by John Benteen
For the moment, though, there was safety, and he would rest. Like an animal, he rested whenever he could, conserving strength for when it was needed. Finally he disengaged his brain, drifted into a light doze…
Catlike, he came out of it, awake at once, the .38 Colt in his hand. He sat up in bed, naked, pointed the gun at the door, from which he realized immediately the sound had come. Someone was testing it, trying to enter. He saw the hammered metal latch on the grip move again.
He had not locked the door. The house was very still. Fargo sat there with the gun pointed, waiting.
The door cracked a little, swinging inward. Then, as if whoever it was had gained confidence, it swung wider; the intruder slipped through soundlessly, and with equal stealth closed the door again.
Fargo stared blankly at the girl, Juanita, and lowered the Colt as, eyes widening at the sight of him naked, she put a quick, frantic finger to her lips for silence.
She wore the same black dress. Its skirts made little whispering sounds as she moved toward the bed. The momentary shock had faded; now, what Fargo saw in her eyes as she came toward him was something else entirely. Her eyes were bold, now, and hungry …
Fargo laid aside the pistol. The girl sat down on the bed, took his hand, “Listen,” she whispered in the faintest of voices. “When you leave here, please, please take me with you.”
“No,” Fargo said, also almost inaudibly. “I can’t.”
Juanita shook her head so that her black hair shimmered with blue highlights. “You must. You are my only hope. Even if the revolutionists are chased away, I must get out of here, I have to.” Her voice faltered. “I have to…” Now her hand touched the solid muscle of his thigh. Her palm was cool, soft; it moved caressingly. “I will be very good to you. I will make it worth your while…”
Fargo said, “Are you insane? Do you know what will happen if your father finds you here?”
“My father is asleep. Soundly, for another hour. So, also, are the servants. We are alone, safe…” Now her hand was bolder, her lips were very close to his face, and they were red, moist, tempting…Then, suddenly, she took her hand away. She stood up, began to unfasten the dress. Her breasts sprang free from the bodice, round, lush, ivory-white, centered with pink, erect nipples. Almost magically she got herself quickly out of the array of clothing such women wore, endless layers of petticoats ... then she stood before him naked and quite unashamed, her body a marvel. He looked at the rounded belly, dimpled with its navel, the flare of hips, the long, fine legs. Then, when she put out her hand to him, Fargo took it and drew her hungrily down upon the bed.
She came eagerly, her lips seeking his. Her kiss was open-mouthed, frantic, carnal; so were her hands roaming over his hard, scarred body. Her breasts, flattened against his chest, were soft and silky smooth…She rubbed herself against him fiercely, desperately, her legs astraddle his thigh.
She was ready for him, and Fargo was ready for her.
Twenty minutes later, Fargo silently arose, took a drink from the tequila bottle and lit a cigar. He looked at the naked girl on the bed, and his eyes were thoughtful. With the bottle, he sat down beside her, and she reached for it and took a drink from it herself; as the raw alcohol went down, she made a face,
Fargo whispered: “You’re not a virgin. Somebody’s broken you in? Who?”
Her eyes met his for a moment, immense, dark, and all at once full of pain. Then she looked away. “Whom do you think?” she murmured. Then she looked at him again. “Now,” she said hoarsely. “Now, do you see why I must get away from here?”
Instinctively Fargo glanced toward the corridor,
“No,” she went on in a dull whisper, “I’m far from being a virgin. I am experienced, very experienced ... He came first to me when I was sixteen, only a few months after my mother died ... Since then, I have been his prisoner here. Even when it was possible to travel, he kept me shut up, lest I run away or tell someone the terrible secret…” Her voice broke. “Do you see why I hate him? Do you see why I hope, Mary and all the saints help me, that Garcia will take him? That when Garcia kills him, it will not be slowly?”
She sat up then, so quickly that her breasts bobbed. “You are different from all the other men who have come here. I think you have the courage, the strength, to do it.” She took his hand, squeezed it desperately. “You must take me with you when you go. If you do not…” Her mouth thinned, her eyes went hard. “There are many weapons around here. I can get my hands on one of them. You are my last hope. If you fail me, I shall kill myself.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Fargo said.
