Fargo 13

by John Benteen

  Vane’s breath whistled as he let it out. “Now, you wait a minute.”

  “No. You wait.” Fargo’s voice was hard, clanging above the river’s rush. “I come up all the way from Mexico because the Colonel sent for me. I’ve ridden this far down the Green. I undertook to do a job for him, and I’ll either do it or report back to him why I couldn’t. Either way, I figure he’s known me a lot longer and better than he knows you. But if you want to be hard about it, Vane, we’ll have it out now. These orders say we share joint command. We consult together. There’s times when I can override you and times when you can override me, but we’re still equal on this trip. It’s a lousy set-up and I’m surprised the Colonel fixed it that way, but maybe he had no choice, or maybe he’s been in politics too long. Anyway, I’m not here to lock horns with you, polish your bars, or do anything else except to make sure this expedition meets the goals the Colonel set for it.”

  He paused. “Make up your mind. Either you agree to observe these orders, or I ride up to Jackson’s Hole, find the Colonel, give ’em back to him, and head for Mexico again. The choice is yours.”

  Vane’s eyes shuttled away, came back to work over Fargo’s armament. “A gunman,” he said. “A professional gunman, like some sort of character out of a cheap dime novel. What could have been in the Colonel’s mind to—?”

  “I’ll tell you what was in his mind,” Fargo said. He gestured downstream. “I may be something out of a cheap dime novel, but so are the folks down this river who’ve been hidin’ out here for years and don’t want to be disturbed by such as you. Gunmen and horse thieves and bank and train robbers and general killers—maybe they’re all out of cheap dime novels, but they’re walking around down this river carrying lots of guns and ready to cut your throat for the silver in those bars on your shirt. Your job’s to deal with the river, my job’s to deal with them. But if you want to take it all on, fine. I reckon you’ve got lots of combat experience yourself. In the Spanish-American War or the Philippines or somewhere—”

  He saw the red leave Vane’s face and suddenly he had found the key to the man as Vane’s eyes lowered. “Never mind about my experience,” Vane rasped. In that instant, Fargo knew that, experienced officer or not, he had never heard a shot fired in anger, and that was something riding Vane, which did not simplify things at all.

  “I do not think it wise at this juncture,” Vane said, still not looking at Fargo, “to personally countermand the Colonel’s orders. Very well. You shall have your way for the time being. But your performance will be observed and reported on. Remember that.”

  Fargo said, “Will it, now?” He took out a thin cigar, bit its end and clamped it between his teeth. “All right, Captain Vane. Assemble your men.”

  ~*~

  They lined up on the muddy flat where Sheep Creek met the Green, and Fargo could almost recognize them from the Colonel’s descriptions. Roosevelt had picked a team, all right. Most were young, ranging from middle twenties to early thirties, and they were a hell of a bunch, a good bunch. He understood that he would know them later as persons, for now, all that counted was that they knew who he was. As Vane stood aside, rigid and expressionless, Fargo introduced himself, then read the Colonel’s orders.

  When he had finished, he said, cold gaze sweeping over them, letting his eyes establish his authority now, “There it is. I’m joint commander of this expedition. There may be some conflicts, but Captain Vane and I’ll work those out between ourselves. What you had better get clear right now, if it wasn’t clear before, is this.”

  He rolled his cigar across his mouth. “Last year, a bunch of men went down this river equipped just like we are, and they vanished. Every man of that expedition was as good as any man here. They were prepared for anything—except to fight. I don’t mean the river, they must have fought that. But I’m talking about fighting other men.”

  Pausing, he saw he had their full attention.

  “You may think the edges of the Colorado’s uninhabited. Well, it ain’t. The Colonel knows and I know that there are people on this river, hard men, fighting men, outlaws on the dodge, that would sooner see a snake than us. Those men are hiding out here because their necks are on the line: if they’re discovered, they’ll get stretched. They may have killed Knight’s expedition to keep that from happening; they may try to kill every man jack of this one. My job is to make sure that don’t happen.”

  He removed the cigar, went on.

