by John Benteen
After a while, he got a table. He had two glasses of beer, a big steak, potatoes, and greens. He ate heartily but he did not stuff himself enough to make him logy, slow his reactions. Then he left the restaurant and began to circulate.
He went from bar to bar. In each he had one drink of tequila and nursed it, looking at the crowd and listening to the talk. He was not the only one of his kind the troubles in Mexico had drawn to El Paso, although he did not see anyone he knew. But he picked up gossip, talk of the trade.
Villa was paying well for guns and ammunition run across the Rio. Fargo knew the gun-running trade well. But that took capital, backing; he had none. Villa was paying high wages to American fighting men, too, he heard. Fargo’s lip curled. He had dealt with revolutionaries before. Their promises were expansive; the actual pay-off something else…
Fargo kept on moving. It was growing late; the tequila began to glow in his belly. Now he was beginning to feel a different kind of hunger, and he began to look at women. Most of them were pretty bad.
The Rio Palace stood out among the other dives. The building itself was freshly painted, its plate-glass windows clean, their gold lettering not flaking. It was going on midnight when Fargo entered it and found himself in a spacious bar, stocked with expensive whiskeys, the counter lined with men who obviously had more than chicken feed to spend. All at once Fargo knew he had found the place for which he had been looking.
The barroom was large and there were tables. He took one, placing himself with his back to the wall. His eyes ranged over the crowd; there were girls among them, and they were of the best, young, fresh, a far cry from the worn-out harridans in the other dives.
Fargo ordered a double tequila and waited. Then he saw her.
She came out of a door to the rear. He had seen a lot of men going in and out of that door, had caught a glimpse of what was behind it: the gambling layout. She was tall, full breasted, with pale skin and hair the color of hammered gold. She moved gracefully across the room, and the men there, though they spoke to her easily, casually, seemed respectful in their manner. The hunger in Fargo grew; he could not take his eyes off her.
She went to the bar, and a couple of leathery cattlemen made way for her. The bartender poured her a glass of whiskey, and Fargo was sure it was the real stuff, not colored water or tea. She laughed, joked, with the two middle-aged stockmen, sipped from the glass and turned, eyes sweeping over the room as if counting the house. Then she saw Fargo. Her eyes hesitated only a second, swept past, then came back.
Fargo looked at her. Then, with a slow, significant gesture, he pulled out another chair.
The girl took another swallow of whiskey. She wore a dress that matched her hair, satin, shimmering gold. It was cut low in front, over breasts that needed none of the fashionable padding of the times. She kept on looking at Fargo. Then she came to his table, moving with a slow, hip swaying gait. It was not the exaggerated swing of the whore; it was, Fargo saw, naturally the way she walked; she was that much woman.
He stood up, held the chair for her. As she sat down, he caught a breath of her perfume. Her eyes were blue, cool, appraising—but far from distant She had brought her drink with her, and now, as Fargo took his own chair once more, she allowed herself another sip. Then she said, in a soft, husky voice: “New in town, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” Fargo said. He told her his name.
“Hi,” she said. She put out her hand with the straightforwardness of a man. Her eyes were still hitting his, glancing off. “I’m Tess Kendall.” She drained her glass, set it down. “Buy me another?”
For a moment Fargo hesitated; somehow he’d got the impression she was not working the joint like the other percentage girls. She read his expression and laughed “Real whiskey,” she said. “My shift’s over, now.”
“Your shift,” Fargo said.
“I deal poker,” she said. “Blackjack sometimes. As a matter of fact, I own a quarter of this place. What’s your game?”
“I may go over the border. I don’t figure on getting myself killed.”
Tess sighed. It made her breasts rise and fall in a way that intrigued Fargo. “I’ve seen a lot of ‘em come and go in the past year. Men like you.”
“No,” Fargo said with a lift of one corner of his mouth. “Not like me.”
Her brows went up, wry, ironic. Now she was like someone judging a horse. After a moment, she said, “You might be right. Not like you. That nose, that ear. Prize fighting?”
“Some,” Fargo said.
“Among other things, eh?” Her eyes half-lidded themselves. “And you’re good at what you do?”