“I am determined.” She held his hand between her breasts. “Please,” she begged. “Please…”
It was an impossibility. Fargo opened his mouth to tell her that, then closed it “Let’s see how this fight comes out,” he said.
“There is only one way it can end.” Her voice was low, intense. “You must understand that. Garcia will win. My father’s men hate him as much as I. He takes their women—” Her mouth twisted. “I am only one of his whores. And when they protest, he has them beaten or killed … He is brutal, a madman. Pretending to be the great gentleman, the fine, old aristocrat. And beneath all that, he is a worse pig than any that wallow in a peones pens! Garcia will come, and come again, and our men will tire of dying for such a pig and let him in…And turn on him, on us, on you and the other Americano…”
She got up lithely off the bed, began to dress. “I must go now. But you will ... at least think about it?” She bent over him, touched the tip of her tongue to his lips. “I will be a good woman for you, a very good one…”
“You go now,” Fargo said. “We’ll see.”
He watched her silently as she dressed. He thought about all she had told him. He wished he could take her with him, but it was out of the question. Right now, he had a hunch that he and Meredith would be lucky enough to get out of here alive themselves.
Juanita vanished like a wraith, closing the door soundlessly behind her. Fargo got up, dressed, donned his war gear and carefully checked his weapons.
To the west, the rebel army was still massed. Even as they watched, it began to extend itself. Fargo saw its flanks go right and left. It was nearly six now, and the sun was beginning to go down. “They’re going to come again,” he told Ortega. “This time with the sun at their backs, in our eyes. It’ll make for tricky shooting.”
“My men are good marksmen,” Ortega growled.
Fargo raised his glasses. He saw Garcia in the gold sombrero at the front of the line. Beside him was a man obviously his second-in-command, squat, cruel-faced, looped with cartridges, astride a gray horse. Even as Fargo watched, the squat man touched spurs to his mount, galloped out ahead of the line.
Fargo lowered his glasses. The fellow on the gray was riding up and down, occasionally making the gray rear. He was waving his sombrero, shouting encouragement to his men, threats and insults toward the hacienda. Fargo turned to one of Ortega’s vaqueros. “Let me have that rifle,” he commanded.
The man passed over the Springfield. Fargo adjusted the sling, raised the field sight. He moistened his forefinger, checked the wind.
Meredith stared at him. “Hell, man, you can’t hit anything at that range.”
“Probably not,” said Fargo. “But maybe I’ll scare him a little bit.” He donned the sling, tucked the butt of the rifle into his shoulder, brought it to bear.
The squat man rode the curveting horse up and down the line. He shook his fist at the hacienda.
Fargo took his time, tracking them carefully. Once, re-estimating the yardage, he adjusted the sight again.
The squat man pulled back on the reins, dug in with his spurs. The spade bit gouged the horse’s mouth; it reared. Horse and rider alike were only tiny flecks in the sunset light. The horse was all the way up, now, on its hind legs, balanced; in an instant it would come down. That was the moment Fargo had been waiting for; the one predictable moment. He held his breath, let it ou
t, and then squeezed the trigger.
As the horse dropped forward, the rider fell into the bullet’s path. Even at that range, it slammed him backward. His hands flew wide, he toppled out of the saddle. His foot caught in the stirrup; the frightened horse galloped along the army’s front, dragging him. His body bounced with the unmistakable limpness of death.
“Good God Almighty!” Meredith whispered.
Don Jose let out a crowing shout. “Magnificent!” He slapped Fargo on the back.
Fargo said nothing, only raised his glasses to his eyes. He had shaken them badly; the ranks were breaking, drawing back farther, as if afraid random death would strike again. He saw Garcia riding back and forth now, restoring order. But Garcia had been out of range all along, and still was.
