Fargo 12 Read online

  CONTENTS

  About KILLING SPREE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Copyright

  More on John Benteen

  Fargo staked an old prospector to five thousand and figured to make a million in gold on the deal. It made him killing mad when a bunch of gun slicks killed the old man, stole the gold and took his daughter along to while away the weary hours on the trail. Fargo liked the girl, but the gold was first in his mind when he saddled up and took after them. Up ahead was some of the worst country in the world, the Mojave Desert, but Fargo figured it was worth the effort. For a million in gold and a pretty girl to help him spend it, he’d ride clear to hell and back.

  Chapter One

  When the devil had designed this part of Nevada, he had done a good job. And, Fargo thought, when he was finished, he must have backed off and rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. This sun-blasted jumble of rock and sand, of mountains and alkali flats, of dry springs and waterless creek beds was undoubtedly a fair approximation of Hell. Only one thing was lacking—something to entice men into it at the risk of life and soul. Gold would do that. And so as a final touch, gold had been added, rich veins and pockets of it cleverly hidden in places almost impossible for mortal man to reach. Men would dare anything for gold; at least Fargo would. And so he had ridden southeast of Tonopah on a strong, tall, hammer headed dun, leading a pack mule loaded with two bulging goatskins of water, his own saddle draped with big, wool-covered canteens, each holding a full two gallons.

  He was a big man in his middle thirties with enormously broad sloping shoulders, deep chest and long legs; years of hard living in wild places had burned out of him all fat and bloat. After two decades as professional fighting man and soldier of fortune, he watched the terrain by habit as he rode, gray eyes always restless, on the move. His face was burnt to the color of saddle leather—seamed by weather and scarred with old wounds—and it was remarkably ugly, its craggy nose broken more than once, an ear slightly cauliflowered by a stint in the prize ring, a wide, thin-lipped mouth above a solid chin. Long since, his close-cropped hair had gone prematurely white as snow, and the part of it that showed beneath the battered old Army campaign hat, broad-brimmed and peak-crowned, made startling contrast with the deep brown of his skin. Hard and ugly as his countenance was, there was something about it that drew women to him almost magically and made men either like or fear him, depending on whether or not they stood between him and something he wanted.

  What he wanted, he was accustomed to getting with his guns. After service with the Rough Riders in Cuba in the Spanish-American War; a hitch with the cavalry in the Philippines during the insurrection just after the turn of the century; a checkered career that encompassed cow-punching, mining, professional gambling, rough-necking in oil fields and cutting big timber in the Douglas fir woods of the Northwest; plus almost constant fighting in the dozens of little wars forever flaring in Mexico, Central, and South America; after all this, guns were the tools of his trade, and few understood the use of them as well as he. Now, as the dun moved slowly across a seemingly endless, blindingly white alkali flat, the high, merciless sun glinted off the small arsenal that he would not have been without on such a journey.

  The double-barreled shotgun was worn slung over his right shoulder, muzzles down behind his back. Once it had been a fowling piece—a ten-gauge Fox Sterlingworth—and its barrels had been thirty inches long. Fargo had sawed off most of those inches, transforming the gun into one of the deadliest close-combat weapons known to man. Now its open bores would, at short range, spray nine buckshot each in a wide, sprawling pattern that nothing could escape.

  Besides the shotgun, a .30-30 Winchester Model 94 carbine rode in a saddle scabbard beneath his right leg. Holstered on his right hip was a Colt .38 Officer’s Model revolver, the sort the cavalry had used before the Army had changed over to the .45 automatic. Fargo could use the automatic, but he preferred the reliability and accuracy of the revolver. The Army’s complaint had been that the .38 lacked stopping power. But the rounds in the cartridge belt around Fargo’s waist were hollow-nosed; when they hit flesh they expanded, fragmented, with tremendous force. The shock of that would stop anything.