  “You may know about me, you may not, but the Colonel does. Fightin’ is my trade, and that’s why he picked me. I’m in charge of the security of this expedition, and I’ll lay down my rules about that, and the man who breaks ’em will have to deal with me. I’ll guarantee you, if it comes to that, you’d be happier if you drowned. We’ll talk about the ins and outs later on and get to know each other better. Right now, this is supposed to be a secret expedition. Let’s make sure it is, if it ain’t too late. I want that fire put out and those tents struck. You’ll make your new camp back in the brush along Sheep Creek, and you’ll build just enough fire to cook on, and that from good, dead squaw and driftwood that makes no smoke. You’ll pull those boats into the brush, too, until we’re ready to shove off. Let’s get busy; a little extra work may save a life or two, and that life may be yours, for all you know.”

  There was, for a moment, silence, save for the rumbling of the river. Then a tall, bulky young man in wet, dirty khakis took a step forward. “Mr. Fargo, my name’s Michaelson, and I helped survey the Alaskan Railroad they’re building now. I heard about you up there.”

  “Yeah,” Fargo said. “I’ve spent some time in Alaska and on the Yukon.”

  “And you left a reputation behind you. Me, I say I’m glad to have you with us. I’d sure rather have you with us than against us.”

  Fargo grinned. “Obliged, John.”

  “I’ll move my equipment immediately. Everything you say makes sense. Come on, men.” He turned to the two Army corporals standing near him.

  “A moment, Michaelson,” Vane rasped.

  They all looked at the captain.

  “Those orders aren’t official until I’ve given them,” Vane said.

  Michaelson’s young, rugged, open face seemed to close as his eyes narrowed. “Not the way I understood Fargo’s orders. But ... maybe you’d better hurry up and give some orders, Captain.”

  Vane’s lips compressed. His words were crisp when he spoke, his face colored red again. “My orders are to move camp and the boats into the brush with utmost considerations of concealment and security, immediately. Sergeant Fargo will supervise the operation. You will take his orders unless I countermand them. Fargo, see to it.” Then he wheeled and stalked off, ramrod straight, to the river’s edge, where he stood, looking into the muddy, swift-flowing current.

  Fargo’s cigar had gone out. He lit it again. “All right,” he said. “You heard the captain. Let’s get to it.”

  Chapter Three

  Now, as the sun painted the gorge with breathtaking colors in its setting, there was no sign of the expedition in the canyon of Sheep Creek, beneath the three towering separate cliffs that reared against the western sky. The tents were hidden in the brush, so were the boats, and the fires were smokeless. Fargo had cached his horse’s gear and turned the sorrel loose with a feeling of finality. Like all the others, for better or worse, he was now committed to the river.

  Michaelson, who came from Seattle and who, Fargo judged, was all man, helped immensely. He had a natural authority to which the other men responded. Vane stayed clear, remaining near the river’s edge, pacing, smoking, occasionally consulting with the guide, Tom Cord.

  Cord … Fargo made a note to spend some time tonight dealing with Cord. There was a lot about the man he wanted to learn. Cord had stayed clear of the camp-moving operation, mostly hung around Captain Vane, and Fargo had had little chance to size him up, but—

  Michaelson’s words broke into his thoughts as they stood in the cottonwood grove in which th
e boats had been concealed. “Aren’t they beauties, Fargo?”

  “They sure as hell are.” Fargo, after years in big timber logging, knew rivers and boats, and he could not help admiring the three craft belonging to the expedition. Built of cedar, more than twenty feet long, with flat bottoms, shallow draught, and a rise at each end, they weighed empty less than five hundred pounds apiece. At bow and stern there were tin-lined, watertight compartments for scientific instruments and perishable equipment and food. Each boat had fourteen inch gunwales, and these were equipped with rowlocks so that each craft could be paddled, poled, or rowed. Big metal eyes on bows and sterns were for rope work, letting them down over rapids or falls. If you had to run a river like the Colorado, Fargo thought, these were the crafts to do it in. But, of course, the Colonel had run bad rivers, and he would have made sure the expedition had nothing but the very best.

  “They’re a special design,” Michaelson went on. “Tested and proved on the Colorado by Galloway and the Kolb Brothers.”

  Fargo looked at him. “I’ve heard of the Kolb Brothers, but who’s Galloway?”