“You’d be surprised how good I am,” said Fargo. He took out a cigar. “I’ll bet you’re good at what you do, too.”
“I know cards,” she said.
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Fargo said.
Tess laughed. “I know what you meant.”
“It sounds like we’re a lot alike. I saw you, I liked you, I’m glad you came—” Fargo broke off.
The woman, Tess, saw his eyes shuttle away from her toward the door. She turned in her chair.
The two men who had just come in contrasted with the other customers. Working stiffs, Fargo thought. The one in overalls was an enormous bear of a man, with great sloping shoulders, a barrel chest, forearms like a blacksmith. The other was tall, but lighter, quick on his feet, with a face like a weasel. They were both already drunk.
Tess murmured: “Joe at the bar’ll serve ‘em one drink each and send ‘em on their way.”
Fargo rolled the cigar in his mouth. “They ain’t headed for the bar,” he said.
Weasel-face tripped over a chair, half-fell, recovered. Then they were towering over Tess. Overalls put out a huge, dirty hand, touched her hair. “Howdy-do, pretty lady. Me and Chet here’s been on the road a long time. What about us two buyin’ you a drink—”
Fargo said quietly: “The lady’s spoke for. You two bindle stiffs take off.”
Overalls looked at Fargo. His eyes were like buckshot set in discolored dough. His voice was a growl. “Bindle stiffs? We got money to spend—” He fished in his pocket, brought out a fistful of silver dollars, jingled them. “Got as much right here as you. Come on, honey-gal. Let’s us have a little drink and then a roll in the hay.”
Fargo stood up and stepped around the table. “You have,” he said, “exactly one minute to get your tails out there in the street. On your way.”
Overalls peeled thick lips back from teeth like an old horse’s. He took off a greasy hat, ran his enormous hand through curly black hair. “One minute? Why, hell, mister —” Then he swung the hat full in Fargo’s face, slapping hard with it, and at the same time aimed a blow at Fargo that would have knocked down an ox.
The hat hit Fargo, the fist did not. As the hat slapped him in the eyes, he pivoted. The blow slid past his sucked-in belly. Before Overalls could drop the arm that held the hat, Fargo had it in both hands. He jerked with tremendous strength; Overalls, off balance, lurched sideways.
Fargo kneed him in the stomach. It was like slamming his knee against oak covered with rubber.
Overalls’ breath whooshed foul in Fargo’s face. Fargo released him for an instant. Weasel-face, Chet, was coming at him with a knife, and Fargo saw instantly that Chet was quick and knew how to use it. Fargo hooked his foot under a chair rung, kicked up quickly. The chair flew high; Chet ran into it. It staggered him. As the chair fell, Fargo hit Chet in the face, a straight left jab.
The girl screamed. “Fargo!”
But he’d not forgotten Overalls. He stepped back, turning as the big man charged at him, fists clubbed. Fargo laughed, dropped into a crouch. Suddenly he seemed to dissolve into mist, fog. Overalls slashed at him with those ham-sized hands, roaring incoherently. But Fargo’s footwork was such that not a blow landed. Blinking, Overalls rushed past, then stopped, turned, wondering how he could have missed. In that instant, Fargo hit him, a left to the solar plexus, a
right to the jaw. Overalls dropped to his knees. Fargo left him there, whirled. Face streaming blood from a crushed nose, Chet was at him again with the knife.
Fargo executed a curious, almost effeminate, ballet step. The knife slid past his belly. He brought a hand down hard, in a chop, on Chet’s wrist. Chet screamed like a panther and the knife dropped. This time Fargo was merciless. When he hit Chet on the jaw, bone crunched, teeth ground, and Chet, mouth pouring blood that mingled with the flow from his nose, crumpled in a heap.
Overalls was getting to his feet, panting. The bouncer had closed in; so had a barman with a sawed-off shotgun. But Tess was standing up, watching all this wide-eyed, one hand at her breasts, which were rising and falling with excitement. “Fargo!” she rapped. “No.”
Overalls stood there, swaying, shaking his head. “By God,” he growled. “Why don’t you fight like a man?” He came at Fargo again and Fargo hit him, but this time it didn’t stop him. He took the blows with sheer bull-like strength, came on, and as Fargo side-stepped against a table, Overalls had him.