  In his business, ammunition was not only important, it was vital. That was why, crisscrossed over his torso, in two heavy leather bandoliers, he carried more of it: fifty rounds of buckshot for the sawed-off; more than that for the Winchester. Those belts—clicking and gleaming with their lethal burdens—were heavy and far from comfortable in heat reaching, now at noonday, far above a hundred degrees. But he had known times when they had meant the difference between life and death, and he would not discard them. True, in 1915, there was no danger from Indians; and in settled places, the rule of law was fairly firm. But this was not a settled place, and there was gold out here; Fargo, indeed, was riding to claim his share of a small fortune. Out here, no law would protect him from anyone who wanted it and dared to try to take it from him, and there were still plenty of people in the West who would kill for gold. Maybe he would run into some of them, maybe not. If he did, he was ready.

  Noon came, the heat intensified, and he knew he could not ride on until it had abated. He found the shadow of a huge contorted pile of rocks sticking out of the alkali like an island in the ocean. He felt a little better in the shade. He drank just enough from the canteen to replace the moisture he had lost this morning, gave the animals precisely the necessary amounts, not one drop more and tied them securely. He did not want to be left afoot in the desert.

  In the shade of the rock buttress he slipped off the bandoliers, plucked at the sweat-wet khaki shirt. His canvas pants were soaked with sweat, too—his and the dun’s. His high-topped cavalry boots were powdered white with alkali; indeed, his whole body was so dusted with it that he had a ghostly appearance.

  He ate nothing; two meals a day were what he allowed himself when traveling. Instead, with the guns within easy reach, he leaned back against the rocks. He sat there with eyes half closed until a tatter of motion brought him upright. What he had spotted was a sidewinder. First its head with flickering tongue and yellow head appeared in a narrow cleft in the boulder tower. Fargo sat unmoving. The snake was only five feet away.

  Slowly it wriggled forward, its body coming into view inch by inch. It slithered down the rock pile, landed on the alkali, coiled there for a moment, four feet now from his booted foot. Carefully, Fargo’s right hand went to his hip.

  The snake sensed his presence. It seemed indecisive. Probably it had never encountered a man before; in a moment, it decided to investigate. It uncoiled, began to slither toward him.

  When Fargo’s hand came away from his hip, what it held was a knife of curious design. He had gotten it in the Philippines. Made there by the artisans of the province of Batangas, it had a narrow, ten-inch blade and handles of water buffalo horn, hinged, folded forward and locked to sheathe most of that length of steel. It was said a Batangas knife could be driven through a silver dollar without breaking or even dulling the point, and Fargo had done that himself more than once. Now, he loosed a catch, flicked his wrist slightly. Both handles flew back into the cradle of his palm and locked again. The blade glittered in the sun. The snake came closer. Fargo reversed the knife, held it by the point. When the snake was a yard from him, he threw it hard.

  His accuracy with it—the result of endless practice—was superb. The snake turned into a lashing, writhing, mindless whip, its head pinned to the alkali by the point of the Batangas knife. Presently the long b
ody, dusty white with alkali, stretched out, still twitching. The dead eyes glazed. Fargo reached out, seized the knife’s hilt, severed head from body. He cleaned the knife by jabbing it in sand. Then he stood up, kicked the head away. The body kept on twitching as he returned the knife to its special sheath.

  Because there were probably more snakes in the crack, Fargo moved to where the face of the rock was solid. Leaning back there, he took out a cigar, clamped it between white and perfect teeth. He was careful about his teeth. In remote places, nothing could put a man out of action quicker than a toothache.

  He lit the cigar with a match from a waterproof case without which his sweat would quickly have made it useless. Then, dribbling smoke through his nostrils, he took a folded sheet of paper from an oilskin wrapping and reread the words written thereon, datelined Tonopah, a month before.

  Friend Neal, it said.

