Panama Gold (A Neal Fargo Adventure #2)

by John Benteen

  And all at once Fargo knew. He knew what was about to happen. Despite the braking, the train was still going at tremendous speed. The brakes were howling like banshees. And there was nothing Fargo could do; nothing at all; he was helpless. He threw himself to the floor of the car and clung there.

  Then there was a noise like all the dynamite in the world going off, mingled with the sound of a giant steel gong being struck. Fargo was thrown into the air, felt himself hurtling over and over. His hand never loosed its grip on the shotgun, but some instinct made him hold it wide, even as his body was flung through space. Then he hit something with terrific impact and all the air went out of him and the world spun around and around. But because he’d held the shotgun wide, its blunt steel barrels had not impaled him.

  Then mind and vision both cleared. He was not dead. He lay half-embedded in a pile of dirt, part of the spoil from Culebra Cut, scraped up by a steam-shovel and dumped there for loading. But for the moment, he was paralyzed, and he thought: Buckner.

  Then, above the hiss of steam, he heard the screaming and he saw what had happened.

  The locomotive had been going at terrific speed when it had slammed into another just like it parked at the bottom of the Cut. Now, a horribly crumpled mass of metal, it lay on its side like a maimed monster, a swirling fog of scalding steam enveloping boiler and cap alike. And the screaming came from within the cab. That was Buckner. And, Fargo realized suddenly, Buckner was not going to fight anybody any more. He was pinned in the cab and he was being boiled alive there.

  Like an anthill, Fargo thought crazily. Like being staked out on an anthill...

  The screaming went on and on. The big locomotive continued to pour out its steam. Fargo tried to move, found that he could. Somehow, he forced himself to his feet. Somehow, he managed to get a shell into the shotgun. It was a slow process, but he was too stunned and shaken to hurry it.

  And somehow, remembering Youngblood, it did not seem to matter.

  Nevertheless, when the gun was loaded, Fargo tried to walk. He could, but only slowly, painfully, and he had almost a hundred and fifty feet to cover toward that crumpled mass of steam-shrouded steel from which Buckner’s hideous cries came, rising now to a crescendo. Fargo could even make out words in them now. “Help! Fargo! For God’s sake, help. Help me!”

  Fargo lurched forward, the shotgun up and out. He could see, through the whipping steam, red-hot metal, something pinned against it, something that writhed and twisted. Nobody could come close to that inferno. He halted seventy-five feet away. Slowly, with great effort, he raised and aimed the shotgun. Then he loosed both barrels into the ripped and twisted cab of the locomotive.

  Pellets whined and ricocheted off of steel.

  “Fargo, for God’s sake—” It dwindled off into a shriek.

  Somehow Fargo got another shell loose, got it into the gun barrel. His hands were shaking. He’s had enough, he thought. I did it for Youngblood, I’ll do it for him. He waited for a break, and when it came, when he could see the thing against the glowing firewall, he aimed again, even more carefully this time and fired. And immediately the screaming stopped.

  Fargo let out a sobbing breath and turned away. He lurched awkwardly back to the pile of earth and fell down behind it. He was there when the locomotive’s boiler blew, three minutes later, and he was safe from the shrapnel that created. Spent, exhausted, there was nothing left in him; and he was still sitting there twenty minutes later, long after the firing had died all along the line and Colonel Withers came riding down into the cut on a switch engine and found him.

  Chapter Ten

  The library of the big house outside of Oyster Bay was quiet and pleasantly dim, and the bourbon Fargo had been served was of the best. He sipped it, while the Colonel paced back and forth in that springy way of his.

  “You understand,” he said, “that I’ve been in conference for days concerning this whole matter. They had to call me in this time. Germany, Japan, and Colombia. We were very close to war there for a while, Fargo. If I’d been President, I think we should have had one and got it over with. As it is, the war is postponed; but it will come someday. For the moment, though, there will be nothing but a lot of very secret diplomacy, notes exchanged, a demand for apologies, an innocent claim that they know nothing about the whole affair. And, of course, it’s being kept out of the newspapers. The administration doesn’t dare let the voters know that it had allowed the Canal to become so vulnerable.” He stopped pacing, took a drink. “So I’m sorry, Fargo. Your name should go down in the history books, but it won t. The incident will never officially be recorded. There will be some rumors about an attempted rebellion in Panama, put down by Panama troops; nothing else.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” Fargo said. “But they came close, damned close.” He drained his glass, passed it to the Colonel for a refill. “When Buckner realized that I’d escaped, tipped his hand, he hesitated about going through with it. Then—well, four hundred regular Colombian army troops added to his outfit overnight gave him a hell of a striking force. He could risk it then.”

  “Colombia denies that they were its troops. Says if they were Colombians, they must have been volunteers.”

  “Sure,” Fargo said. “Of course. Not one scrap of identification was found on any of them to link them with Colombia. And they all wore uniforms like Buckner’s soldiers. But they sure as hell fought like regulars.” He bit the end off a cigar. “With that many reinforcements, Buckner went ahead, and the size of his army caught us by surprise. That’s why it was so close. We’re both Army men, Colonel, but, much as I hate to say it, the Marines pulled us out of that one. Damned if they didn’t.”

  The Colonel grinned toothily beneath his bristly mustache. “You don’t have to tell me about them. I used them often enough when I was President.”

  “Well, it’s over now. Buckner’s army wiped out, his camp leveled to the ground. One question: do you know what happened to the Kane woman?”

  “She seems to have been a thorough slut, but she was freed of any complicity in Ward Kane’s traitorous activities, though her demands on him drove him to them. She’s been released, and she’s been warned of what might happen to her if she ever talks, and it’s my understanding that she’s already sailed for Europe on his insurance money. Don’t worry about her; she’ll get along.”

  Fargo grinned wryly. “Yeah. The question is—will Europe?” Then he sobered, got to his feet. “Well, Colonel, I guess that about winds it up.”

  “Not quite,” the Colonel said. “One more little matter.” He set down his glass, reached into his coat.

  Then two heavy packets of currency thudded onto the desk before Fargo. “I think you’ll find that correct,” the Colonel said. “Ten thousand dollars.”

  Fargo picked the money up, riffled it, stuck it into his own pocket. “Thanks,” he said.

  The Colonel laughed shortly. “No thanks due. You’ve earned it. I wish there were more. If it weren’t for the publicity, I’d try to get a special award through Congress ...”

  Fargo shook his head. “This’ll hold me for a spell.” He reached for the campaign hat.

  The Colonel looked at him. “You’re leaving?”

  Fargo made that wolf’s grin. “I’d be happy to have you accompany me. We’ll make the rounds of Manhattan together. On me.”

  For a moment, the Colonel’s eyes glittered behind his glasses. “Don’t I wish I could do it. But we both know it’s impossible.” He came around the desk. “I wish you’d stay the night.”

  “I’d like to,” Fargo said, “but there’s a lady waiting for me over in the city.”

  “Oh?” The Colonel’s brows went up. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with any women in New York.”

  “I’m not,” Fargo said. “But I will be in an hour or two.”

  The Colonel stared at him, then laughed. Fargo put on his hat and the Colonel followed him to the door. As Fargo went out onto the veranda, the Colonel called from behi
nd him: “Sergeant Fargo!”

  Fargo turned. “Yes, sir?”

  “When you’re through with your blast in Manhattan ... where will you go then?”

  Fargo looked at him for a moment. Then he tipped back the old hat “I don’t know,” he said. “Somewhere.” Then he saluted loosely, and as the Colonel returned it, turned and went down the steps and got into the waiting car.

  Piccadilly Publishing

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