Fargo was big, taller than six feet, but Overalls was bigger. And, aroused now, he was beyond feeling pain. Fargo hit him twice on each temple, and Overalls only shook his head and bellowed as he wrapped mighty arms around Fargo’s waist. He was like an earthquake, a force of nature. There was only one part of him that was vulnerable. Fargo tried to find it with his knee, but that hit hard against a thigh like a white-oak log.
Overalls squeezed; the world whirled before Fargo’s eyes. A second more in that terrible embrace and his guts would pop, his spine snap. He dropped his hands, ducked his head low, let his chin fall on his chest. Then he snapped his head up hard, with all the force in his powerful neck.
Bone hit bone: Fargo’s skull slammed against Overalls’ rocklike chin. In Fargo’s ears, the sound was like cannon thunder. Lights danced crazily in his vision. He heard the big man’s bearlike grunt. Overalls’ grip relaxed—not entirely, a fraction.
In that instant, while Overalls was dazed, Fargo tried again. This time his knee, with terrible power, found what it sought, soft and undefended. Overalls screamed. He let go of Fargo, lurched back, bent over, mindless, defenseless, in his agony. Fargo waited to recover neither breath nor vision; he stepped in. He hit the helpless Overalls twice, right, left. Each blow snapped the big man’s head back. After the second, Overalls swayed, like a sequoia being felled, then crashed to the floor.
Fargo stood there over him a moment, panting. The bouncer, a man as big as the one Fargo had just whipped, let out an awed breath. “Jeez,” he said.
As Fargo’s vision cleared, Tess Kendall’s cameo features swam into them. She was staring at Overalls, now so much dead weight, on the floor. Unconsciously, her tongue ran over her lips, wetting them. Then she whispered: “My God, it’ll be weeks before he’ll be any good to a woman…” Suddenly she came back to reality, looked at Fargo. He could see her nipples, pointed erect, beneath the clinging satin. “Your hands are bleeding,” she said.
“Yes,” Fargo said. The force of his blows had flayed open the skin across his knuckles.
“Wait here. Hold them out.”
He did. Tess took a whiskey glass, poured its contents over the cuts. It stung. Then she whisked a handkerchief from between her breasts, began to dab at the cuts. As she did so, her eyes met Fargo’s. They blazed with an excitement that he recognized.
“I tried to save the furniture,” he said. “Sorry about the blood on the floor.”
“The hell with the blood,” she whispered. Then her voice was sharp as she rapped orders to the bartender. “Get those bastards out of here, on the street. Call the police and square it up with them.” She kept on dabbing with the handkerchief. “Your poor hands,” she whispered to Fargo.
He grinned; it was a crooked grin, a wolf’s grin. “They’ll heal,” he said.
Tess threw the blood soaked square of lace aside. “Listen,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve got a suite upstairs. You need to rest—”
“Why not,’’ Fargo said.
Her face flushed. “After that, a good hot bath, some drinks—”
“And then I’ll be fine,” Fargo said. “Just fine. Let’s go.”
Chapter Two
Fargo rolled over in bed. She was there, just awakening, her body like ripe fruit. In a few years, it would be overripe, but now it was just at perfection. She stirred, leisurely, lazily, at the touch of his hand on her inner thighs, on her belly, her breasts. She sighed, stretched her legs and opened them. “Good morning, Fargo,” she said.
He said, “Morning,” and, after that, they quit talking. His mouth sealed off any words she might have, although later, as he felt the softness of her thighs against his flanks, she made strange and inchoate sounds in her throat…
After a long while, he got out of bed and began to dress. She lay there, naked, watching him. Her voice was a combination of cat’s-purr satisfaction and plaintiveness. “Do you have to go? I usually have breakfast sent up.”
“For now I have to,” Fargo said. He donned the shoulder-holstered gun, adjusted and buckled the straps. Then he shrugged into the corduroy coat.
She sat up, melon breasts dangling. “You’ll come back, though.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I always come back.” Then he kissed her and went out.
