by John Benteen
But Murphy was good, damned good. By reflex, the Bowie caught Fargo’s thrust, turned it, sent it harmlessly past his flank. Then he came in with a sideways turn of his wrist, and Fargo felt the cloth of his shirt go as Murphy’s blade sliced it. Only Fargo’s quick, inward-sucking of his belly kept the Bowie from slicing flesh as well.
Then both men caught their balance. As if by mutual consent, they backed off to the length of their bound forearms, crouched, facing each other across the barrier that their own wrists made. Their knives winked and flickered in the sunlight, fast and deadly as the fangs of rattlesnakes; again steel rang on steel. But neither found an opening.
Murphy, teeth bared, sweat pouring from his face, laughed deep in his chest. “Wave that thing all you want to, Fargo. Won’t do you no good!” His eyes went hard; he thrust in quickly. This time Fargo felt the touch of steel, the quick trickle of blood.
But no real damage had been done; his flank was sliced a little. And Murphy was off balance. Fargo had an opening, lanced in with the Filipino knife, straight for Murphy’s belly.
Only the metal buckle of the web belt saved him. The blade hit that, slid off. Murphy stabbed at the same time at Fargo’s back, his face close to Fargo’s, his breath a hot blast. In the same instant he spat in Fargo’s eye, a tactic to blind his opponent. Fargo’s thrust, though, had caused Murphy to swing; the blade went between Fargo’s upper arm and body. Murphy turned it in his grip to slice Fargo’s arm, but Fargo raised the arm high, struck back, and Murphy had to withdraw, parry, to keep his throat from being cut. Once again the two men broke apart.
Then, with the Apaches ringed around them watching intently, it was slash and parry, slash and slash again. Masters both, they went at each other hard, seeking an opening, any point of vulnerability, finding none. Sweat poured off of both; the clanging of their blades was constant.
Both men were tiring. Fargo felt the flex, the life, going out of his own arm, his legs were slowing. Like a prizefight, this took every ounce of energy a man could muster, every bit of muscle and wind. He could hear Murphy breathing hoarsely, sensed a growing awkwardness in the big man’s movements. In a moment, he thought … give him just a few seconds more...
Then the moment came. Murphy’s bound wrist was slack as Murphy, deciding to put a quick end to this, came in hard at Fargo. That was what Fargo waited for. As Murphy’s blade lanced toward the opening Fargo had deliberately made, seemed about to gut Fargo’s belly, Fargo threw the knife with a short, sharp twitch of his wrist. It passed in that instant from right hand to his bound left. Then a lot of things happened at once.
Fargo twisted, struck down with his empty right, clamped Murphy’s knife-hand with an iron grip, diverted the thrust. At the same time, his left, just as skillful as his right, took advantage of the slack in Murphy’s arm and jabbed. Lunging forward, off balance, Murphy ran full into the blade aimed at his throat.
Steel sank into flesh. Blood gushed, a fountain of it, drenching both men. Fargo twisted the knife, withdrew it. Murphy gagged strangely, staggered back, blood pumping from the severed artery. Horrified, he froze, staring at Fargo, his knife-hand dropping. Fargo moved quickly, mercilessly. He transferred the knife from left to right, thrust in low and forward. Ten inches of steel buried themselves in Murphy’s belly—and Fargo ripped upward with all his might. Murphy screamed as the knife disemboweled him—a hideous, gurgling cry. Then he fell backward, dead weight at the end of the lashing, the Bowie dropping from his grasp. His weight pulled Fargo down upon him. Freeing the Batangas knife, Fargo thrust and thrust again. Around them, the Indians raised a wild, whooping howl of excitement. Then it was over; Murphy twisted, writhed, tried to speak, and failed. After that he died.
Chapter Nine
Fargo had no idea what sort of mess it was they smeared into the knife slash along his ribs. He was, however, aware of El Tigre forcing some sort of liquid down his throat that was fiery and revivifying: tiswin, the mescal wine of the Apaches. He drank of it deeply, gratefully. Then deft hands bound his wound with dirty rags.
