Bandolero (A Neal Fargo Adventure Boook 14) Read online

  Fargo holstered the Colt, picked up the Winchester, ran the last few yards to his horse. When he reached it, the strange knife was already in his hand, with hinged handles that, folded forward, covered most of its ten-inch blade, leaving only four inches of cutting edge exposed. He had got it in the~ Philippines and it was called a Batangas knife, after the area in which the incomparable artisans who had made it lived. Of specially tempered steel, it could be driven through a silver dollar in a single blow without breaking or dulling its point. When those water-buffalo horn grips were whipped back into Fargo’s palm and all ten inches were out and working, it was a deadly weapon.

  Now, the knife unopened, the four inches of steel cut the maguey tie-rope above the knot as if it were a wisp of silk. Fargo sheathed the knife, fastened Colt machine gun behind the saddle cantle, hit leather without ever touching stirrup. The Chihuahua spurs on American cavalry boots touched the horse’s flank. The animal rocketed down the slope. Far away, he could see the dust of the retreat of the rest of his company. Now that no cavalry was left to chase them, they would make it, even without ammunition.

  So would he. Fargo looked over his shoulder. The infantry was just cresting the ridge. Their bullets went wide, fell short, as his horse pounded down the hill. He did not even bother to reply with the Winchester. They had been betrayed; they had lost the battle; but he had saved Villa’s machine guns. And his market for their special ammunition.

  Presently he slowed the weary horse. There was no need to wear it out, with its extra burden of the gun. By nightfall they would be back within Villa’s lines and safe, and he would have at least one night with Elena before he reported into Villa.

  Chapter Two

  The name of the village was Rio Doloroso, and it was aptly named. Established here a century ago, it had been cheated by the river on whose banks it was built. What had seemed a fine stream of water ran for only two months out of the year and vanished for the other ten: truly, it was a river of sorrows. So was the little town on its edge, a place of utmost poverty which, until the Revolution, had been required to pay almost all its scanty earnings in taxes to the governments of the state and country.

  Now, though, thanks to Villa, it was free. And thanks to his capture of some big breweries in Juarez and Chihuahua City, there was beer. “Cerveza?” Elena said, passing a bottle to Fargo across the cantina bar. “I cooled it especially for you.”

  They had never seen ice in Rio Doloroso, but beer hung outside in wet burlap was cold enough after a night of desert wind. Fargo yanked the cork, drank it gratefully. He drained the bottle in three swallows, dehydrated body soaking up the moisture, passed it across the bar. “Another,” he said.

  Elena gave it to him and he drank this more slowly, as she watched with grave eyes set in an olive face. Her mother had been Indian, her father Spanish, a hidalgo landowner who always claimed his traditional first night right. That meant that when one of his peones married, he had the right to take the bride’s maidenhead before her husband touched her. Elena was the result of such a union.

  The mixed blood made her, at not quite thirty, very beautiful: hair like a raven’s wing falling to her shoulders, red lips and huge dark eyes, lush breasts and slender waist and curving hips and longer, leaner legs than the usual Indio or Mestizo. Her husband had been a lieutenant in Villa’s Army and killed early in the Revolution against Diaz. She ran the cantina he had left her and donated most of its profits to Villa.

  If her money went to Villa, the rest of her was, for the moment, anyhow, Fargo’s. She said, “Ignacio told me about what a brave thing you did.”

  “Somebody had to cover the rear,” Fargo said. “Hell, I couldn’t let the machine guns be lost. Then I lose the ammo market. A matter of business.”

  “Yes, Neal,” she said quietly. “You try to make everything a matter of business, don’t you?”

  Fargo drank more beer. She had bandaged his bullet-dashed flank and the other nips he had taken, and he had eaten a whole young kid, a lot of tortillas and four ears of young corn on the cob, had a couple of cold beers with it, and now, on his fourth one, he felt fine. Especially since he had cleaned and oiled and checked all his weapons, while Elena had cooked for him. The weapons always came first.