Instead of walking back to his hotel, Fargo strolled uptown. He ate slowly, leisurely, enjoying the three eggs over light and the double order of bacon and reading the newspaper. He was not even surprised when a man came and stood over him and said, “Mind if I join you?”
“Suit yourself,” Fargo said and took his time about laying the paper aside and looking up.
The man who sat down opposite him was about Fargo’s own age. He was burned to the color of saddle leather by the sun, his eyes black in deep sockets, his nose a kind of blade, his mouth wide and lips thin. When the waitress came, he ordered only black coffee.
His voice was deep, as full of authority as his bearing. “My name’s Meredith, Ted Meredith. I think I saw you around last night, down in the Rio Palace, Fargo.”
“Oh,” said Fargo. “It was you, then.”
Meredith’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean it was me?”
“Somebody sent two men after me last night. They crowded me deliberately, put up to it. You watched it, you know my name, now you sit with me.” Fargo took a swallow of coffee and fished a cigar out of his coat. “It was you, wasn’t it, Meredith?”
Meredith’s black eyes met Fargo’s. Then Meredith laughed again, a braying sound. “By God,” he said, “you are keen! They said you were keen, and you are.” He sobered, drank from his cup. “Yeah, it was me.”
“Why?”
Meredith shrugged. “Because I wanted to try you out, that’s why.” He set the coffee cup aside. “Listen, Fargo. I’ve heard about you for a long time. You were pointed out to me last night. You didn’t look all that tough.”
“I don’t make my living by going around looking tough,” Fargo said.
Meredith gestured with a big hand. “I know that now. All right; I picked up those two bums, paid them to brace you.” He also took out a cigar, put it between good teeth, struck a match and lit it. “I’ve got a job for you. But I had to make sure you were man enough to do it. Now I’m convinced you are, and I’ll lay my cards on the table.”
“Do that.”
Meredith said: “You ever hear of the Sierra Princess?”
Fargo said, “What?” Then he said, “No.”
“It’s a silver mine,” Meredith said. “My silver mine.” He gestured vaguely in a southerly direction. “Down in Mexico.”
Fargo was sitting up straight now, reading Meredith’s face as the man talked. “How far down?”
“Three hundred miles, in the Sierra Madre. It’s a hell of a lode, Fargo—a vein of high-grade ore you wouldn’t believe.”
Fargo said, “Who gave you your concession?”
“Diaz,” Meredith said.
&n
bsp; “Then you’re in trouble, Madero chased Diaz out. Now Madero’s gone.”
“Dammit, don’t you think I know all that?” Meredith finished his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But Madero honored the concession. And until now, Pancho Villa has honored it, too. We’ve worked the mine right along, through all this fighting.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
Meredith leaned forward, dropped his voice. “Listen,” he said. “The only reason Villa left us alone, honored the concession, was to stay on the good side of President Wilson and the United States. Wilson’s disgusted with every revolutionary leader in Mexico but Pancho Villa, and he wants to see Huerta overthrown, Villa take over. For that reason, he’s let arms go through to Villa, he’s given Villa help. And so Villa’s let us keep on operating.”
“Okay,” Fargo said. “I’m with you so far.”
“I had to leave Mexico on business. I left my partner, Sam Delaney, behind to operate the mine. And—I’ve got connections in Washington, Fargo, and I found out something that I don’t like, something that changes everything!”
Fargo blew cigar smoke. “What?”
“Wilson’s turning against Villa! He’s going to shut off arms to Pancho, cancel the help he’s been giving him! Do you know what that means?”
Slowly, Fargo nodded. “I can guess. It means that Villa’s not going to be finicky about protecting either Americans or American concessions in his territory. It means that, before long, he won’t have anything to lose by taking over silver mines he’s left alone until now—especially rich ones.”
Meredith nodded vigorously. “You got the picture! Villa don’t know what Wilson’s gonna do, yet! And nobody knows when Wilson’s gonna tell him. But when Villa finally does learn that the President’s gonna clamp down on him, he’ll turn against every American in Northern Mexico!”
“Then your partner better get his butt out of Mexico in a hell of a hurry.”
“Right!” Meredith leaned forward again, his eyes glittering. “I’ve got to get him and his wife out! But—”