They would hesitate, Fargo thought, but they would come. He gave the Springfield back to the vaquero, levered a round into his own Winchester, Meredith did likewise, checked his pistol. The big man showed no fear, only a surly aggressiveness.
Ortega snapped orders. “Every man ready! I’ll hang the one who fires before my command!”
Part of the rebel army detached itself, rode off to the east. So they were going to come from two sides again, Fargo thought He glanced at the saddled horses in front of the house. He saw something else, then, too: Juanita had come out, was standing by the horses. Even from that distance, Fargo could see her eyes searching for him.
He turned back to the wall. He pitied her, but there was nothing he could do for her. Still, there had been no doubt of her determination; she would kill herself. Unless, of course, the rebels took her first, in which case she would be bounced around among the troops and used for sport. She was doomed either way. Fargo put that thought out of his mind; hell, he had only met the girl hours ago; she was not his responsibility. Besides, the rebels were coming now…
They had spread out wide; they charged at full speed, bent low over their mounts’ necks, firing as they came. The sun at their backs was a fiery blaze, blinding the marksmen on the wall. The thunder of running horses was a drum roll in the evening silence. Fargo held his breath.
Now they were within range. Don Jose drew his saber with a flourish, held it high. His beard fluttered in the breeze. The men on the fire step leaned into their rifles.
The saber swept down. “Fire!” Ortega screamed.
Fargo waited for the volley from all those massed guns. He waited for the chatter of the Lewis guns. Neither came. Up and down the line, there was a spatter of rifle fire, ragged, uncertain. Nothing else.
Ortega stood there blankly, the saber lowered. Then he screamed the order again. “Fire, you fools! Fire!”
Still the guns were silent Fargo wasted no more time. “Come on!” He grabbed Meredith, propelled him down the fire step toward the blockhouse. Just as they dodged inside, Fargo saw the vaquero whose rifle he had used turn and shoot Don Jose Ortega y Leon squarely through the heart. Fargo unslung the shotgun.
Fargo slammed the blockhouse door. The Spanish major-domo slumped against the wall, his throat cut. The two Indios at each gun whirled. One raised a pistol.
Fargo fired twice, right barrel at one gun, left at the second. The spread of shot caught the men at the first gun, chopped them down. The two at the second were farther apart. One, torn in two, fell, but the other fired at Fargo. The bullet missed. Before he could fire again, Meredith shot him.
“Help yourself to a machine gun!” Fargo snapped. “We’re gonna need ‘em!” He snatched up a Lewis gun and Meredith did likewise. “Ortega’s men have sold out to Garcia,” Fargo rasped. “We’re gonna have to fight our way out. Make for the horses.”
Men were battering against the blockhouse door, now. Ortega’s own men, determined to cut down Fargo, Meredith, too. Fargo loosed a burst through the blockhouse door. Wood splinters flew. His grip on the machine gun’s bipod held down the muzzle as he raked the door.
The hammering stopped. Fargo charged the door, crashed it open. There were men on the fire step outside; some raised their weapons. He raked the fire step with the machine gun. Men fell, or cringed.
Fargo jumped. It was a long way to the ground; he landed rolling. Bullets chugged into the dirt around him as he came up, fired another burst. He cleared the fire step of men around the blockhouse, as Meredith, covered by him, jumped after.
But there was shooting at them from the other wall. And, Fargo saw, the great gates had been thrown open for the rebel cavalry. “Come on!” he bawled at Meredith; and they zigzagged across the yard, covering each other with bursts as they went. Fargo’s respect for Meredith rose; the man was nearly professional.
Then they were in the cover of the crowd of refugees, women and children. Some of the women clawed at them, spat, tried to snatch the guns from their hands. One leaned toward Fargo with a knife; there was no help for it; he shot her just before the blade slid home between his ribs. He saw Meredith knock another harridan over with the hot barrel of the machine gun.
Then they were at the horses. Juanita was there, too, in the grip of a couple of half-Indian vaqueros. One had his arm about her neck, his hand down inside her ripped blouse. The other laughing, was pulling up her skirt.