  “Maybe I’d better back up,” John Michaelson said. “You know, Major Powell made the first run down the Colorado in 1869. It must have been damned hairy. I know that three men of his party quit cold and tried to walk home, and they were never seen again—the Ute Indians got ’em. But two of the outfit made it all the way to the Gulf of California. Then Powell came back in 1871 and tried again, but he quit down in the Grand Canyon.”

  “Who else did it?”

  “All the way? Not many. After Powell’s first expedition, a man named Hook with fifteen miners tried it in 1869, but Hook and another man drowned and they quit. Nobody else tried again until 1889, when a survey party for a railroad tried the rim. They lost a lot of men drowned and injured, but a few of them finally made the Gulf of California. Then a man named Stone, with Nathan Galloway guiding, made the run to Needles, California, in 1909. In 1911, a couple of brothers named Kolb built boats on the Galloway design and ran as far as their home in the Grand Canyon, and later one went on to the Gulf of California. And then, of course, there was Knight last year, and God knows what happened to him—”

  “We’ll find out,” Fargo said. “You keep talking about Galloway. Who was he?”

  “A trapper who couldn’t stay away from this river. He’s run most of it alone from time to time, and he worked out his own design for boats. These are based on his ...”

  Fargo, clamping a fresh cigar between his teeth, said, “I’m surprised the Colonel didn’t hire Galloway as a guide.”

  “Galloway seems to have disappeared temporarily. Our guide’s supposed to be the next best thing.”

  “Cord?”

  “He’s run the river twice with Galloway, he says. Knows all about it, and so far, he’s stacked up good. I don’t say I like him personally, but there’s no denying he’s a river rat. Says he’s trapped and prospected all the way from here to Needles, where the rough water ends.” Michaelson shrugged. “There aren’t very many guides to choose from, and we’ve got to face it. A lot of expeditions have started, but only a damned few have gotten through.” He turned, meeting Fargo’s eyes. “Do you really think we’ll have trouble with the owlhoot bunch on top of wrestling with the river?”

  Fargo said, remembering the men at the spring in the badlands, “Yeah. I think we will. From what you told me, Knight’s expedition was the first real scientific expedition since that railroad survey party in 1889. Back then, the Wild Bunch still had plenty of places to hide, Hole in the Wall, Robbers Roost, God knows where else. Those are all cleaned out now. Maybe they let a couple of amateur photographers through a few years ago without botherin’ ’em, but when they saw a real scientific expedition coming through to open up the last hideout they had left, they must have hit it hard. They’ll be on the lookout now and hit this one hard, too. You ever done any fighting, Michaelson?”

  “You don’t build a railroad in Alaska without using guns and fists,” the young engineer said with a crooked smile. “I’ve never been to war as such, but I’ve been blooded. Everybody else has, one way or another, except maybe—” He broke off.

  “Vane,” Fargo said. “What’s his story?”

  “Ask him. My guess is he’s spent most of his time surveying rivers. And not getting much credit for the risks he’s run doing it. It’s the combat men who get the promotions, and Vane’s over-age in grade. And no decorations for all the times he’s taken longer chances in rapids than most men have under fire. He’s a little sour, Fargo, yeah. But in most ways he’s a good man, except for the weight of those bars he wears.”

  “We’ll see,” Fargo said. He glanced at the sky, for it got darker sooner down here in the canyons. “Me, I haven’t eaten since daybreak and I’m ready for some supper.”

  ~*~

  The meal was a river salmon, fat and delicious. Fargo, despite his hunger, ate only enough to almost satisfy him. One thing a fighting man couldn’t afford was to be logy with food, ever. He could handle whiskey, immense quantities of it, and still do his job, but a full belly was deadly in a fight. He savored coffee instead, sitting by Michaelson at the campfire and liking what he had learned about the other members of the expedition. He had sized them up and found them sound—except for Cord, Tom Cord, the guide.

  He sat at a separate fire, with Vane. Now, as Fargo sipped coffee from a hot tin cup, he looked at Cord through the screen of willows that sealed off Vane’s tent and tried to appraise the man. Since he’d had only glimpses of Tom Cord and had exchanged no words with him, that was hard to do. Cord would have to wait ’til later, all two hundred and twenty pounds of his giant frame.

