The Black Bulls (A Neal Fargo Adventure Book 10) Read online

  “Your faithful servant,

  “Ricardo Mansilla.”

  He let the letter flutter to his desk. “There you have it. Weeks have passed; no further word from my men, my cousin, or my daughter. I have written the authorities; no answer from them. I shall wait no longer. My daughter and my herd are at stake. If I were not so old, I would go myself, but when a man is in his sixties, he is not fast enough with his guns—and, make no mistake, Fargo, this situation is certainly one which must be settled by guns. There is no doubt in my mind that Antonio and Ricardo are dead—killed by gauchos. Whose, I do not know; certainly not the riders of my cousin.”

  He paused. “You know of the gauchos, the herders of the pampas. There are no men more savage or fierce. The gauchos of Rio Carmen seem to stand between my herd, my daughter, and their safe return to Mexico. It will be your job, if you accept this twenty thousand dollar commission, to go to Argentina, find my daughter and my ganado, and bring all back here to me, no matter who tries to stop you or what you have to do to accomplish the job!”

  Fargo’s lips curled slightly. “You mean, no matter who I have to kill.”

  “Precisely,” Hierro said, in a voice like iron itself. Then he arose. “Excuse me.” He disappeared; five minutes later, he returned, bearing a heavy canvas bag in each hand. He grunted as he dropped them on the desk. “Ten thousand dollars in pure Chihuahua silver. Ten thousand more plus whatever expenses you have incurred when you return with Carla and my ganado, my herd, by fast boat from Buenos Aires.”

  “How many cattle should there be?”

  “I sent fifty to Caesar. Over the years, they have multiplied. It was my intention to bring fifty back and leave the increase there to found another herd under the supervision of my cousin. If something has happened to Caesar, I want all of the animals back, every one. But most especially El Diablo Negro.”

  “The Black Devil,” Fargo said.

  “Yes. He is the prize bull of the entire ganado. No bull is his equal in conformation or ferocity; he is killer through and through and the foundation of my present herd. He will not be easy to handle; none of them will. Even if there were no other fighting, you would still have war enough getting the bulls to the coast and safely aboard ship. It is indispensable that Diablo Negro be brought back safely. And all the rest, if my cousin cannot care for them. No one not of the Hierro bloodline must be allowed to own Hierro fighting bulls!”

  Fargo looked at the two bags of coin. “One girl, hundreds of killer cattle, and a bunch of gauchos who kill people who try to find them. It’s a tall order, Don Augustin.”

  “Only a man like yourself could handle it. You will take the job?”

  Fargo had grinned. “Hell, yes, I’ll take it. It’s right up my alley.”

  ~*~

  The silver had long since been deposited in an Arizona bank. Now, as the hack stopped before a good hotel, Fargo got out. Except for the cavalry hat, he could have been an ordinary tourist; the coat of his white linen suit was cut to conceal the shoulder-holstered pistol beneath his left arm. “Easy with that trunk,” he told the driver and the hotel porter in Spanish. Then he followed them into the lobby. The trunk contained his other guns. It would not be long before he would need them.

  Chapter Two

  The room was spacious and comfortable; Fargo always went first class, especially when traveling on someone else’s money. Away from civilization, out on the pampa, there would be hardship enough later on.

  When he’d locked the door behind himself, he sailed the cavalry hat to a chair and shrugged out of the white coat. Then, despite its massive weight, he lifted the big trunk easily to the bed; turned a key in its heavy padlock, and one by one, he took out his weapons,

  First came the Winchester .30-.30 carbine in its beautifully worked saddle scabbard. A Model 94, it balanced sweetly in his hands when he drew it. He worked the action several times, head cocked, appraising the sound. It was a trifle dry; he sat on the bed, broke down the gun, placed a drop or two of oil where he judged it was needed, reassembled the rifle, and then, satisfied with the smooth, silken whisper of its mechanism, restored it to the sheath.