  Villa’s line had pulled back to the Rio Doloroso. Fresh troops had moved out through battle-weary ones to establish a strong defensive perimeter. They said that Pancho Villa himself would soon be here to observe the situation. He had been busy in Chihuahua City and Juarez, both of which he still held, and had entrusted this latest assault to his generals. They said, too, that some generals might be disciplined. That was no concern of Fargo’s. His unit had carried out its assignment and more besides. Nevertheless, the fact remained that they had been defeated. Fargo did not like to lose, although war was a kind of game, and all games involved both victory and loss. But for now, he would rest; and so would his men, who crowded the cantina.

  “A matter of business,” he repeated. “Yeah.”

  She covered his big hand with her own. “And now what will happen?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? It depends on Pancho. If he comes or sends orders, we’ll find out then.”

  “Pancho.” She said the word almost reverently. Many people in Northern Mexico did. To them, he represented deliverance. They had been cheated of so much in their lifetimes.

  First, fifty years ago, there had been Benito Juarez. Shrewd Indian that he was, he had whipped the big landholders and the Church and all the forces sent in at their request by France and Austria and had given Mexico a Constitution. But Porfirio Diaz had taken over, set himself up as dictator, and taken away everything the people had thought that they had won. For decades, he ruled with unparalleled ruthlessness, then Madero had overthrown him.

  In turn, Madero’s best general, Huerta, had overthrown him, and all the other factions had turned against Huerta and chased him out. Now Carranza and Obregon had joined their forces in a coalition and Carranza was self-styled President of Mexico.

  Thus, for more than six years now, the country had been racked by warfare. And Pancho Villa had played a leading part, been a moving force, through all of that. Ex-cowboy, former horse-thief, rustler, gunman, and smuggler, he’d led one of the first rebellions against Diaz. Loyally he’d supported the intellectual Madero after Diaz had left the country. When Huerta had killed Madero he had turned against Huerta and joined, with Carranza and Obregon and fought him bitterly. Now Carranza and Obregon had taken power and had no intention of sharing it with Villa; they intended to wipe him out. So he fought them, too.

  Throughout all the fighting, he was the only one, save EMiliàno Zapata, who had never lost sight of the main objective. That was to break up the big estates, give land to the people, give the oppressed a fair chance at making it. Northwestern Mexico was still Villa’s country, a state within a state, and more than just Elena still worshipped him. But he was on the defensive now, the tide had turned against him, and—Fargo was tired of politics. He had fought and lost and saved himself and his men and guns he had done his duty and paid his way. He had eaten, bathed, rested, and done some drinking. Now he felt another hunger that had nothing to do with his belly.

  “Querida,” he said. “Let Felipe tend bar a while.”

  Elena met his eyes, understood, and smiled. “Yes. That would be a good idea.” She called to the one-eyed, lame old man who helped her when business was brisk and gave him his instructions. Then, still holding Fargo’s hand, she led Fargo to the back room of the cantina, the sleeping quarters.

  There he finished the last of the beer while she shrugged out of her dress. When she was naked, standing by the wooden bed with its rawhide network on which rested a thick straw mattress, he let his eyes range appreciatively over all the ripe curves of her body. He set the bottle aside, empty, shrugged out of his bandoliers, unslung his weapons, stripped off his clothes. Then, as she lay down, he went to her.

  As ready as he, her cry was a faint mewing sound. That
was the first time. The second, she merely gasped. It was much later then and they lay together for a long time, satiated. Her hand moved over Fargo’s body; appetite returned. He raised himself on one elbow, looked down at her, grinning.

  Thai someone hammered on the wooden door. Ignacio Mandsidor’s voice trembled with excitement. “My Colonel! Don Neal! Quick!”

  Fargo sprang up. His guns were never very far away, and the shotgun was in his hands almost instantly. “What is it, Captain?”

  “He comes!” Mandsidor shouted. “He comes—he’s just entered town! Pancho Villa is here!”

  Fargo reached for his clothes. “I’ll be right there!”

  “Make it quick!” the captain called. “He’s already passed the word! He wants to see you right away!”

  ~*~

  When, fully dressed, cigar clamped in mouth, cavalry hat on head, bandoliers across his chest and shotgun slung, Fargo emerged into the main room, it was clear of men. Only Felipe, the one-eyed bartender, Mandsidor, and one other man stood against the bar, and when Fargo saw the newcomer, he halted.

  “Fierro.”

