Panama Gold (A Neal Fargo Adventure #2)

by John Benteen

  Cane slashed at him, vines and briars tried to wrap him tight, as he plunged through the jungle. Then he stumbled out into a clearing, and, for the fraction of a second, he halted frozen, at the sight that met his eyes.

  The Indian must have tried a poisoned dart first. It had missed, but the jaguar had seen him, swung toward him, charged. Readying himself for the charge, the Indian had flung aside the blowgun, brought his spear into play. The jaguar, hurling himself at the short, coppery, breech-clouted man, had hit the spear full on. It should have killed him, would have if the shaft of it had not broken.

  But it had. With half the spear point imbedded in his chest, the jaguar had knocked the short, stocky man to the ground. Now it was atop him, fangs seeking his throat, raking claws trying to tear out his guts.

  Fargo s momentary paralysis broke. He whipped out the pistol, fired before he thought. The bullet raked the jaguar’s haunch; with a sleek, fluid motion, it whipped its attention from the Indian on the ground to Fargo. A single bound and it had changed direction; then, coughing deep in its chest, it came charging.

  Fargo watched, for one second, the jaguar come. It was rosetted, enormous, eyes lambent, fangs gleaming; and as it reached a point twenty feet from Fargo, it launched itself into a spread-taloned spring.

  Fargo forgot the pistol; he threw up the shotgun. His trigger finger choked both triggers at once. The slam of the big ten-gauge knocked back his arm.

  But the eighteen buckshot caught the jaguar in midspring. Their impact was like a wall that the big cat hit in midair. It seemed to stop, to pause suspended. Then, with a terrible snarl, it fell to the ground before Fargo’s booted feet, rolled over and over, clawing at itself in agony, snapping at its own flesh. Suddenly it twitched and, riddled, died.

  Fargo stared down at the hundred and twenty pounds of enormous jungle cat that had almost got its claws into him. Then his eyes pulled away from the rosetted, inert form, sleek even in death, to the Indian.

  Like a rubber ball, though bleeding from a double-dozen claw marks, the San Bias bounced to his feet. He was maybe five feet tall, perhaps three, four inches more, and his greasy black hair was bound with a snakeskin fillet; heron plumes dangled from it. He stared at Fargo with something of the terrified look of a jungle beast in his obsidian eyes and, quite instinctively, Fargo held out his right hand, palm up and forward, in the universal sign of peace.

  At that gesture, some of the fear dwindled from the Indian’s countenance. He looked from Fargo to the dead jaguar, and then to his own blood-coursing wounds. They hardly seemed to cause him discomfort. Then he bent, picked up his cane blowgun, and drew a dart from his breechclout and dropped it down the cane.

  Fargo raised the pistol. Before the Indian blew the poisoned dart at him, he would blast the man with a .38 hollow-point.

  But the San Bias never raised the blowgun to his mouth. Instead, he only stood there with it at his side. Then he came forward across the clearing toward Fargo.

  It was hard to tell his age. He could have been anywhere from nineteen to forty, which was about as long as most of these Indians lived. But, Fargo saw to his astonishment, as the Indian came near him, the San Bias mouth twisted in a grin.

  He held the blowgun out far from his body with his left hand. With his right, he reached for Fargo. His lips seemed to have trouble forming the Spanish word. But there was no doubt of what it was. As he clamped his right hand around Fargo’s wrist, he said hoarsely, huskily, “Amigo.”

  Fargo relaxed, nodding. “Si. Amigo.” He lowered the Colt.

  “Nihara.” The Indian jerked a thumb toward his own chest.

  “Fargo.”

  Nihara nodded. “Fargo,” he repeated. Gnats and other insects were already swarming to the streaks of blood coursing from the claw-rakes on the Indians body. Fargo pointed to the wounds, then went to his saddlebags. His first-aid kit was extensive, crammed with the latest, best medicines of the day. Cats’ claws were filthy, a deadly source of infection, especially in this climate. Retracted, carrion festered and corrupted on them; spread, they were like poisoned sabers.

