by John Benteen
“Once. There’s not much there. It’s the farthest south in Mexico, slam up against Guatemala. A few little towns, a hell of a big rain forest. If you get far enough in the jungle, some old Indian ruins.”
“Old Indian ruins. Aye, indeed.” The withered man gestured. “Mr. Fargo. In that rain forest lies the cradle of one of the earliest civilizations of America—the Mayas.”
“Sure,” said Fargo. “I noticed you had some Mayan carvings here.”
“You know the Maya then?”
Fargo took out a thin, black cigar, bit off its end, thrust it between his teeth. “There’s not much anybody knows about the Maya. They were one of the oldest, earliest Indian civilizations on the continent. They built pyramids and temples and big cities and then they got rubbed out, just before the Spanish came. Something was left of them but the Spanish wiped out even that remnant. But at one time, they were the rulers of southern Mexico and Guatemala. There are still some Maya Indians down there. They speak the bastard dialect, but they’ve forgot all the old secrets of their ancestors.”
“Good.” The old man almost smiled. “A very concise summary. I’m glad you won’t need a lot of background.” He leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Fargo, in my younger days, long before you were born, I was a man much like yourself. A soldier of fortune—a filibustero, if you please—roaming all that country, fighting here, there, wherever. Well, those days are long past, but my memory of them is not. I became fascinated with Mexico—with its art, with its history. Now I am very rich and I can afford to indulge that interest. I have smuggled out of Mexico every important prehistoric statue or stela—that’s a carved stone monument—or objet d’art that money can buy. I am fascinated by the secrets of the Maya, the Aztec, the other ancient tribes.”
“It’s interesting as hell, I’ll admit,” Fargo said.
“And profitable.” The old man’s eyes gleamed. “Someday all these things will be worth their weight in platinum.”
“That’s what makes it interesting to you,” Fargo said.
“Of course.”
“Where do I come in?”
Stoneman leaned forward, propping his elbows on his desk. “Have you ever heard of the Valley of Skulls?”
“No,” said Fargo.
“Not surprising. It’s deep in the Lacandon Forest, that vast tropical rain forest between Chiapas and Guatemala. No one else knows of it, either, except myself, Dr. Telford of the Smithsonian Institute, and my son, Ned, Jr.” He hesitated. “And the members of their expedition, of course.”
“What expedition?” Fargo blew cigar smoke.
“I’ll come to the point quickly. Dr. Telford is an archeologist, a specialist in the ancient civilizations of Southern Mexico and Central America. Six months ago he returned from Madrid where he had been doing research in the Royal Spanish Library. Do you know what a codex is, Fargo?”
“No.”
“The Maya had books. A codex is their form of book, a strip of parchment, inscribed by their priests, folded between wooden covers. The Spanish friars, anxious to stamp out all elements of pagan religion, burned all they could get their hands on. But a few survived. Dr. Nelson Telford discovered one in the Madrid Library, along with a Spanish interpretation, anonymous, that must have been made by a Spaniard who had learned the ancient Maya picture writing.”
Fargo arched a brow. “So?”
“This codex told of a place in the Lacandon Forest called the Valley of Skulls. It was a sacred Mayan place, supposedly with an enormous temple. Human sacrifice was practiced. In that valley the skulls of the victims throughout the Mayan empire—and it was a vast, enormous empire, Fargo—all the sacrificial bones and skulls were brought together in a single temple. It was the most sacred place of the whole Mayan civilization.” He broke off, as if so much talking had exhausted him. Then he continued after a couple of deep breaths.
“Knowing my interest in the ancient civilizations, Dr. Telford came to me. After he had presented his findings, I agreed to finance an expedition to the Valley of Skulls. Well, I have done that. They are there right now, digging. My son, Ned, is with them to protect my interests …You see, Mr. Fargo, I make first claim on anything of value they may discover.”
“What they excavate belongs to Mexico,” Fargo said.
“Not if I can get it out. And in Mexico, money can accomplish anything.” The old eyes gleamed. “Before I’m through, I’ll have the most magnificent collection of prehistoric art and statuary in the world, Fargo—and the most valuable! That’s why I sent Ned with the expedition! He’s a chip off the old block; he can manage anything.”
