The Sharpshooters (A Fargo Western Book 9)

by John Benteen

  “Fargo. Neal Fargo.”

  “Mr. Fargo. I’ll jest say this. There ain’t many people welcome up whar we live in Black Valley. We don’t take much to outsiders. But any time ye need a place to stay, a bit to eat, a drink of likker, or a gun to side ye, ye come to us, the Canfields.”

  Fargo looked at him in surprise.

  “Thet’s the way we air,” said Roaring Tom. “I owe ye my son’s life. Canfields always pay their debts.”

  Slowly, Fargo’s mouth curled in a grin. He liked this old man, understood his code. “All right,” he said. “If the time comes when I have to, I’ll do that. But Black Valley ain’t my range.” He buttoned the shirt. “Likely I’ll never see a Canfield again.”

  Then the girl was there, Bonnie. She held Fargo’s old cavalry hat, the one issued to him in the Rough Riders. “This blowed off,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Their eyes met again. This time, Fargo’s shifted first. He wanted no more trouble with the Canfields, and what he saw in hers could easily have caused it.

  He turned away, buckling on the gunbelt. Then, as Canfields made way for him, he went to the bay, swung tiredly into the saddle. He reined the horse around, looked at all those mountain men clustered in the street around the still unconscious Jess. As his eyes ranged over them, he grinned.

  “Ye remember whut I said,” Roaring Tom called earnestly.

  “I’ll remember,” Fargo said. “But right now, I got business down on the Rio.”

  His hand went to the saddle scabbard on the left; the Winchester was still in place. In the one on the right, the sawed-off shotgun rode snugly. Satisfied, he swung the bay around, touched it with spurs, and loped out of Fort Davis. As he passed the saloon, he saw Steed and Hanna standing before it, staring at him with hostile, disappointed eyes. He did not even nod. It was a long way to El Paso and he had wasted too much time here already. Pancho Villa was waiting for ammunition; and Fargo needed money.

  Once, at the edge of town, he twisted in the saddle, looked back. The Canfields were going to their horses. Only one remained in the center of the street, watching him: Bonnie. And as she raised her hand and waved, the old woman seized her and pulled her toward the wagon.

  Fargo rode on, hard.

  Chapter Three

  Two months later, on his second trip after leaving Fort Davis, the Texas Rangers ambushed him at the San Vicente crossing of the Rio, deep in the heart of the desolate Big Bend badlands.

  He had come down to the river in the blackness of early morning—three o’clock—leading a string of half a dozen big and well-trained pack mules, each lugging four hundred pounds of ammunition for Pancho Villa. The normal load for a pack mule was two hundred, but Fargo had learned packing from a veteran of General Crook’s expeditions against the Apaches years before, and he used the special saddles and pads Crook had devised to increase the loads an animal could carry. Right now, the more than ton of cartridges was worth a fortune in pure Chihuahua silver, and he was feeling good about having slipped past the Army so easily. Villa’s spies along the river and his own sources of information kept him advised of Army movements and made it child’s play to avoid the cavalry. But he had not counted on the Rangers being here, too. His first knowledge of their presence was when a voice, oddly familiar, blared from the brush along the river: “Halt! By order of the Texas Rangers!”

  Fargo cursed. His double-barreled ten-gauge sawed-off shotgun rode muzzle downward across his shoulder in a sling. Instinctively, one hand went to it, then fell away.

  In his long and dangerous life, he had broken nearly every manmade rule. But there was one he observed rigorously, a matter of self-preservation: Never kill a Texas Ranger!

  He thought fast. Then he wheeled the bay so hard and suddenly it reared. He yanked the lead rope of the mules. They brayed in surprise, swung around. From the reeds along the river, gunfire roared. “Halt!” somebody yelled again. Flashes split the pitch-black darkness. Fargo bent low in the saddle as lead made its ugly whine around him. Then he and the mules were pounding up the slope, away from the Rio, headed for the shelter of the broken country. Behind him, he heard shouts, the thud of hooves.

  ~*~

  Never kill a Texas Ranger!

