexicans and maybe more were charging down upon the herd!

  But then there was no time to think. Suddenly he was in the saddle. Trace yelled something and the Texans at the herd were firing back, and Fargo’s horse stretched out in a run, as Trace and his men thundered into battle behind him. The herd was on its feet, bawling. The darkness was a confused hell of gun flame, stampeding cattle, charging men. Fargo drove straight into the melee, Colt in hand but holding fire.

  Then there were big-hatted shapes on either side of him. One yanked his horse around, brought a pistol into line. Finally Fargo loosed a shot. The hollow point blew the man’s head apart as if it were a melon. Two more riders converged on him; a bullet raked his flank, its touch like red-hot iron. Fargo fired a spread from the Colt, saw one man go backwards from the saddle, another slump over the horn. He charged between them, then reined in his gelding, head cocked, listening. The night was a continual explosion of sound. Yet, Fargo heard it coming from far away, over to his right, recognized it as a mother might recognize the sound of her child’s crying in a crowd: the deep, coughing bellow of a sawed-off shotgun.

  Kneeing the gelding around, he fought his way toward it, that lethal bass sound—one-two, pause, one-two. Fargo heard men and horses both scream as the Fox did its lethal work. Then a wall of tall-hatted men blocked his way. Fargo charged them, revolver pumping its last shots. As it clicked on empty, he holstered it, whisked a carbine from a saddle scabbard. A rider came at Fargo and he threw a quick shot from the Winchester and the man vanished. He raised the carbine to fire again and a bullet struck its receiver and tore it from his hands. He bent low in the saddle, reaching for the Colt, but there was no time to reload it, and he never drew it. Instead, he pulled out the Batangas knife and flipped it open. Because, over there on his right, a few yards away, he recognized the twin fat spouts of orange flame.

  Lopez Belmonte, and he was using the shotgun for all it was worth, blasting the charging head-quarters platoon with buckshot as fast as he could load and fire. Fargo heard a bugle call choked off and dying as the bugler died. He saw the enormous silhouette of the bearlike Spaniard against the sky, the stubby weapon in his hands. Fargo spurred his mount.

  “Lopez!” he yelled. He had to divert that lethal weapon from the horse-soldiers. “Lopez, it’s Fargo! I’m coming for you!”

  Lopez heard, wheeled his stallion. Cloud cleared the moon, and in the flooding silver light they looked at one another across a distance of twenty yards. Lopez had the shotgun broken, was cramming in more rounds.

  “Fargo!” His face broke in a grin. He snapped the shotgun closed, lined it at pointblank range.

  Fargo, knowing what it could do, did not wait for him to fire. He had already left the saddle, rolling over his horse’s rump in a wild somersault. He hit the ground hard, even as lead rushed over the place where he would have been, and the gelding, taking the full charge, screamed and fell.

  Then Fargo was on his feet, dodging running horses. Batangas knife still in hand, he dashed forward, straight for Lopez Belmonte.

  The Spaniard saw him coming, thumbed two more rounds from the bandolier, was cramming them in the shotgun as Fargo reached his stirrup. The Fox clicked shut, Lopez laughed and aimed it at Fargo’s face. Fargo, with his left hand, reached up, knocked the barrels aside. With his right, he drove the knife into Lopez’s thigh.

  The muzzle blast of the Fox seared his cheek, but the shot, closely packed as it came from the bores, rushed by him harmlessly, like a hot wind. Lopez screamed, and Fargo pulled out the knife and jerked hard on the shotgun barrels. Lopez, clinging to the weapon, was yanked from the saddle. As he fell, Fargo came up under him, knife upraised.

  Lopez’s weight bore him down. Even as Fargo hit the ground with the Spaniard on top of him, he drove the knife in to the hilt, then ripped upward. Lopez’s breath rushed into his face. “Maria y todos santos!” Lopez gasped. He reached for Fargo’s eyes, but his hand slipped away. Something wet and warm and slimy spilled out across Fargo’s waist and loins. Lopez rolled aside, fists pounding the earth, then going to his belly, desperately trying to cram his guts back into his wide-ripped body cavity. He failed: his body began to flop, entrails oozing across the grass. Fargo, drenched with blood and slime, measured the distance, rammed the knife home, this time in the chest. Lopez’s legs straightened out and he was still. Fargo scooped up the shotgun, fumbled rounds free from the bloody bandolier. Then he caught a riderless horse, mounted.