“In that case, where do I come in?”
Stoneman cleared his throat, a grating, phlegmy sound. “Ned is clever. He is a good fighting man, too. I used to be, and I have taught him all I know. Everything was in order until President Madero was killed. Now Mexico will lapse back into chaos, anarchy. It will be every man for himself for years—bandits, soldiers, the like. I know the drill. I used to fight down there.” Suddenly, shakily, he arose, went to the mantel, pulled down a map above it. His hand trembled as he pointed out places. “The expedition is trapped, Fargo. Behind them, to the north, the revolutionary forces. Ahead of them, to the south, that huge rain forest. Dr. Telford, his daughter, their assistants, and Ned are penned up in the Valley of Skulls and they can’t move. They can’t come out the way they went in because of the revolution. They can’t go out the other way because of the rain forest; they’d never make it through there. They can’t move to the Atlantic Coast or the Pacific because of soldiers and bandits, not without risking ...” He hesitated.
“Risking what?” Fargo asked. He had caught that undertone in Stoneman’s voice.
“Something rare. Rare beyond all imagining, and priceless.” The withered lips curved. “Something worth its weight in gold.”
“What?” Fargo asked.
“That need not concern you,” Stoneman said. “If you accept this job, you’ll know soon enough. Anyway, Fargo, what I want you to do is to go to the Valley of Skulls in Chiapas, and somehow help the expedition fight its way out—along with anything Ned deems valuable enough to bring out with it.”
Chapter Three
For a moment, the vast room, with its brooding sculptures of thick-bodied, ancient Indians long dead, was silent.
Then Fargo said, “That’s a tall order. Every bandit and every outlaw in lower Mexico will be on the prod now that the government’s collapsed. They’ll block your expedition off. And the Lacandon Forest. Nobody gets through there.”
“That’s your problem,” Stoneman said. “I paid you five thousand dollars to come here. I’ll pay you another five to go there. You bring them out, the people and the things my son designates as baggage, you’ll get another five.”
Fargo laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Stoneman asked, frowning.
“You want me to work my way through revolutionaries, bandits, jungle, whatever—rescue some scientists—not only that, maybe haul out tons of stuff, fighting all the way and you offer fifteen thousand?”
“This day and time that’s a substantial sum.”
“Maybe to you. I can make more than that in a month running guns.”
“Mr. Fargo. You’re a hard man to deal with. All right, twenty then. But you’ll be under Ned’s orders from the time you make contact with him.”
Fargo stood up. “I enjoyed the conversation, Mr. Stoneman.” He turned as if to go. At that moment, the double doors of the room opened; only later did he realize that Stoneman had pushed a buzzer on his desk. Then, though, Fargo halted, staring at the three bulky Irish plug-uglies who barred his exit.
“I don’t do business this way, Stoneman,” he said thinly. “But I may kill some men before I get out on the street.”
“They’re experienced. They may kill you too.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
He stood there, hand inside his coat.
“Mr. Fargo, I don’t like the
way you deal,” Stoneman quavered. “I have a gun pointed at your back.”
“You couldn’t hit me with it,” Fargo said easily. “I’ve seen how your hand shakes. You’re too old.” He grinned. “I could kill you and maybe all three of them. Then I would have to go to the Colonel for protection. But he’d stand by me.”
“The Colonel?”
“I was in the Rough Riders in Cuba; he commanded ’em.”
He did not take his eyes off the three men at the door, but he heard Stoneman sigh at the mention of that name. “The Colonel. Yes. He’s my worst enemy, my most powerful one. I’ve heard mention of your connection with him.”
“Then tell your men to get out of the way,” said Fargo. “We can’t deal.”
For a moment, the old man was silent. “Fargo,” he said at last. “Ten when you leave. Twenty when you get back. Add that to the five you’ve already got, it makes thirty-five thousand.”
Fargo stood rigidly, hand on gun butt. “Fifteen when I leave.”
“Forty thousand total?” Stoneman’s voice quavered.