  He was, though, Fargo thought, as much like a grizzly as a man. Maybe that came from living in the wilderness. He was huge, black-haired, balding, with a face like a piece of the cliff’s rock chipped off and shaped. His weight was all in muscle with only a tiny overlay of fat, his arms and legs were like tree trunks. He wore a greasy deerskin jacket over a flannel shirt, canvas pants like Fargo’s own, Ute moccasins, and a Frontier Model Colt strapped low on his right thigh and a Bowie with a fourteen-inch blade just behind it. He would not be, Fargo judged, a man to trifle with. Which meant nothing in itself, because drawing-room gentlemen weren’t much good as guides on a wild river.

  Draining the coffee cup, Fargo felt a familiar restlessness. He picked up the shotgun, and slung it as he arose. Michaelson looked at him curiously. “Where’re you going?”

  “To take a look around,” Fargo said. “That’s my job.”

  He made no sound as he slipped through the willows and cottonwoods along the creek. Presently he reached the delta, came out into the open. He heard the rush of the Green River, looked up at the towering canyon walls on the east bank. Above the rim, stars wheeled. Lower down, Fargo thought. We’re still too close to towns and telegraphs. If they’re there, the wildest part is where they’ll be.

  Still, instinctively, he kept to cover as he walked along the sandbars and the delta, watching the canyon walls upstream and down. He saw nothing alarming and had just turned back toward the woods when he heard it.

  He didn’t even unsling the shotgun. He only tilted it with a thumb beneath its strap, and the twin barrels swung into aim beneath his right arm and his left hand was ready to pull the trigger. “Who’s there?” he rasped, as the rustling came again from the willows.

  “Cord,” a deep voice said. “Watch that shotgun, Fargo. Without me, this outfit won’t even make it to the junction of the Grand.”

  “Just don’t walk up on a man that way. You ought to know better.” As Fargo lowered the Fox, Cord joined him on the sandbar. Fargo could smell the musky, rancid odor of the deerskin jacket, the sour taint of Cord’s long-accumulated sweat.

  “We ain’t had much time to get together,” Cord said. “Since we’re the only ones in the bunch besides the gut-eater that ain’t tenderfeet, we better git better acquainted.”

  “The gut-eat
er. You mean the Ute.”

  “Yeah. Jest because an Injun’s been to school, that don’t mean he’s changed none. You wouldn’t have another one of them cigars?”

  “Sure.” Fargo passed one over. Cord lit it, sheltering the match from a waterproof case with a hand as big as a country ham.

  He tossed the match into the river. “So,” he said, blowing smoke. “You’re the great Neal Fargo.”

  “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Yeah, you’re known up here.”

  Fargo said, “I thought you came from Yuma.”

  “That’s where they hired me on. But I’m a travelin’ man myself. All up and down the river. Trapping, prospecting, the like. Ain’t much about this old Colorado I don’t know.”

  Fargo hesitated a thoughtful moment. “Then,” he said, “maybe you know a man named Dogan.”

  He could not be sure in the darkness, but it seemed to him Cord’s big body stiffened. “Dogan? No, never heard of him ... Except there used to be a train-robber by that name. But he’s dead. Why? What about Dogan?”

  “Nothing,” Fargo said. “Skip it. Just a rumor.”

  “Ummm.” The cigar glowed as Cord drew on it. “Well, of course, there’s all sorts of rumors about this river. Most just pure crap.”

  “Maybe. What do you think happened to Knight and his expedition? If you spend so much time on the river, maybe you’ve picked up some information on them.”

  “Knight? Hell, him and his men all drowned.”

  “You think that, eh?”

  “Know it. Buncha damn fool amateurs. Tried to run it without a guide. Didn’t have no sense, no judgment. Got what they deserved.”

  Fargo said, “I knew Knight in the Rough Riders. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a damn fool. And it looks damn peculiar to me. Guide or no guide, I understand he had some good Whitewater men with him and his boats were the best. It’s hard to figure how they could have all gone under and not a one made it out to report.”