He raised his head, found himself looking into the eyes of El Tigre. There was open awe and admiration in the face of the young Apache. “Damn,” he said. “Damn, Fargo, you fight like an Indian. I wish to hell you were one.”
Fargo got to his feet. He was all right, now. His side would be sore for a while, but that was no worry. His head was clear, his mind working swiftly. He looked at the other Chiricahuas ranged about him. These were men who placed great value on the ability to kill quickly and efficiently. They had seen him do it twice, now, in less than an hour. He read respect on their features. Now, he thought. Now, while the iron is hot. . .
“There are a lot of things I can teach you people,” he said. “The Army you’ll be fighting is a different one from the Army your old men fought. This one has got machine guns and hand grenades and even airplanes. I know about those things. I know how to fight against them.”
“Then you will show us, explain to us.”
“And after I have, you’ll kill me. Likely by torture.”
El Tigre hesitated. Then he said, “Maybe not.”
That was what Fargo waited to hear. “What do you mean?”
El Tigre clamped a hand around Fargo’s arm, led him into the shadow of a boulder. He squatted, made a gesture for Fargo to do likewise. Then he took out brown Mexican cigarettes, lit one, gave one to Fargo.
“I have studied the white man’s Army,” he said. “I made a specialty of it at school. I have read all I could find. In secret, I practiced with gun, knife, bow and arrow, until I was as good with them as any man. And now I have led men on the warpath. Still, I’m young, and my practical experience is—” He shrugged. “Not very much. For that matter—” He pointed at the others. “They have less than I. They’re expert hunters, yes, but the whole object of their existence until now has been to avoid fighting, avoid discovery. And there’s a lot of difference between hunting and fighting. I’m no fool, Fargo. I know how much we have to learn. And I think I know how much you could teach.”
“I’ve fought in more wars than you’ve got fingers,” Fargo said. “I’ve seen it all, done it all, and I’m still alive.”
“Yes, but—” El Tigre sighed. “You’re a white man. In the end, it all comes down to that. And in the end, that means I can’t trust you. If I could you’d be invaluable to us. If we had a man like you fighting along with us . . . but, hell, that’s nothing but a dream. We couldn’t expect you to turn against your own people, not even if it would make you rich.”
Fargo’s eyes narrowed; he sensed another opening. “Make me rich, how?”
“I told you. Someday we’ll reconquer all this land. My vision is this, to take everything west of the Pecos and south of the Platte back from the white man. Have all the other Indians of the West join us. Hold that country for our own—all the tribes, united, would be so powerful that nobody could conquer us. The United States, Mexico—they’d have to recognize us as a separate country.” El Tigre’s eyes glowed. “And we’d use the white man’s own knowledge, the things he’s taught us, to make that country thrive. We’d work the mines in the white man’s way, irrigate in the white man’s way and grow our crops . . . but we’d hunt in the Indian way, never taking more than we needed. We’d let the country fill up with game again, harvest that game the way the white man does his cattle. From the Pacific to the Platte to the Pecos, we’d made a paradise out of this country, Fargo, a paradise for men who wanted to live wild and free!”
He broke off. “A white man who joined us, who helped us, who was loyal to us . . . his own people would call him renegade, of course. But we could make him rich and honored among us.” He threw away the cigarette butt. “There have been some white men, of course, who preferred the Indian way. The old time mountain men found it good, even though they turned against us in the end. Simon Girty in Kentucky; Charles Bent . . . even our worst enemies, General Crook and his scout, Al Sieber. They admired us, admired the way
we lived. Only the whites who wanted to steal from the Indians hated us . . . all the same . . .” He looked at Fargo narrowly. “You see what I’m driving at?”
“I see,” Fargo said. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I fight for money.”
“Even against your own people?” El Tigre’s voice was incredulous.
“I fight for money against anybody—if the money’s big enough, good enough.” Fargo laughed harshly. “I expect I’ve killed more white men than you have, El Tigre … ” He took one last drag on his own cigarette, threw it down, stepped on it. “But the money’s getting scarcer, now. The country’s closing up, settling down. To make a big score, I have to travel farther and farther. South America, the Philippines . . . and there’s something else—”
“What’s that?” El Tigre looked at him.