“Take it or leave it,” said Fargo. “Because in thirty seconds I’m walking out of here. If your people get in my way, you’d better be prepared to pay their funeral bills.”
Again silence. Fargo knew that Stoneman did indeed have the gun pointed at his back. He also knew that Stoneman would not shoot. It would be easier for him to pay the extra five thousand.
He heard the shuddering rasp of breath behind him. Then Stoneman said, “All right, Fargo. Turn around and sit down. I’ll meet your terms. There’s nobody else I can hire with as much brass as you. Fifteen more now and twenty when you get back. But I expect results.”
“You’ll get ’em,” Fargo said, eyes still on the thugs beyond the door.
“Then, leave us,” Stoneman said to them. Like wraiths, they vanished.
“All right,” Stoneman added. “Now, Fargo, let’s talk business.”
Fargo turned, as the shaking hand laid down its gun. “Suits me,” he said.
~*~
Two weeks later, Stoneman’s private yacht nosed into the Harbor of Belize, the capital of British Honduras, with Fargo aboard.
Take all the lousy little Central American towns that were ever built, Fargo thought, once he was ashore—roll them up into one, then spread them out again—then you had Belize.
The single British toehold on this end of the continent, it had been founded by stranded buccaneers centuries before. A malarial hellhole on the Caribbean coast, it contained maybe eight thousand people, some Indian, some Mestizo, damned few English. Beyond it stretched trackless wilderness, grazing land and jungle in which the rivers were the only roads. British Honduras backed up to Quintana Roo, a province of Mexico so wild, deserted, it did not even qualify as a state. It was flanked by Guatemala, where Fargo, thanks to certain activities on the losing side a year or two before, was wanted to the tune of two hundred dollars American—enough to make a Guatemalan rich for life.
That did not bother him. In khakis, with the cavalry hat jaunty on his head, he took a hack to the best hotel, which was not much. He wore his pistol openly on his hip, set for a cross-draw; the Batangas knife was sheathed on the other hip. His other weapons were in the trunk, stuck in the boot of the cab drawn by a thin, rickety animal.
His room was big, high ceilinged, hot as the hinges of hell, with a jalousied door and windows that looked out onto a paved court. Mosquito netting hung over the lumpy bed. He put the trunk on the bed, took out his weapons, checked them, oiled those that needed it, and shoved the trunk beneath the cot after having retrieved one of his three bottles of American bourbon. He pulled the cork with his teeth, took a long swallow, set the bottle on the battered chest that was the only other furnishing in the room, and then went downstairs.
There was a bar and dining room in which the air seemed not to have been changed since the founding of the colony. It was deserted, except for a sleepy Negro barman. Fargo asked what sort of whiskey they had and was surprised to find Scotch in long supply. He took a glass of the smoky stuff and sat down at a table, back, as usual, to the wall.
While he sipped his drink he contemplated what lay ahead of him.
The Valley of Skulls. Stoneman had pointed it out on the map. It was deep in the Lacandon rain forest, and the only safe access for Fargo to it was through British Honduras and Quintana Roo—so primitive that the word of revolution would not have reached it. He could not go through Guatemala because of the reward out for him, and he could not take the short route in because of the flare-up of bandits and revolutionaries in Yucatan, Campeche, and Chiapas itself.
The landing of Stoneman’s yacht at any port there would have been a signal to draw the vultures, and they would have stayed with him all the way to his destination—if they did not kill him first for his guns and outfit.
So he would have to work his way in through British Honduras and Quintana Roo, through jungle broken only by the monterias, the hell-hole logging camps of Mexico, where enslaved Indians were driven until they fell to get out the fine mahogany of the region. Under the best of circumstances, it would have been a brutal trip to the Valley of Skulls; this way, it was going to be close to impossible. And yet, he had taken Stoneman’s money and he was going to do it …somehow, some way.
Tossing off the glass of Scotch, signaling for the bottle to be brought, he remembered the rest of his session with the gaunt and withered old man. “All right, Stoneman. Exactly how many people have I got to bring out?”