  After that, he took out a mahogany case lined with the finest soft chamois skin. This held his favorite weapon—a double-barreled ten-gauge Fox Sterlingworth shotgun. A presentation model, it had once been a goose gun designed for long-range shooting at waterfowl. Fargo had cut off most of its length and converted it to one of the deadliest close-range fighting weapons known to man—a sawed-off, open-bore gun that would sling nine buckshot from either barrel in a pattern with which, at close range, it was impossible to miss. In a situation where there was no time to aim, nothing could equal the lethal blast of both barrels.

  Gently, he clicked barrels and stock together and ran his hand over the ornately engraved and inlaid breech. His finger traced the words worked there: To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt. His mouth curved in a cool grin. A lot of political bigwigs would be aghast if the truth about the mission he’d undertaken to earn that weapon ever became public knowledge ...

  Now he stood up. He had added sling swivels to the piece, and he slipped his arm through the leather sling so that both short barrels hung down behind his right shoulder. It seemed an awkward position in which to carry the gun, and more than one victim had been deceived by it. But when Fargo slipped a thumb casually beneath the sling and twitched it, the weapon came up with blinding speed, barrels protruding from beneath his arm, pointed forward. In the same tick of time, his left hand shot across his body and simulated the tripping of both triggers. The weapon was upside down when he used it like that, but, in close combat, that would have made no difference; the buckshot hosing from those wide-open muzzles would spread as well and carry the same chopping force.

  When he’d practiced that maneuver twice, he transferred the gun to his left shoulder; this time his right hand whisked across his body to fire it. He had that gift: born ambidextrous, he could use either hand with equal speed and facility. More than once, that knack had saved his life.

  Satisfied at last that the shotgun was in working order, the sling properly adjusted, and his skill with it not in the least rusty, he took it off, wiped it down with a chamois cloth, broke it apart, and re-cased it. It joined the Winchester on the bed and he lifted out the knife.

  This he had acquired in the Philippines during his service as cavalryman in the Insurrection, after the Spanish-American war. Called a Batangas knife, after the province in which it had been crafted, it was of unusual design. Twin handles of water-buffalo horn folded down to sheath eight inches of the ten-inch blade, which, narrow and razor-sharp, had been tempered to such superb hardness that it could be driven through a silver dollar in a single terrific blow without breaking or even dulling the point.

  He held the knife in his right hand; flicked his wrist. The hinged handles swung back to lock and make a solid haft, baring nearly a foot of glittering, naked steel. Fargo made a few passes with the blade, limbering up, his stance that of the experienced knife-fighter, then shifted it to his left hand, repeated the drill. Another flick of the wrist closed the knife; he thrust it into a scabbard especially made for it. That went into his hip pocket, latched to his belt. From now on, he would wear it there everywhere he went; the knife was the most popular weapon in Argentina.

  Then he dug deeper into the trunk. What he took from it now was a gun he had practiced with but never actually used in combat so far. Bought from a wounded Canadian veteran who had taken it off a dead German officer in France, it was a massive automatic pistol in a scabbard made not of leather, but of solid wood, shaped roughly like a thick rifle stock. It had attachments for a pistol belt, but there was more to the gun than that; when he opened the hinged, box-like top of the holster and withdrew the 9mm Mauser it contained—a huge weapon, with wooden broom-handle grip and a deep magazine in front of the trigger guard—he was not particularly pleased with the gun’s weight or balance; certainly it was not the fast-draw fire
arm that he usually needed. But it had range, accuracy, and would throw a lot of lead in a hurry. Its chief advantage became apparent when he had attached the back of the grip to the front of the wooden scabbard by a special ribbon-slot arrangement. Thus assembled, pistol and scabbard combined to become a short, deadly carbine. It was, therefore, two weapons in one; and there was no doubt in Fargo’s mind that, eventually, it would have its usefulness.

  For now, though, he laid it aside, drew the Colt .38 Officer’s Model revolver from its shoulder holster and spun its cylinder. It was another legacy from his Army days. Since then, the service, on the theory that the .38 lacked stopping power, had gone to the Colt .45 automatic; Fargo, however, clung to this handgun. If a man hit what he shot at, the .38 would stop anything, especially loaded as it was now with hollow-pointed slugs that mushroomed on impact and ripped a tremendous hole in flesh; besides, it was superior to the .45 automatic in accuracy and reliability.