“I’m wild, too.” Fargo grinned coldly. “I’m wilder than any man you’ve got in your bunch, and I’ve got less liking for rules and laws and civilization. You’ve lived like an Indian ever since you got out of school; I’ve lived like an Indian all my life. Except for talking Chiricahua, there ain’t a thing any of your men can do that I can’t do better. That’s because I had to teach myself to do those things to live the way I want to live—wild and free. What you’re talking all around in circles about is this: you want me to join up with you. Show you how to fight the white man, help you win against him. Well, do you know something? You’re smarter than you think you are. Because you’ve got a pretty good chance of winning. Even with the modern improvements the Army’s got, if you could really stir up the Indians all over the West, you could do what you aim to do. Especially if the United States gets in this European war; that would be your time to strike. A white man like me could negotiate with the Germans and get help for you . . .” He grinned. “There’s another little matter, too. I know Pancho Villa personally. He and I have done a lot of business together. He just got through shooting up the cavalry in Columbus, New Mexico. He might finance another little war in this region—an Indian war—to keep the United States off his neck. And as for guns—hell, you’ve got the money and I know where to buy them.”
His voice was rising, full of enthusiasm. “I’ve played longer gambles than this and won. I’ve always wanted a chance to help command a real army of my own—and an army of Indians fights in exactly my style: hit and run, cut and slash. Suppose I said yes. Suppose I said yes, you make it worth my while and I make it worth yours by giving you a real chance of winning. What would you say then?”
He saw the lights kindling, swirling, in El Tigre’s eyes. Then they died. The Indian’s mouth twisted. “I’d say you were a damned smooth talker trying to save his own skin.”
“I won’t deny that I’m powerful attached to my skin. But not so attached that I wouldn’t risk it for money; that’s my trade. When you really start raiding, you’re going to grab a lot of money. I can show you how to crack banks, trains, get all the money you need … ”
“You make it sound good,” El Tigre said. “You make it sound real good. But—” He broke off. A rider had come through the notch in the basin wall, a single Apache on a lathered horse. He galloped across the basin toward El Tigre, slid from his gasping mount, obviously a man with important news. Even before his moccasins hit the ground, he was rattling a stream of Chiricahua dialect.
El Tigre cocked his head, listened. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He responded; the exhausted brave nodded, led the horse toward a smokeless fire where the Indians were roasting mescal, a staple food. Then he turned to Fargo.
“Like I said,” he murmured, “big talk. How would you like a chance to prove it’s true?”
Fargo stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“My scout. He just brought back important news. An American army patrol. Only ten men. They must be looking for that dead captain and sergeant. They’ve just settled down to make camp along the Rio, not fifteen miles from here. We can ride hard all night, hit them before daybreak, when they least expect it. Ten against thirty—sitting ducks, easy pickings; more guns and horses!” He looked at Fargo with eyes like chips of black glass. “You see what I’m driving at?” he finished softly.
“I see,” Fargo answered.
“You ride with us. Before we strike, you get guns and ammo. Then it’s up to you, Fargo. I’ll be at your stirrup all the way, watching you. You want to save your hide, you’ll have to out-Apache every Apache in my band. Then we’ll know. We’ll know for certain whether we can count on you.”
Fargo was silent for a moment.
“What’s the matter?” El Tigre rasped. “The idea of fighting your own soldiers—you balk at that?”
Fargo drew in a deep breath. “I don’t balk at anything,” he said. “When do we leave?”
“Now,” said El Tigre. “We leave right now.”
He was as good as his word. They quenched their fires, checked their weapons, prepared their mounts. When Nola was jerked roughly to her feet, she stared at Fargo. “What’s happening?”
“Your friend’s joined us,” El Tigre said, grinning wickedly. “There’s a cavalry patrol out there—a small one, easy meat. But we’ve never fought American soldiers before. Fargo is going to show us how.”
Nola looked at Fargo blankly. Then comprehension—and horror—shadowed her face. “No,” she whispered. “No, you’re not really—” She shook her head. “Americans? Your own people?”