  Dressed in charro clothes—broad hat trimmed with gold, short vest, white shirt, sash, gun, knife, tight pants spangled with conchos, black boots and big-roweled spurs, the man at the bar turned and, although he smiled, it was no more a smile, really, than the change in attitude of the lips of a reptile about to strike. His eyes were a reptile’s eyes, too; cold, devoid of anything connected with humanity. “Hello, Fargo,” he said, then sipped his mescal. “And you will address me as General Fierro now.”

  “Last time I looked, you were just a colonel.”

  Fierro, Rodolfo Fierro, the man they called “The Butcher,” stood up straight. He was in his thirties, strikingly handsome in contrast to Fargo’s ugliness—and Fargo despised him, although he was Pancho Villa’s right hand man. They knew each other well, too well, and they respected one another, as two fighting bulls might respect each other’s strength and deadliness. And someday, Fargo knew, unless one of them died in combat elsewhere or deserted Villa, there would be a collision between them.

  For a second, he thought it was coming now, almost unprovoked. Then Fierro relaxed. “I’ve been promoted,” he said casually. “Let that ride. General Villa wants to see you and Mandsidor at once. He’s set up headquarters in the church. I’m to take you to him. Let’s move, hombre!”

  Fargo remembered seeing Fierro go through a hospital full of wounded Federal soldiers and personally kill each man in his bed, more than fifty of them, with that pearl-handled revolver he wore high on his right hip. That was how Fierro had earned the name of “Butcher,” and it was Fierro’s idea of great sport. Right now, the Butcher was in a jovial mood, and that was, in itself, enough to set an alarm bell ringing in Fargo’s brain. He hitched at the shotgun. “Sure. I was half expecting him. It saves me a ride to his headquarters. Come on, Ignacio.”

  They walked out of the cantina into the dusty, heat-smashed street three abreast, for Fargo had no idea of letting Fierro get behind him, nor would Fierro trust Fargo or Mandsidor. The street was crowded with horses and men, and most of the men wore huge sombreros trimmed with gold. These were Villa’s personal troops, his famed Dorados, or golden ones. Some were pure Castilian, many were Yaqui Indians. Villa drew his support from wherever he could get it; his only standard was that a man must fight and be capable of trust and loyalty.

  Fargo knew most of them and spoke to them as he strode toward the church. That was when he began to sense something wrong and the alarm bell rang more loudly. They answered, but there was something grudging in their manner. Fargo took out a cigar, clamped it in his mouth, chewed it thoughtfully without lighting it.

  “Well,” Fierro said cheerfully, “you got your nose wiped at Tres Acequias, eh?”

  That was the village where they had been repelled. Fargo said harshly, “Obregon’s men got their noses wiped, you add it up right. We walked into a trap, yeah; somebody had squealed to the Federales. But they didn’t take us; we got out again with damned few losses. If we hadn’t run out of ammo, we could have gone back and taken it.”

  “Of course,” Fierro said. “General Calderon, your commander in the attack, made exactly the same report. A trap. Everything set up for an easy victory at a key road junction and then—the Federales sprout from the land like thistles. And one wonders, eh, how they knew to be there?”

  “One sure does,” Fargo said. “There’s a spy in Villa’s headquarters somewhere, and he’d better find it.”

  “Never fear,” said Fierro. “He will.”

  They had reached the church, a platoon of tough Dorados lounging outside. The church had been the first structure erected here, and it was still the biggest building in the town, with massive walls of adobe, great wooden doors strapped with iron, a belfry around which swallows darted at sunset. One big door was cracked open. When they passed through it, the interior was cool and dim. Once it had been richly ornamented with gold and silver wrung from the Chihuahua mountains by Indian slaves under Spanish rule. That had long since been melted down to pay for guns. Only an agonized and garishly painted wooden carving of a crucified Christ and a reproduction of the Virgin of Guadalupe remained. The few rough wooden benches had been shoved to one side; a table had been set up, and behind it Pancho Villa, flanked by two armed men, dictated orders to a secretary between swigs from a bottle of cerveza. When he saw Fargo and Mandsidor, he set down the beer bottle and turned around.