  The gun was all right, ready for use when he needed it. He put it back in the shoulder holster and dug more deeply in the trunk. In addition to a variety of clothing, it contained plenty of ammunition for all the weapons. Fargo fished out a shoulder bandolier glittering with .30-30 cartridges, another stuffed with shotgun shells; a pistol belt with loops crammed with .38 hollow-points. There were boxes of each load in reserve; in his business the cardinal sin—indeed, the fatal one—was running out of bullets. There were spare cylinders for the Colt, clips for the Mauser, even two small Derringers with sleeve harnesses. He went over everything meticulously to make sure that nothing had been damaged or tampered with; then he restored all but knife and Colt to the trunk, locked it again and slid it beneath the bed.

  That done, he stripped off his clothes and washed up. His torso was bronzed, layered with muscle, scarred with wounds. He had taken a lot of punishment in his time—enough to leave the Army doctors who had rejected him open-mouthed at how one man could have endured all that and survived. He dressed in clean clothes; then, because the best way to learn a place and pick up information was to circulate on foot, he donned the shoulder holster, covered it with the coat, made sure the knife’s hilt was equally masked, and left the hotel to see Buenos Aires.

  It was a magnificent city. There were wide boulevards, and huge, ornate villas, the town houses of politicians and landholders, shut off by courtyard walls and iron gates. The financial district was bustling; the port busy. But Fargo was not on a sightseeing tour; all he wanted was the layout of the place. There were a lot of waterfront bars along the Rio de la Plata and the harbor, and plenty of brothels. He stayed out of those dives; they would be frequented by sailors, and sailors could not tell him what he wanted to know.

  Nightfall found him on a street called Corrientes, with plenty of what he wanted. This was where the action was: bars, cabarets, dance halls, and whorehouses of a better class than those by the water. Now that siesta was over, the sidewalks were swarming with a polyglot crowd. The population of Buenos Aires ranged from pure Spanish to Negro to Indian with many mestizos or mixed-bloods. In addition, Argentina had a large population of English, Italian and German immigrants, and these had, to some extent, mixed their blood with all the other races. In the course of a few blocks, Fargo heard a dozen different languages and dialects. He was hard put to understand even the Spanish, which had a quality different from that of Mexico and the border.

  He felt a rising excitement. There was nothing like being in a strange place on a dangerous job. His eye roved over the signs above the dance halls, nightclubs and bars. On a hunch, he selected a cabaret that looked right: a sign above it in English proclaimed it to be the Red Cockerel. He went in.

  Down front, there was a stage and a small band tootled softly on trombones and clarinets. The place was neither a dump nor particularly fancy; and it had already begun to fill up. Fargo went to the bar, ordered a whiskey and let his eyes range over the crowd.

  Mostly it was made up of men. The residents of Buenos Aires called themselves portenos. There were staid Englishmen, volatile Italians, haughty Spaniards, and bullet-headed Germans. In addition, there was a goodly sprinkling of compadritos—young toughs in tight, black suits and shoes polished to a gleaming finish, each, Fargo knew, packing gun or knife or both. Like fighting roosters, they prowled the town, taking their women or their violence where they found them.

  From time to time a hooker would leave and her John would follow. The whores were young and as various as the rest of the population. Plenty of meat, Fargo thought.

  Then she came out of a door behind the bar.

  She was tall; she was built; and she moved like a princess. Her hair was the color of gold, around a triangular face with huge gray eyes. Her nose was short; her mouth was small; she was very pale and flawless. Beneath a tight red dress, large breasts rode high and proudly; her waist was slender, her hips voluptuously curved.

  Fargo judged her to be older than the other girls, but the extra years had done her no damage; she made them all look tawdry and awkward. When she spoke softly to one of the bartenders, he answered deferentially; Fargo knew that he was looking at the owner, or the manager, of this place. With her back turned to Fargo, she began to inventory bottles. The light from the chandeliers made smooth, naked, ivory-white shoulders gleam. Then she turned; and when she did, her eyes met his.

  She went a little stiff. It was not an unusual reaction in women at the sight of his scarred ugly masculinity. Her eyes widened; one hand went to her thigh. Then she recovered, smiled; and she came to him.