  But even as he hit the saddle, cramming shells into the double breeches, the fighting raged on around him and the border jumpers were getting the best of it. Fargo saw Texans, troopers, go down. Sterling, he thought, loosing the right barrel automatically at a charging rustler. Where the hell was Sterling? He was overdue ...

  Maybe he had guessed wrong, he thought bitterly. Maybe—

  Then he heard it, loud and clear above the sound of battle. Once again it came, the sweetest music Fargo knew—a cavalry bugler blowing Charge! Hoofs thundered, drum-rolled, and then Sterling’s voice came from darkness. “Fire at will!” Sterling roared. And all at once a fresh volley of gun flame broke out, from the flank and rear.

  “Patron!” someone yelled, and when there was no answer, another voice roared, “It’s a trap! Run! Save yourselves!” Horses reared as they wer
e wheeled; tall hats stood out against the sky. Fargo lined his shotgun on one. But, before he could squeeze the trigger, the bullet hit him and knocked him from the saddle. And then, as the bugle blasted once again, everything faded out.

  Nine

  THE SLUG HAD nicked a rib, then, diverted, had torn a hole out his back, missing vital arteries and organs. Fargo healed quickly, refusing to allow himself the human luxury of self-pity. Within a week, torso swathed in bandages, he was out of the hospital tent and walking around again. Now, in the ebbing heat of late afternoon, he sat across the table from Captain Telford in the headquarters tent.

  Telford’s face now had a different cast, that of a man who had seen combat and survived it. He poured whiskey from a bottle into two glasses and shoved one to Fargo. The two men drank. Outside, retreat over, there were the pleasant sounds of an army encampment off duty.

  “I reported to Pershing myself,” Telford said. “He was vastly pleased. He sends you his regards. Our losses were surprisingly low, considering the size of the opposing force. And we just simply broke their backs. Pershing’s had word from Mexico. Villa’s confiscated the Lopez Belmonte rancho, is making all sorts of apologies for allowing the raids to happen.”

  Fargo grinned. “Pancho’s a damned good liar. And he needs the goodwill of President Wilson. So the rustling will stop. For a while at least. Until Pancho needs the beef worse than the good will. But that’s not my affair.”

  “No, I guess not. Incidentally, Trace is gone. He went back to Austin, said he’s retiring.”

  “Well, he went out in a blaze of glory.”

  “Yes. Ah ... He left you a message.”

  “A message?”

  “Yes. That you needn’t waste your time looking for the rest of Varnell’s railroad loot. He’s already found it at Varnell’s ranch. And returned it to the railroad and claimed his reward.”

  Fargo sat up straight. “Why, that old sidewinder! I’d aimed to do that myself!” Then, wincing, he relaxed. “What the hell. I’ve got Varnell’s fifteen thousand and another fifteen coming from the ranchers. A man can’t drink up but so much money—let old George have his five or ten thousand. What about the Osterman woman?”

  “Gone.” Telford looked ruefully at his hands. “We had her under guard, but ... these men have been out here a long time. She didn’t have but one thing to bribe her guards with, but she used it to good effect, and then she just got on a horse and rode away. We haven’t traced her yet.”

  “Try the El Paso cathouses,” Fargo said. “But not too hard. Good riddance.”

  “I think so.” Telford arose. “Strong enough to take a little walk?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Down behind the horse lines. I think something’s happening there you’ll be interested in.”

  They walked through the encampment. Behind the horse lines, a knot of soldiers had gathered, but men made way for Telford and Fargo. On the inside of the circle they had formed, the two men halted.

  Sterling naked to the waist, stood there, hands up and fists clenched. Compared to the towering, flabby, yet muscular Brannigan, also stripped, he looked slender, fragile. Unaware of Fargo’s presence, he said, “All right, Brannigan. You’ve run your mouth. Now, back it up.”

  Brannigan grinned. “Why, ye little pipsqueak ... ” He clubbed big hands, came in, a lethal lumbering ox of a man.