  “Enough, Jose,” he told the secretary. Then he jerked his head at the two Dorado guards. “The both of you. Out.” He arose, thrust out his hand. “Neal.” He was smiling broadly.

  “General Villa.” In private, he was on a first-name basis with this man, but there was military discipline to be observed in public. Their handshake was warm, and Villa’s palm was big and hard. Nevertheless, the warning bell was still zinging. Villa, Fargo thought, should have come around the table and given him the abrazo, the embrace typical of Mexicans meeting one another after a long absence.

  “Captain Mandsidor.” Villa shook hands with him next. While he did that, Fargo took a moment to size up the man who had earned the title Lion of the North.

  In his time, Fargo had met a lot of generals; Most of them had earned their ranks by out-living or out-politicking their competitors. Few had done it the hard way, like this bulky, dark-skinned, powerful bull of a man who had begun life as Doroteo Arango, a vaquero on a big hacienda in Durango. Every honor Villa had, he had won with brains, courage, and his skill with weapons; and Fargo felt a kinship with him and a deep admiration for him, which Villa had always reciprocated. They were two of a kind, fighting men bred and born, with a savage streak of independence and self-reliance in them both.

  Villa’s history had been as violent as Fargo’s. He’d still been in his teens when the son of his patron, the owner of the big ranch on which Arango was an ordinary cowboy, had raped Arango’s sister. For that, Doroteo Arango had killed the young man and his bodyguards and had become an outlaw, fleeing to the hills.

  There he’d worked his way up among the horse-thieves and cattle rustlers and highwaymen who’d taken refuge in the badlands until he reached the top. He rose because he was the best horse-thief, rustler, highwayman, and gunman of them all, because he could shoot straight and shot first, and yet, somehow, among all those human wolves, retained a streak of humanity and mercy which led men to follow him. He'd taken the alias of Francisco Villa and when revolution broke out, had led his bunch of gunmen against the forces of Diaz. Eventually that band of gunmen had become an Army and Villa the greatest military leader in Mexico’s history. For a long time, now, he’d held more than half the vital border with the United States and a huge chunk of territory below it, and anyone who wanted to rule Mexico either had to deal with him or kill him. He would, Fargo thought, be El Presidente right now if he’d had a better education, but his vaquero’s life had cheated him of that. Still, as volatile as the situation was down he
re and as tough as Villa was, he might still someday sit in the palace in Mexico City.

  ~*~

  Villa released Mandsidor’s hand, dropped back into his chair. Fierro had taken stance on his right hand; otherwise, save for Fargo and the captain, the church was empty now. Villa leaned back, eyes like bits of jet playing over Fargo. The rebel leader, as usual when he was on campaign, wore Charro clothes like Fierro’s, and the uniform cap of a general, tilted back on his black, greasy hair was almost an amusing contrast.

  Almost. Looking into Villa’s eyes, Fargo found nothing amusing in Villa’s expression now.

  “It was a bad thing at Tres Acequias,” Villa said. “A trap.”

  Fargo nodded. “There’s a spy somewhere, and he’s an officer, and one fairly high at that. When we headed for Tres Acequias, nobody under the rank of Colonel knew where we were going.”

  Fierro’s handsome face split in a cold smile. “Very true, Colonel Fargo.”

  Fargo jerked around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Make of it what you will,” Fierro drawled.

  “Be quiet!” Villa snapped and raised a hand. “You will speak only when I ask your opinion, General Fierro.”

  “Very well, my General.”

  Villa’s swarthy face was grim. “Colonel Fargo, you’ve been in the field now—how long?”

  “Four months,” Fargo said, frowning, wondering where this was leading. “You know that, General. I brought in a load of Colt machine guns and ammo around the first of October, last year. You insisted that I train men to use them and I didn’t have much choice. I took your commission, and I’ve served in your army, and I’ve put together a damned good machine gun team, if I do say so. As a matter of fact, I’m about ready to resign and head back for the states. Captain Mandsidor here knows machine guns inside and out, now. Colt, Lewis, Maxim, he’s been through the mill with all of ’em. I’d suggest you promote him and let me go back north to get the pipeline open again. The ammo or the Colts are damned hard to come by, and we’re short as hell. If we hadn’t been, we could have taken Tres Acequias, spy or no.”