  The rule was becoming harder and harder not to break, Fargo thought bitterly, ten hours later. Penned up like a trapped cougar in this cave, his train of mules and their loads of ammo abandoned, taken by the Rangers, and now a half dozen of the lawmen down there, coming after him to smoke him out.

  Thrusting the Winchester forward through the barricade of rocks that made a fort across the mouth of the shallow hole in this high wall of the Chisos Mountains, he let his finger caress the trigger. Break that rule, he told himself, shoot his way out—or spend the next decade of his life in Huntsville or a Federal prison. When men came after him with guns, no matter who they were, he always fought back.

  Below him on the steep, rock-strewn slope, the Rangers had fanned out. Each of the six had found good cover. They had recognized him by now and knew what he could do with the Winchester and the sawed-off shotgun. And they were in no hurry. They were six to one and they had food and water, and they could starve and thirst him out.

  That was unless he made a break at nightfall. It was his only chance. With the Fox sawed-off, loaded nine buckshot to the barrel, he had a chance, a slim one, of blasting through when darkness covered him again. Meanwhile, if he were patient, likely he could reduce the odds with the carbine; one or two might get careless and give him a target before sundown came.

  The fact remained, anyone who killed a Texas Ranger was doomed. Burn down one, much less two or three or six or however many he would have to drop before he fought free, and his death warrant was sealed. Once you killed a Ranger, the force would never rest until it killed you. Cross the Rio, flee beyond their jurisdiction, go to Canada or South America, it made no difference. Legally or otherwise, they would hunt you down. He knew himself to be as good a fighting man as any who ever burned powder. But not even he could stand against the Texas Rangers if he killed one of their number.

  And so, squinting down at the sun-drenched slope, knowing they were there and waiting, he held his fire. One hand thumbed a thin cigar from the pocket of his sweat-drenched khaki shirt, thrust it between good, white teeth, then snapped a match and lit it. The smoke tasted fine and helped him think.

  One thing he vowed: he would pull no time in prison.

  In his violent career, he’d done everything but that. Born on a New Mexico ranch, orphaned before he could walk by a raiding party of Apaches, taken in by foster parents who had wanted not a child but a slave, he had run away from his second home at the age of twelve. After that, all the things that Steed and Hanna had mentioned back there in Fort Davis …

  A soldier of fortune, he went where there was fighting to be done for money. And in all those rough years, he had spent no time in prison. Never had a warrant been sworn against him in the United States. But he had been cooped up temporarily in enough vile carcels south of the border to know that for a man who loved freedom and a high, wild, violent life as much as he did, five years or ten of prison would be worse than death. What he was faced with now was a choice between dying himself or killing Rangers; certainly he would not go to jail.

  Below, now, the lawmen called to one another, but they could not see him. His wolf’s grin spread across his face. Well, they’d not try to rush him until darkness; they were too wise for that. He had another hour to make up his mind what to do. The hell with it. He sat up, sliding back into the rock wall’s shelter. Relax, enjoy the time he had left.

  He took off the cavalry hat, ran his hand through the short, snow-white hair above the leather-colored, ugly face. There had to be some way, he thought, to get out of this, if he could only find it before his time ran out.

  Meanwhile, he checked his weapons. The Winchester, a Model 94 carbine, was fully loaded; he laid it aside. The shotgun—his hands were gentler as he picked it up. A Fox Sterlingworth, i
t had once been a fowling piece with long, full-choked barrels. But Fargo had sawed those off, leaving stubs with open bores, capable of throwing deadly scattering loads, converting it into the most lethal short-range weapon man had yet invented. His big hand caressed the ornate engraving on breech and barrels, worked out the legend traced there: To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt. His mouth twisted wryly. Well, that testimonial would not help him now.

  He laid the Fox aside, drew the Colt .38 from its holster. It had been regular Army issue before the Army had gone to the Philippines. There, the unstoppability of the fanatical Moro tribesmen had made it seem inadequate, and the service had adopted the less accurate, less reliable, but heavier Colt .45 automatic. Fargo, however, clung to this weapon. He could stop anything that moved with it, Moro or not. The slugs in his cartridge belt were hollow-points, dum-dums that would fragment on impact, blowing a terrible wound in a man’s flesh.