  But when Fargo attempted to treat Nihara’s wounds, the Indian showed alarm, refused to let him apply either bandages or medicines. Obviously, he feared witchcraft. Instead, he vanished into the jungle beyond the clearing; and when he returned in hardly more than five minutes, each wound had been packed solid with the gummy webs of the giant spiders that spun everywhere in the brush. Then, though he must have been raw and aching, quite as if he were in first class shape, Nihara took a knife from his minuscule loincloth and deftly began to skin the jaguar. He tied the bloody hide into a tight roll with vines, the animal’s liver and brains smeared industriously and thoroughly on the flayed side for tanning. Then he cut off both hindquarters and made a bundle of those, too. Thus burdened, without looking at Fargo, he trotted through the jungle and onto the path that Fargo had been following.

  There he paused, looked at Fargo inquiringly.

  Fargo gestured. “San Fernando.”

  Comprehension overspread Nihara’s face. He nodded. “Si.” Then he trotted on ahead of Fargo, and the soldier of fortune lifted rein and followed him.

  Chapter Five

  The Indian went tirelessly for hours, despite his wounds and burden. The jungle closed in around them, an awesome green wall. Nihara slipped through the vines and lianas that overhung the trail, but Fargo, sweating gallons, had to stand in the stirrups, lean forward and use the machete endlessly to clear the way for the animals, which were edgy and hard to manage because of the ceaseless irritation of biting insects.

  Still, they made fair time, and they were deep in the wilderness now; probably, Fargo decided, deep in San Bias territory, too. Nihara’s wounds started bleeding again, but the Indian repacked them with spider-web and with the shredded bark of a sort of coconut and the flow stopped. They went on; then, just before twilight, the other Indians were there.

  Nihara stopped, head upraised, sniffing the air like a dog on a scent. Fargo reined in, unslinging shotgun, hand on pistol butt. The San Bias were a savage, unfriendly tribe in usual circumstances; it was said that they had never been known to allow a white man to remain in their territory after sundown; Fargo had intended to proceed through their domain by stealth and, if necessary, by violence. But the meeting with Nihara had changed things—he hoped. The Indian owed him a favor, and Fargo knew that no Indian ever reneged on such an obligation. Nihara would not have beckoned him on if it had not been safe. Still, Fargo was not one to take useless chances, and he was ready to fight as Nihara stood there motionless, head swinging, nostrils flaring.

  Then the shapes materialized. Shadows, ghosts, at first, in the jungle dimness. They were all around Fargo, nearly invisible on either side of the trail, and he sat motionless, perfectly aware that darts and poisoned arrows were centered on him. There was a moment of dreadful silence; even Nihara looked uncertain. Then he began to speak swiftly, in a strange, fluid tongue, gesturing violently to the claw marks on his body, the bound jaguar skin.

  When he was through, that silence fell again. Only the evening cries of strange birds pierced it. Then there came an answering statement from the cane. Brush rustled; twelve Indians appeared in the trail, naked, blocky figures, sweaty skins shining coppery in the eerie light. But they had lowered their blowguns, unnocked their arrows, and Fargo let out a long, rasping breath.

  The leader among the twelve bore a strong family resemblance to Nihara, and his black hair was tinged with gray; Fargo judged that they were father and son or older and younger brother. He looked at Fargo with eyes like chips of black glass in a painted face beneath a headdress of snakeskin and plumes, like that of Fargo’s guide. Fargo instinctively raised his hand again in that peace gesture. Then, to his relief, the Indian followed suit. He spoke to Nihara again, to the others, and melted into the brush. Nihara looked relieved; smiling, he turned and gestured to Fargo. Then he began to trot on down the path. Fargo, sweating, kicked the horse and follo
wed. The other Indians loped alongside. Presently they came to an almost indiscernible side path. Nihara led the way along it. They fought jungle for a half hour. Then, with amazing suddenness, they emerged into a small clearing on the side of a stream. It was pungent with the smoke of fires; there was the chatter of women and the laughter of children. There were, too, what passed for houses, thatched roofs on poles, six of them arranged in a semicircle, with hammocks and piles of skins within for beds. As Fargo and the animals came into sight, all the chatter and laughter died. Suddenly he was surrounded by naked Indians of both sexes and all ages. Nihara talked loudly; then, from the biggest of the huts, the older man appeared again. He snapped commands, walked up to the mounted Fargo, looked Fargo in the eyes again with an inscrutable expression, and then suddenly, amazingly, he smiled. When he did that, Fargo dismounted and the older man clapped Fargo’s right hand between both of his. Thus Fargo was welcomed into the Indian village.