  Am directing this to El Paso, Gen’l Delivery per your instructions. Hope you get it. Your faith in me paid off. Have struck it big in Eden, like I said I would. Your half twenty thousand with more to come. Hauling so much gold out of mountains risky for me and Sandy both. Would ask you to come to Eden, ride out with us. Map enclosed so you don’t have to ask anybody in Tonopah and stir up questions, but claim duly registered. Come soon as you can. Sandy and I will wait. The best to you,

  Mac Steele

  Fargo smiled faintly, lips peeling back in something like the snarl of a wolf scenting game. Money. He liked money. The way he lived, it took a lot to keep him going. He did not work cheap; he earned a lot, but he spent it quickly. He was satisfied with nothing but the best in whiskey and women, only the biggest action at the poker table, faro layout, or roulette wheel. Fighting in a revolution, running guns to Pancho Villa, he could pick up ten, twenty thousand dollars for a month’s work or two. He could spend it just as fast.

  Any other man who had made as much as he would be rich now, with investments in land, cattle, oil, or the like. Fargo never invested. That was for people with a future. He had none, living from day to day, bullet to bullet. He was willing to grant others any way of living they took a notion to, but he had no desire to get old, wind up a helpless, ailment-ridden shell of a man, afraid of drafts, knowing that food, drink, a woman, would kill him. In his business, men died with their boots on, young; that, he was aware, would be his own fate. On the way to meet it, he had no intention of missing anything merely because it cost money.

  He refolded the letter, put it back in its wrapping. He had made twenty thousand dollars free and clear six months ago with guns to Mexico. Now, as he stowed the letter, his mind went back to the wild spending of it in El Paso, and the night on which he had met the prospector named Mac Steele.

  ~*~

  The place was on the Alameda, near the Rio Grande. It was called The Purple Club, and it was not a place for ribbon clerks. The whiskey was the best, the stakes at the gambling tables high and the women delectable and young. The patrons were businessmen, rich ranchers, and high-ranking army officers from Fort Bliss. You did not come into The Purple Club without a coat and tie, and you did not go in there broke. Fargo wore a coat and tie, though his battered cavalry hat still perched on the back of his head and the .38 was shoulder-holstered under his left arm.

  The first thing he had wanted upon his return from Mexico had been three stiff drinks. He’d had those, the best Kentucky bourbon. The second was a woman; and he had had that desire fulfilled, too. She was named Lily, the queen of the place, twenty-three, blond, all ivory and pink; and in bed she was fantastic. Fargo had known her for a long time, and they were far past the point where she demanded money for her favors where he was concerned. She could write her own ticket, and she had, locking the door for a full three hours.

  Then he was ready for risk again, and he had found a poker game: one rancher who numbered his herd in thousands; two up-town merchants; one professional—honest, Fargo had noted quickly—and the house dealer, plus himself. He bought a bottle, put it beside his elbow as he played, nipped at it from time to time. It did not affect the caliber of his game; he could drink a tremendous amount, his body, in perfect condition, absorbing it like blotting paper without his mind getting foggy.

  So it was not the whiskey that caused the losing streak; it was luck. Sometimes luck was good, sometimes bad; he’d had good luck in Mexico, and it had turned sour here. At first he thought somebody must be cheating, but, a thorough professional himself, he soon realized that the game was honest; it was just that he was second best tonight. Dealt a pat king-high straight, he lost to a one-card draw that filled one ace-high. Drawing a single card to a flush and making it, he bucked a straight flush and lost a pile. His money dwindled by the hundreds. Nothing he could do was right.

  The poker room in which he played had red wallpaper and purple drapes and a dozen tables. There was no bar. Only gamblers came here; non-players were prohibited. A burly bouncer made sure the rule was not transgressed. Gently he turned away the curious; more roughly he disposed of the drunks.

  Fargo took a swig of whiskey as the house man dealt. The game was seven-card stud, and his up card was high. He checked the ones face down: an ace and four to play against the ten staring up. Deciding to ride high, he shoved chips out on the table. “Ten bets a hundred.”

  The cattleman said, “Stay.” He put in money. The professional stuck, too. The house folded; both businessmen called the bet. The cards went around.

  Fargo got a seven; nothing else significant showed. Still high, he bet another hundred. Everybody called, and the professional raised fifty. Fargo raised him another fifty, and everyone met the raise. He eyed the cards around the table. Nothing as high as his ten, but in the hole aces and kings must be scattered in profusion. The deal went around; he caught a trey, and the professional paired a six.