  “Hello,” she said. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Fargo said, tipping the cavalry hat.

  “We don’t get many nowadays.” Her voice was musical with an English accent he liked. “I hope you enjoy yourself here.”

  His gaze would not let hers go. “I intend to,” he said.

  “For a new customer, the establishment always buys a drink. What will you have?”

  “What have you got?” Fargo asked softly, still looking hard at her. He had not had a woman in some time now, and he wanted her.

  Her lips curved slightly. “Everything I’m supposed to have,” she answered.

  “I don’t doubt that.” Then he grinned. “For now, another whiskey.”

  “For now?”

  “Later I’ll sample your other merchandise.”

  Color stained her cheeks. “Perhaps.” She poured the drink. He was about to ask her name when someone crowded him. “Hey, Pam,” a hard Portefio voice said. “Come here. I’ve got business with you.” Then an elbow shoved Fargo, hard.

  Fargo turned, carefully.

  Loud mouth was about twenty-five. He was as tall as Fargo, heavy shouldered and wearing a tight jacket. He ignored Fargo; and grabbed Pam. “Let me go!” she yelled, “Von Stahl had his payment!”

  “This isn’t von Stahl’s business; it’s mine.” The thin-lipped mouth grinned. “I want mine! I had every girl in this place but you. It’s your turn now, woman! You don’t stand me off no longer!”

  Pam tried to wrench loose; the hand clamped harder and her face screwed up in pain. “Damn you, Jorge! I told you—”

  Then Fargo put down his drink. Very softly, he said: “Hombre. Let the woman go.”

  The compadrito did not slacken his grip, but he jerked his head around. Dark eyes raked over Fargo; the warp of the thin lips was contemptuous. “Americano? Keep out of this if you want your guts to stay inside your belly.”

  “You let me worry about my guts,” Fargo said. “I told you to let the woman go.”

  “Oh,” Jorge said. “Of course. At once, your excellency.” Then his hand unclamped Pam’s arm. “There. Does that suit, Your Excellency?” He straightened up, facing Fargo now.

  “Suits me fine,” Fargo said mildly. He also straightened up.

  They looked each other over. Jorge was big, younger, and probably a knife man. He would not be much with his fists, though, Fargo thought coldly. Here the blade settled everything; there was n
o tradition of using the fists. Probably Jorge could not even read the message of his slightly cauliflowered left ear, which spoke of years in the prize ring. “Now that we’ve settled that,” Fargo added, “why don’t you run on?”

  “Run on? Would that please Your Excellency, too?”

  “Very much,” said Fargo.

  “Then, of course, I will.” Jorge stepped back a single pace. His hand moved; Fargo did not even see where the knife came from. But all at once it was there, nearly a foot long and double-edged. Jorge held it level and grinned. “As soon as I’ve spilled your Yanqui guts,” he said. Then he lunged at Fargo.

  Fargo stepped aside, pivoting on the ball of one foot easily so the blade missed him and left the porteno off balance. He brought the blade of his right hand down hard on Jorge’s wrist; it was a blow that would have smashed an oak board. Jorge howled and lost the knife. Fargo kicked it aside, shifted his weight, and broke Jorge’s nose with a short left.

  It was a good start. Break a man’s nose and you hinder his breathing, start his eyes closing, and make him swallow his own blood.

  Jorge’s nose crunched flat like a broken glass, blood began to run very nicely, and when he gasped for breath red bubbles spewed out of his mouth. He tried for the sash around his waist. Fargo saw the pistol butt and saw that Jorge wouldn’t get to it in time. He dropped his right shoulder and leaned in. His right caught Jorge as low in the gut as he could reach; he hooked his left to Jorge’s ear as the kid’s breath whoofed out in a spray of blood and spit. Fargo was still in the combination of punches that had started with the short left to the nose. The four punch combination ended with an uppercut that made the kid’s eyes wall up in his head so that only the whites showed. Fargo snapped up Jorge’s long-barreled Colt Frontier by the grip. Then, grabbing the slack of Jorge’s jacket in his left hand, he pulled the younger man to him and began to gunwhip him, slashing skin with every blow.