  The main thing, he thought, was to hit where you aimed. Almost always, he did that.

  The cylinder was fully loaded. He dropped it back into its scabbard. Then he drew the knife.

  Not many people carried knives like this. He had gotten it in the Philippines, too. There they called it a Batangas knife, for the artisans in that province specialized in making these. Handles of water-buffalo horn, hinged, folded forward to cover most of a ten-inch blade of super-hardened steel. When, with his thumb, he flicked their catch and shook his wrist, they swung back together in his palm to make a grip. They revealed the long and deadly cutting edge and sharp point, hardened by a secret process. It could literally be driven through a silver dollar with a single blow without breaking or even dulling. He made the experienced knife-fighter’s pass with his right hand, then shifted it to his left and repeated the maneuver, blade turned sideways, flat in relationship to the ground. His hand was like a snake’s strike, blurred and swift.

  Then he returned the Batangas knife to its sheath. He checked his cartridge bandoliers. He had spent some Winchester ammo in the running fight, firing over the heads of the pursuing Rangers in a fruitless attempt to slow them down. But he had not used the shotgun, and the bandolier that held fifty rounds for it was still full. He adjusted them crisscross over his chest; their weight was somehow comforting.

  Still, what he had to decide was whether to die or kill some Rangers. And time was growing short; outside, the sun was dropping, shadows lengthening.

  He edged back to the mouth of the cave, sprawled his long, khaki-clad body behind the rocks again and thrust the carbine forward once more. The Rangers were still under cover.

  No jail, he decided firmly. Whatever happened, no jail. What was it the old Cheyennes had said when they went into battle?

  This is a good day to die.

  He crushed out his last cigar and waited.

  Then the voice rang up the slope, calling his name.

  “Fargo,” it bawled. “Hey, Neal!”

  Fargo stiffened.

  “Neal Fargo! This is Mart Penny callin’ to you!”

  Fargo swore softly. The Rangers had been too far behind for him to recognize them. But now he knew why that voice blaring from the river brush had seemed to familiar.

  Fargo’s mind flashed back. Once, in Cuba, he and Mart, just the two of them, had stood off a whole platoon of Spaniards until Bucky O’Neill’s company could come up. This made it even trickier. He licked dry lips. “Mart!” he bellowed. “What the hell you doin’ down there?”

  “What the hell you think? I’m captain of this Ranger company!”

  “Well, that’s your tough luck!” Fargo yelled back.

  “Neal, don’t be a fool! I want to talk to you!”

  “About what? Huntsville? Leavenworth?”

  “Maybe, maybe not!” Penny’s voice echoed off the barren rock of the mountainside. “Will you parley with me?”

  “About what? Surrender? Spend the rest of my life inside the goddamn walls? You go to hell!”

  “Neal, you ain’t got a chance! Don’t you see that?”

  “I got my guns!”

  “Makes no difference! Kill us, kill us all, every Ranger in Texas will be on your tail. Neal, damn it, talk to me!”

  Fargo hesitated. “You want to come up all alone, flag of truce?”

  “Hell, I’ll shuck my guns, come up slick.”

  “What is it you want to talk about?”

  “Can’t yell it. Plumb private! Let me come up!”

  Fargo gnawed his lower lip. Then he made his decision. “All right, Mart. You come up slick, hands above your head. No tricks, though. Any tricks, old times don’t mean a thing.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Fargo, I’m standin’ up. You can see me shuck my guns.”

  “Go ahead,” Fargo called. “You’re safe as in church.”

  His narrowed eyes swept the slope. There were boulders down there big as houses. Then something edged around one. In the slanting light and purple shadows, it resolved into the figure of a man, tall, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, wearing a big black sombrero, a Ranger “scout belt” containing loops for rifle and pistol cartridges alike, a gray flannel shirt and batwing chaps that blended neatly with the background, and a silver star inside a circle on his left breast that made a superb target.

  Fargo watched him unlatch the scout belt, let it drop. With it went his six-gun. Then Penny raised his hands above his head, and under the aim of Fargo’s gun, began the long walk up the slope.