“There are four Americans. Dr. Telford; his daughter Nancy; Telford’s assistant, a man named Norris; and my son Ned.”
“Wait a minute,” Fargo said. “There’s a woman?”
“Nancy Telford’s my son’s fiancée, Fargo. Also, she’s an excellent archeologist in her own right. She’s used to roughing it.”
“All the same, I didn’t count on a woman.”
Stoneman’s eyes narrowed. “Your price is already set. Don’t try to raise it again.”
“No,” Fargo had said. “No, I won’t. But go on. How many other jokers are there in this deck?”
“I told you that there was something valuable, something rare, that I want brought out with them. It’ll be a heavy load, Fargo. You’ll need mules.”
Fargo frowned. “It won’t be easy getting mules into a place like that.”
“Which is your problem. For forty thousand dollars, I’m sure you can solve it. According to the information I have, you’ll need at least six pack animals.”
His mouth was a thin, bloodless line. “I didn’t pay a fortune to finance that expedition, Fargo, to have what it has uncovered left behind there in the jungle. They have unearthed certain items that, to me at least, are beyond price. I want those brought out. Even if ... ”
He hesitated. Fargo looked at him keenly. “Even if what?”
“Even if you have to leave some of the people behind,” the old man said. “Not my son, of course. You’re to bring him with you, no matter what. But … Well, he’ll show you what you must bring out. And if you have to choose between the cargo and the people, the cargo comes first. Do you understand?”
“No,” said Fargo. “What is this stuff that’s so valuable?” He looked around, gestured. “Statues, masks, monuments? More of this stuff? You’re loaded with it already. You’d double-cross your own expedition to get another load? Hell, that stuff’s lain out in the jungle for centuries. It could stay there until things quiet down. You could wait; it won’t rot.”
“I cannot wait!” Stoneman’s eyes glittered. “I’m old, Fargo, and my time’s running out. All my life I’ve dreamed of seeing, touching, feeling, possessing the—what this expedition’s uncovered. You’ll see it soon enough and you’ll understand then why. Meantime, what you don’t know won’t hurt you, I assure you. But take my word for it: what Telford and Ned have uncovered in the Valley of Skulls—what you are to bring to me—is worth anything and everything it cost: any amount of trouble, any amount o
f blood.”
“And you still won’t tell me what it is?”
“I said you’d learn in due time. When you reach the Valley of Skulls. I have reason for my secrecy, which you’ll understand then. Meanwhile—forty thousand, Fargo. To bring me the cargo from the Valley of Skulls. No matter what you have to do.”
Fargo hesitated. Then he grinned tightly. It stank; it stank to high heaven. But few jobs that paid off in that kind of cash didn’t. All right, Stoneman was covering a hole card. But as long as he came across, what difference did it make?
“Okay, Stoneman,” he said. “You’re on. I’ll take the job. For forty thousand, I’ll guarantee you your son and the cargo, whatever it is, minimum. That price holds, even if the rest of ’em don’t get out.”
“Exactly. And … there’s one more thing, Fargo.”
“What’s that?”
Stoneman’s old, dry voice was cold and hard as iron.
“There may be moments in days to come when you’re tempted to double-cross me. Before you do that, consider one thing.”
“Which is—?”
“That I’m one of the richest, most powerful men in the world. And that I know how to hate and hold a grudge, Fargo. And if you give me cause to, if you turn against me, I’ll spend any amount of money, hire any number of men to find you wherever you are and teach you what it means to betray Ned Stoneman.”
Fargo smiled faintly. “You’re scaring me to death.” Then his own eyes turned hard, despite the stretching of the smile to his wolf grin. “I’ll do my job, Stoneman. But remember, that threat works both ways. You try to slip one to me, I’m a good hater, too. And you can’t hire enough men to keep me from coming after you and getting you.”
Stoneman looked back at him for a moment. Then he laughed, a short, harsh barking sound. “Yes, by God! We understand each other, don’t we? You remind me of myself when I was young. All right, Fargo, we have a deal. Now, to details. I’ll put my yacht at your disposal. It’ll take you where you want to go and meet you wherever you plan to come out...”