Fargo nodded calmly. “El Tigre’s made me a proposition. There’s money in it. But I’ve got to prove to him that I’m his man. Yeah. Yeah, we’re gonna take that patrol. Nothin’ to it if a man knows what he’s doin’.”
“But to kill white soldiers—”
Fargo pointed to two corpses, already swelling, blackening, in the ferocious heat. “I just killed two.”
“But that was different—”
“Not in the eyes of the War Department,” Fargo said. He turned to the Apache. “Are you gonna take her with us? It’ll be a lot of extra trouble.”
“Everybody, everything goes with us. The girl, the gold—all my men. We travel that way. It’s the Apache style. Then, no matter what happens, we’re never split up, we never have to go back to the same place if we don’t want to. Besides, if anything goes wrong—” El Tigre’s hand tightened on Nola’s wrist. “I told you, she was hostage. We can bargain with her.”
“Yeah,” said Fargo. “You can trade white men out of their eye teeth for the life of a white woman. I don’t know why, but it’s the way they are. Okay, El Tigre, I can’t argue with that.”
Nola pulled back against the Apache’s grip. “No!” she hissed. “No.” Her eyes glittered with hatred as she turned them on Fargo. “You . . . you’ll help these Indians kill white men?”
“It’ll save my hide and make me some money,” Fargo said. “That’s the game I play.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “I’ve never met a man like you. Fallon, Murphy ... I wish now they’d won.”
Fargo laughed, a harsh, metallic sound. Then his face changed to a mask of fury. “Oh, shut up,” he grated. “I told you to stay out of Big Bend. Nobody asked you down here.” He addressed El Tigre. “You’d better gag this bitch if you’re gonna bring her along. Otherwise, she’ll yap out at the wrong time and queer everything.”
“Right,” the Indian said. And Nola was held tightly, eyes lambent as they fastened on Fargo, while a bandanna was used to silence her. Then, brusquely, El Tigre said, “All right. Load her up and let’s ride.”
They mounted, Fargo weaponless under heavy guard, his guns on El Tigre’s saddle or slung across the Apache’s chest. Nola was wrestled onto a horse, her legs tied under its belly, her hands tied to the horn. Fargo did not miss, either, how the gold was lashed to a pack horse, the rope of which El Tigre kept in his hand.
They filed out of the basin through that hidden key-hole notch, a point guard of braves in the lead; then El Tigre, with Fargo at his stirrup, Nola trailing. The other Indians strung out behind, e
xcept for a guard who flanked Fargo on the side opposite the chief. They were guided by the messenger who had brought the news.
Fargo rode loose in the saddle, relaxed. Within he was strung taut, his laziness deceptive, masking unflagging alertness. His mind lanced ahead to what lay before them.
Ten soldiers, even with guards posted, would be easy pickings for thirty Apaches. These Indians, expert hunters all, could cut the throats of the guards without their knowing what had happened. Then a quick, overwhelming attack. There was no doubt about it. The patrol was doomed.
And so, of course, was Fargo, unless he did his share of the killing. His skill with weapons had captured El Tigre’s imagination; his ability to lie coolly and unblinkingly while he played for time had helped. But the moment of truth would come when they hit the patrol. El Tigre would throw him into the forefront of the killing. If he didn’t do his share, he’d wind up like Sam Finch. That was a thought that lifted the short hairs on the back of Fargo’s neck.
But so was the thought of killing American soldiers. Renegades like Fallon, Murphy—they didn’t count. But those sweaty, dirty men out there in the desert, enduring hardship, risking their lives for a few measley dollars in cash, a sense of duty, and a flag. Well, he had ridden with too many of them too long. Yes, they could take the patrol, take it easily. With five men—no more than that—he could do it himself; with thirty, the result was inevitable. But once he had participated in this raid, killed American cavalrymen to save his own skin, everything would be different. He himself would be different.
Fargo’s lips thinned. All his life, he’d walked that tightrope; the one that stretched over the abyss of outlawry. So far, he’d kept his balance. Was he to be pushed off tonight?
After all, he thought, he had to live. That was the main thing. That was the driving force within him. No matter who died, Fargo had to live.
He cursed soundlessly as they rode into the down-slanting sun. He had never been presented with a dilemma like this before.