  He spent the night there. In honor of his having rescued Nihara, there was a considerable feast. The main courses were the hams of the jaguar, a roast of what Fargo hoped was tapir, some fish, cooked whole, not even gutted, and what was apparently lengths of boa constrictor baked in the coals. Courteously, Fargo partook of it all, glad that grubs and beetles, both of which the Indians ate, were not on the menu that night. The whole mess was washed down with a vile-tasting, extremely potent beer drunk from gourds.

  Afterwards, all the female members of the tribe were lined up before Fargo—all who had attained the age of puberty. Naked, plump, pointed breasted, they looked at him with open curiosity and anticipation. Proudly, Nihara gestured and talked to Fargo with animation, indicating this flower of the tribe. It did not take long for Fargo to understand what Nihara was getting at: Fargo was being offered a bed partner for the night.

  He was not fool enough to refuse or protest. That would have been bad manners, would have insulted and perhaps angered the San Bias. Fargo got to his feet, towering over the whole tribe like a grizzly standing erect amidst a flock of sheep. His head buzzing a bit from the awful beer, he surveyed them. They ranged in age from children to hags.

  Then his eye came to rest on one in the middle. She was, perhaps, in her late teens or early twenties, plump, vivacious, looking at Fargo hopefully and moving her hips slightly in unconscious anticipation. Her teeth were good, and he had seen her, earlier, swimming in the stream. When his hand came to rest on her shoulder, a whoop went up and she stepped out of line smiling with pleasure and with shyness. She and Fargo were herded into a hut, the whole tribe making a sort of procession around them. A huge bed of reeds and skins had been spread. There was some singing and some more whooping; then, magically, silently, the Indians withdrew, and Fargo and the girl were alone in the darkness ...

  The next morning, he rode on, his way safe now through the San Bias territory. Nihara had loped with him a short distance, then had shaken hands and turned back. Once more, Fargo rode alone.

  He estimated that, with luck, three more days would bring him to San Fernando. He would need the luck; in addition to the San Bias, there were the Chucunoques, Indians almost as wild; and he was not certain of the location of their territory. Moreover, the jungle itself seemed to hate white men, indeed, to hate all human life. Insects, poisonous snakes, jaguars ... and then Fargo had to cross a stream.

  He was not fool enough to ford the river, which was fairly wide, without taking certain precautions first, for his animals were bloody from the depredations of the insects and vampire bats. He waited until a troop of howler monkeys came swinging by overhead; then, with three shots, he brought three of them down and threw their bloody carcasses into a pool not far downstream from the ford. Instantly the water seethed, as the piranhas, lured by the fresh blood, swarmed, nipping meat from bones. While they were thus occupied, Fargo raced the horse and mule across. The vicious little fish would have eaten the living flesh from their legs if he had not given them the monkeys as an offering.

  He forged on, following the dim trail. On the third day another one intersected it, and it became a road again. Now he knew he was nearer to San Fernando, and to Cleve Buckner and his private army. He had to hand it to Buckner: if a man could endure the jungle, it was a fine place to build a private army and hide from the law. But a man would have to be desperate to choose such a hiding place, and that meant that Buckner’s crowd would be the toughest of the tough. Deserters, criminals, killers, rapists, outlaws—and Buckner himself, as Fargo well knew from old acquaintance, would be the toughest of them all. Like Fargo himself, he was a professional and left nothing to chance. That was why Fargo knew he could count on being challenged before long.

  He did not think they would bushwhack him, though. Buckner would not want any chance rider killed—not until he learned who he was and what he was doing here. So Fargo rode with his hands deliberately well away from his guns.

  And at noon, in the stifling heat, he encountered the guards.

  They were there when he rounded a blind bend in the trail. His first warning was when his horse nickered. His second was when the voice from the jungle rapped an order. “All right, feller. Pull up and raise them hands. You’re covered by a half dozen guns.”

  Fargo grinned thinly, did exactly as ordered, lifting his hands high. Then, on horseback, two men rode out of the jungle and down the trail, Krag-Jorgensons leveled at Fargo. They wore straw hats, one was black-bearded, the other had a red mustache, their khaki shirts were dark with sweat and crisscrossed with cartridge bandoliers like Fargo’s own.