  “Poker just went up,” he said, shoved in two hundred worth of chips. That was when Fargo was aware of a presence behind him. He glanced briefly over his shoulder, saw a man—coatless, without tie, his shirt greasy, stained—standing by his chair. A weathered, sun burnt face in its late forties, furred by three days’ beard, looked down at him. “Mr. Fargo,” the man said.

  “I’m playing cards,” Fargo rasped. He called the bet, irritated at the kibitzer’s presence.

  “Yeah, but if I could only—” The man put a hand on his shoulder. Fargo shrugged it off. Then his cards fell.

  Fargo’s face betrayed no emotion as he saw the ace of hearts land face-upward on his pile, but inwardly he tensed. Nobody else moved. The dealer said, “Sixes bet.”

  The professional said, “Sixes bet two hundred,” Next to Fargo, the cattleman folded. “Too rich for me.”

  Fargo called, raised a like amount. The other two players were frozen out, grumbling.

  “Last card,” the dealer said and dealt the two down pasteboards. Fargo got another trey.

  Fargo’s mind mentally tabulated what cards had fallen. Not another six had shown. His eyes flicked over his opponent’s impassive face. He had been second-best all night; his aces over two pair might be bucking three sixes.

  Then behind him the bouncer’s voice growled: “Look, feller. Nobody comes in without a coat and tie and nobody comes in without he’s gonna play. On your way, hear? Don’t make me git rough with you.”

  It was one of those hunches. Nothing else. Fargo said without looking up, “Jud.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Fargo?” the bouncer growled.

  “Let him stay until the hand’s finished.”

  “Mr. Fargo, I said—”

  Fargo found a ten-dollar bill, slipped it out, crumpled. “Just until the hand is over.”

  “No longer,” the bouncer said and took the ten. “Sixes bet,” the dealer said.

  The professional’s voice was rich with confidence. “Sixes bet two hundred.”

  Surety was riding high in Fargo now. “That two and two more.”

  The gambler smiled faintly. “Only call.”

  Fargo turned over his cards. “Ac
es over.”

  There was a long, tense second; but Fargo already knew he had won. The gambler’s face paled slightly. “Beats what I had,” he said and folded. Fargo smiled faintly. Now the shoe was on the other foot. The man could not have dropped out with kings over, had had to play to the end; finally, somebody else had been second-best.

  “Can I heave him now, Mr. Fargo?” the bouncer asked.

  In reply, without looking around, Fargo thrust a fifty-dollar chip over his shoulder. The kibitzer took it.

  “Go cash that in,” Fargo said. “Go up the street to the White Longhorn and wait for me. I’ll see you when I get there, if you’ve got business with me.”

  “I’ve got business with you,” the man said.

  “I’ll be along,” Fargo said. “It may be a while.”

  Then he reached out and raked in the pot.

  ~*~

  After that, he could do no wrong. He had lost four thousand dollars. He won that back in forty minutes, and in another hour added four more to it. His luck had turned completely around. With gambler’s instinct he knew what had caused that. The stranger and the stranger’s touch. That, in poker, was the way things worked.

  The game broke up near one o’clock. Fargo cashed in his chips, pocketed his winnings. Pleasantly drunk and feeling good, he left The Purple Club, sauntered up the street toward the White Longhorn. From Juarez, across the river, came a spatter of gunfire. He paid no attention to it; people were always shooting at each other in Mexico these days. The more cartridges they used, the more he could sell them.

  The White Longhorn was a vastly different place from The Purple Club. Full of cowhands, working men, army privates, it was stale and close with smoke and the smell of spilled beer, loud with the chatter of voices and raucous laughter. The girls here were older and harder of face; broken veins showed in their legs beneath their short skirts. Fargo paused just inside the swinging doors. He had gotten only a glimpse of the man who had brought him eight thousand dollars worth of luck, and was not sure he would know him again.