  As the Ranger captain neared, Fargo saw that he’d not changed much. The same crinkled eyes, the snub nose, the wide mouth and jutting, rocklike chin. Beneath his high-heeled boots, gravel slipped and rolled as he panted up the slope, hands high. Then he was at the cave’s mouth.

  “Stop right there, Mart,” said Fargo. “I want to look you over.”

  “No hideout, Neal. Even left my knife.”

  Fargo’s eyes detected no suspicious bulge. Damn it, even like this, it was good to see Mart Penny again. When had been the last time? San Antonio, about 1905? Mart hadn’t been a Ranger then, and it had been one hell of a drunk they’d tossed together and a lot of saloons they’d torn apart.

  “Okay, you damned lawdog,” he said. “Come on in.”

  Penny grinned. “Comin’, hardcase.” He bent, stepped over the rock barrier, edged inside as Fargo shoved back, Winchester still trained.

  Penny looked around. “Not much on comfort, Neal.”

  “I was aimin’ to write the landlord a letter,” Fargo said. “Sit down, Mart.”

  “Yeah. The shade feels good. Must be a hundred out there in that sun.” Penny dropped, leaned against the wall, panting slightly from the climb. He was the same age as Fargo and his beard, unshaved during this patrol, was faintly tinged with gray. He took off his hat, fanned his face. “Neal, how you been?”

  “Better than I am now, Mart.”

  “Likely. You won’t plug me if I light a cigarette?”

  “Not if you give me one. Just smoked my last cigar.”

  The Ranger took out a pack of Sweet Caporals, passed Fargo one, lit one himself. “Well,” he said, pluming smoke through both nostrils, “we come a long way, Neal.”

  “If I’d known you were gonna join the Rangers, I’d have let that Mexican go ahead and cut you when he found you in the hay with his senorita, back in San Antone.”

  “Lord God, I’d forgotten that!” They looked at one another, grinning. Then Penny’s face was serious. “Neal, you’re in a fix.”

  “I figured that out all by myself.”

  “If you don’t surrender, we’ll have to kill you.”

  “If I do, I’ll go to prison. I don’t like prisons, Mart.”

  “You shouldn’ta violated that embargo. No arms to Villa; you know that.”

  “It used to be all right.”

  “Before President Wilson changed his policy.”

  “Somebody in Washington signs a paper. Then for what’s been legal, they can pen you up the rest of your life.”

/>   “I don’t like it any better than you. Villa’s the only decent fighting man those poor bastards down there have got on their side. All the same, law’s law and orders are orders. And I’m sworn to enforce the one and follow the other. No more guns or ammo to the Mes’cans.”

  “Yeah. I hope you didn’t come all the way up that hill to tell me that. Nor to ask me to surrender, either. Because you know I won’t.”

  “I ain’t that much fool. But Neal, there is a chance.”

  Fargo stared at him. “What kind of chance?”

  “To leave here on your feet and with your guns. Kill no Rangers and never see the inside of a prison.”

  “Mart, the sun ain’t got to you?” Fargo drew in a breath of smoke. “You aim to let me go?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Penny answered. “I want to make a trade.”

  “What kind of trade?”

  “Your life, guns, and freedom,” Penny said. “In return for doing me a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I’ve got a warrant on a man. I want it served. I want you to serve it and bring that man in.”

  “Me?” Fargo’s voice was astonished. “What man?”

  Penny’s eyes were hard. “His name’s Jess Canfield,” he said. “We want him dead or alive. But, given a choice, we’d rather have him dead. Three weeks ago he killed a Texas Ranger.”

  For a moment, there was total silence in the cave. Down the slope a mule, one of Fargo’s, brayed.

  “Do you know about the Canfields?” Penny asked.

  “I know about them.”

  “All right. A month ago, two riders working for a man named Steed followed some strays to their hole-in-the-wall up yonder in the Davis Mountains. Somebody bushwhacked ’em outside that gorge called Black Canyon. Killed one of the men; the other got out with a shoulder wound. He got a look at the guy who drygulched ’em, identified him as Jess Canfield. Walt Steed swore out a warrant against Canfield for murder.”