Meredith ignored that, leaped into the saddle. “Goddam it; Fargo,” he roared, “come on!”
Fargo hesitated. Then the vaquero let go the skirt, turned; he drew a pistol from his sash. He was in front of Juanita. Fargo could not shoot. Fargo threw the Lewis gun.
Its hot barrel and heavy receiver caught the man in the face, staggered him. His shot went wide. Before he could fire again, Fargo had raked out the Batangas knife; his hand was a blur as its handles flipped back. The ten-inch blade slid into flesh as if flesh were butter and the man screamed. The other vaquero let go of Juanita, stepped around her, pistol raised. Fargo whipped out the Colt with his left hand, fired, even as he withdrew the knife. The man crumpled.
Fargo seized Juanita. “Is there another gate out?”
“In the south wall, a small one—”
“Show us!” He threw her into the saddle of his own horse, her long skirts flying awry. He snatched up the Lewis gun, in a single leap was on the mule, behind the pack, its lead rope in his teeth. Now his judgment in picking the animal paid off; it went into a dead run at the touch of his heels, following the horses.
Juanita was a superb rider. She put her mount up on the veranda, galloped through an arch, into the court, past the patio where they’d eaten. Meredith was right behind her, Fargo in the rear. Juanita’s black hair streamed as the horse pounded through another arch, a garden, jumped a cluster of lawn furniture. Then they were out of the rambling complex of the house itself, galloping through more of the refugees, who screamed and leaped out of the way. One man clawed at Fargo’s leg; Fargo kicked him in the face with a booted foot.
Suddenly the men on the fire step knew they were there. They turned. Rifles crackled; lead whined around them. Fargo raised the Lewis gun, raked the fire step with the last of the ammunition in its drum. The mule didn’t like that; it broke step, began to buck. Fargo rode its bare back like a tick, unshakeable, spurs hooked in the pack lines. The Lewis gun was empty; he threw it aside, leaned far forward and hit the mule between its ears with his fist. That straightened it out. It plunged after the horses.
On the other side of the house, the rebel cavalry had entered the yard. There was shouting, exuberant whooping, firing of guns. But lead still burred around them from the men on the fire step of the south wall. Fargo hadn’t got them all.
He saw a small wooden gate set in the wall Two men stood before it, staring at Meredith and Juanita charging down on them. They raised their rifles. Meredith reined in so suddenly his horse reared. His pistol was in his hand. Even as the horse danced on its hind legs, he shot both men.
While he did that, Fargo crammed two more shells from the bandolier into the shotgun, thumbed a couple more out of loops into his palm. There was a clatter of hooves on flagstones; a dozen rebels galloped at full tilt from under a
n arch. Fargo fired both barrels dead-on at them as Meredith leaped down under a hail of lead, unbarred the gate.
The buckshot, like a charge of grape, took the riders in the front head-on. Horses screamed, reared, plunged; men yelled in agony. Fargo’s thumb touched a lever; the gun sprang open, empty shells jumped out. He rammed two more in, fired again. Thirty-six buckshot total, plowing into that mass of men and animals made it into a writhing, twisting, fantastic tangle. Then Fargo bent low, hit the mule with spurs, and raced after Juanita and Meredith through the open gate.
They cleared the walls. Bent low, lashing their mounts, they galloped across the plain. Speed was their only savior now, as bullets from men on the fire step snarled around them. The mule took a crease on its rump; instead of faltering, it seemed to double its speed. Fargo caught up with Juanita and Meredith. A glance over his shoulder showed no pursuit. Something unclenched within him. It was getting dark, now. They had a chance. If the rebels only paused to loot, to celebrate—
In the gathering darkness, a bright orange roil of flame loomed up, twisting high. There was whooping, laughter. The snarl of lead about Fargo and the others diminished, died. It was not a time for pursuit, for worry over two Yanquis and a girl. It was a time for raiding the wine cellar, the treasury—and the skirts of women. Instinctively, Fargo reined in the mule a little.
They would make it now. He had only one regret.