  The red-mustached one put his horse forward ahead of the other, came up to Fargo, green eyes keen and careful. He ran his gaze over the sheathed Winchester, the slung shotgun, the Colt revolver, which Fargo now carried on his hip. “You’re loaded fer bear, ain’t ya?”

  “My tools,” Fargo said.

  “You look like you might know how to use ’em. Who are you, where you headed?”

  “My name’s Fargo. I’m bound for San Fernando. I want to see Cleve Buckner.” Fargo sat motionless; there were more guns covering him from the jungle, he knew.

  “Okay. Buckner you get to see. But not with all that hardware.” Red-mustache leaned out, fished Fargo’s Colt from holster, carbine from scabbard. “That riot gun, too. Hand it over, and no tricks. Try one and you’re dead.”

  Fargo unslung the shotgun, passed it to the man almost meekly. The fellow broke it, withdrew the shells, slipped them in his pocket, hung the gun around his saddle horn by the sling. His eyes searched for anything he had missed; then he took the Batangas knife. “Well,” he said, flipping it. “You been on Luzon, too, eh? Pulled a hitch there myself, with the cavalry.” He stuck the knife in his belt, jerked the muzzle of the Krag. “Okay. Ride on.”

  As Fargo put the horse in motion, they swung in with him, one on either side, their rifles never wavering. Red-mustache was smoking a brown paper cigarette that smelled like burning horse dung. “Friend,” he said, “I hope you got a good reason for being here. If you ain’t, you’re liable to die awful hard. There’s a big anthill jest outside of town, and it don’t take long for those boogers to strip a man down to bare bone—especially if that man turns out to be a government dick of some kind.”

  The man with the black beard laughed. “Yeah. One of ’em blundered in here coupla months ago. Thought this far back in the jungle nobody would know what was goin’ on in the Zone. Trick of it is, though, Cleve Buckner knows everything that happens there the minute it happens. Knew this feller was on his way before he ever got here, was waitin’ for him. Judas priest, the guy hollered all night long!”

  “Yeah,” Fargo said. “Cleve’s a sharp one.”

  They both looked at him. “You know Cleve?”

  “Fought against him in San Salvador a few years back.”

  They stared, open-mouthed. “You fought against Cleve?” Red-mustache rasped. “And you got the guts to show up here?”

  Fargo shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

&n
bsp; Blackbeard spat. “Makes no difference. Cleve never forgets nothin’. And when it comes to holdin’ a grudge—whoo-ee. Buddy, I don’t want to be in your shoes.” He looked at his partner. “Maybe we’ll hafta listen to some more howlin’ tonight.”

  “We’ll see,” Red-mustache said. “Now, you hush. We both been talkin’ too much.”

  They rode on in silence. The trail widened, took on a much-used look. The terrain was rolling; they were in the foothills. It was a half hour before they reached the town; and in that space of time, they were challenged twice more by guards. Fargo was not surprised. Cleve Buckner was knowledgeable and thorough.

  Then they broke out of the brush; and San Fernando lay before them. Fargo blinked, impressed.

  It was no longer a town; it was a full-fledged army base.

  A tremendous clearing had been made in the jungle, at the foot of rolling hills. In it, long barracks had been built, ten of them, of bamboo and thatched palm and cane, all in neat ranks. There was a cluster of smaller buildings of similar construction: headquarters. And a hard packed parade and drill ground; a rifle range, and corrals for horses. Fargo saw the earthen domes of ammunition and explosives bunkers and magazines constructed underground. There was even a flagpole in the parade ground’s center, but the flag that hung listlessly in the breezeless afternoon was a big rectangle of black cloth, bearing no design.

  For the moment, the parade ground appeared deserted. Right now, it was siesta, and the army would be weathering out of the heat of the day. But the four guard towers at the corners of the clearing—structures thirty feet tall, topped by platforms and roofs of bamboo—were manned, and Fargo saw automatic rifles in place on each, the French type called the Chauchat. He felt a little beat of excitement in his pulses. The Colonel had been right—this force was indeed a dagger at the throat of the Canal. And there was money behind it, plenty of money.

  His eyes shuttled on past the army layout. On the far side of the clearing lay the town—an inconsequential clutter of thatched shacks and jerrybuilt wooden houses with tin roofs. He saw that much; then Red-mustache, whose name, he had learned en route was Jerry, jabbed him with the Krag.