  Fargo opened his mouth to yell advice, then clamped it shut. For suddenly Sterling was a blur, footwork graceful, fists flashing. He came in under Brannigan’s clumsy guard, drove a fist into the flab of the sergeant’s belly, another into Brannigan’s mouth. Brannigan whooshed blood, slashed at Sterling, but Sterling wasn’t there. Like a ghost, he faded, then bored in again. His fists made meaty splatting sounds as they chopped against Brannigan’s gut and face, and Brannigan’s windmilling punches never touched the younger man. Brutally, Sterling drove Brannigan back and back again. Brannigan, blinding, groggy, swayed. Sterling came in for the kill. There was a sound like a pumpkin landing on pavement after a two-story drop. Brannigan hit the dust on his back and did not move.

  Sterling looked down at him a moment, then turned away. “Somebody throw some water on him,” he said in a commanding voice. Then, wholly untouched, he turned away. But when he saw Fargo, he halted, grinned. “Did I do okay?”

  Fargo stared. “Tom, you never told me—”

  “That I was also top man on the senior boxing team?” Sterling’s grin faded. “Well, before, it didn’t seem to matter. Brannigan just turned my guts to water—until you taught me, Neal, that there are worse things than being scared or hurt. Now, tell me. Did I do all right?”

  “You did just fine,” said Fargo.

  “I want to talk to you alone.” Sterling took his arm, drew him off. “Neal ... You remember, before we crossed the Rio, I told you ... I like the way you live. Someday I want to live that way, too.”

  “That’s up to you,” Fargo said.

  “But first I’ll serve out my hitch. We’re going to be in the war over there sooner or later. With what you’ve taught me, I’ll make a big reputation. And then, when I come home, I can drag down a high price—”

  “Sure,” Fargo said.

  “It’s a way to get experience,” Sterling said.

  “Sure,” Fargo said again. He looked into Sterling’s eager face and saw something there that chilled him. And suddenly he realized he had taught Sterling too much.

  Sterling was right. America would get into the war. And its best and most experienced men like young Tom Sterling would be out in front—and wouldn’t have a chance in hell. Over there they were slaughtering young men like chickens for market, wringing their necks by the thousands ... and the best always went first. Sterling would, of course, be in front, leading, as an officer should.

  What Fargo saw written on Sterling’s face was death. And he had put it there.

  “Tom,” he said. “Good luck.”

  “Neal. Thanks for everything.”

  “Por nada,” Fargo said. The conventional Spanish phrase meant: For nothing. Fargo pulled his arm away. “Now, I’ve got to go.”

  “Yes. But I’ll see you around?”

  “You’ll see me around,” Fargo said. “Adios, Tom.”

  “Adios, Neal.”

  Fargo felt old and tired as he and Telford walked back through the camp. Death, it seemed, followed him like a dog at heel. Varnell ... Sterling ... He said, “Captain, I hope you got some whiskey left.”

  “Plenty of it,” Telford said.

  “Good,” Fargo said. “My throat’s dry. Damned dry.”

  They entered the tent, sat down, and Telford poured. He raised his glass. “Young Sterling will go far.”

  “Sure,” Fargo said. “He’ll go very far.” He drank the whiskey, held out his glass and Telford poured again.

  Somewhere in the camp, a soldier strummed a guitar and sang. The ancient song of the yellow-legs, the horse soldiers, rang out across the area.

  “Around her neck, she wore a yellow ribbon ... She wore it in the springtime, yes in the month of May ... And when you asked her why the hell she wore it, She wore it for a trooper who was far, far away ... ”

  “Another one?” asked Telford.

  “Another one.”

  “Far away ... far away ... She wore it for a trooper who was far, far away ...”

  Fargo raised his glass. He thought of Jack Varnell in Cuba, singing that song by a campfire. He thought of the corpse on the floor of the hall of the Owl’s Head ranch house. He thought of Sterling, with the mark of death on his face. He thought about the thirty thousand dollars he had to spend on booze, whores and gambling. Never had he made so much money he would enjoy so little. He would, he thought, spend it quickly and hurry to find another job.

  That was it. Think about the next job ...

  Fargo drained his glass and held it out to be refilled.

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