Fargo (A Neal Fargo Adventure #1)

by John Benteen

  Then it was over.

  Fargo crouched in the brush, hastily cramming more rounds into the shotgun. He waited, ears tuned for any tick of sound. He could have missed a man somewhere, there might be another guard on the canyon rim.

  But nothing happened. There was a bad smell in the cedars; that was the dead man on the coals. When Fargo was sure that the way was clear, he slipped into the grove.

  The first man had caught the full blast of the shotgun; he was finished. The third still moved a little; his eyes were closed, blood welled from the hole in his chest. He made a rattling sound. Fargo lined the Colt on his head, pulled the trigger once; and the sound ceased. Fargo turned away, lips thin. He pulled the body off the fire, crushed out the smoldering jacket and shirt with his booted foot. He did not like that smell, did not want it around. Besides, it might spook the horses.

  Now he went to the edge of the cliff. It was split by a sort of vee-shaped notch that offered the beginning of descent Fargo peered over, tried to trace the trail in darkness with his eyes. Then he shoved back from the edge, shaking his head. Meredith had better damned well know it and know it good. Because Fargo could not even pick it out. And it was a good eight hundred or a thousand feet down to the floor of the canyon.

  Still, they had to do it; and they had to do it in the dark. Hernandez would have heard the shooting, and would have more men up here by daylight. There was no time to waste. Fargo scuttled back through the darkness toward the horses.

  Meredith challenged him, a voice from nowhere. “Who’s there?”

  “Fargo. Hold your fire.” He slipped down into the hollow where the big man waited with the girl and the animals.

  Juanita clasped his arm. “Fargo. Thank God.”

  He shook her off. “The way’s clear. Let’s go.”

  “Fine,” Meredith said. “How many were there?”

  “Four,” Fargo said. He was pleased to see that Meredith had unpacked the water skins from the mule. The animal could not descend that trail with such a load. “That’s one hell of a way down.”

  “I’m not looking forward to it,” Meredith said, “but it’s the only way.”

  They led the animals forward, to the notch in the rim rock. Meredith said, “We have to walk down and lead the animals. Let’s all take off our boots. It’s better barefooted.”

  They did, slinging the boots on the saddles. “Listen,” Fargo said to Juanita. “This will be rough. You go right behind Meredith, and you lead the mule. He’s surefooted; he’ll give you something to hold on to. If you feel yourself going, hang on to that lead rope. Okay?”

  She nodded. “I am not afraid,” she said.

  “Good girl,” said Fargo. “Then let’s move out.”

  Meredith led the way into the notch, holding his horse’s reins. The animal balked, did not want to follow. Fargo came up past the girl and the mule and whacked it hard on the rump with the shotgun barrels. Then it went reluctantly. Meredith and the horse disappeared; then Juanita and the mule, which went fearlessly and promptly. Fargo sucked in a long breath and tightened his grip on the reins of the bay. “Come on, you bastard,” he said thinly and pulled the bay along.

  If he had a weakness, it was this: fear of height. Something in him dreaded such places as this trail, something he had fought against all his life and had never been able to conquer. He knew now that he would never conquer it as long as he lived, that it was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes. But he had taught himself to do what he had to do, and this was only another risk, like that of being killed in a gunfight. He would take it calmly. Nevertheless, his hand was sweaty on the leather of the reins.

  The trail he had not been able to see was there, all right. Meredith moved unerringly in the darkness, apparently devoid of the fear that Fargo felt. As some people were born with it, some were born without it. Meredith was one of those, and it was a damned good thing, Fargo thought, that he was.

  Their path wound and meandered along the face of a sheer cliff. It was, in places, a solid ledge, perhaps two feet wide; and in those places, so long as you did not look down, it was all right. But there were other places when there was no ledge at all, where talus had spilled down the cliff in great piles, and had to be crossed, the stuff oozing under your feet, cutting their soles. Meredith went across these as sure-footedly as a cat, and his horse plunged after him, slipping and sliding in the loose gravel. Somehow Juanita and the mule followed him; but by the time Fargo reached such slides, the passage of the others had left little foothold, small purchase. He and the lead horse had almost to run across, and what the others had started, their weight set in motion. Time after time, the talus slides began to roll under them, and more than once Fargo regained solid footing just before being swept into space. Once, the horse almost went, but Fargo hauled on the reins; gave it the additional edge of purchase it needed, and, trembling and grunting, it struggled back to the ledge.

  Then the ledge narrowed. Now it was not more than eighteen inches wide; and even the mule snorted and balked; there was not room enough for a four-legged animal to go. But it had to go; and Fargo hit its rump and it went on, slipping, sliding, its hoofs crumbling the edge, sometimes going over. The horse was worse, and Fargo had to fight it all the way. His whole body was soaked in sweat by the time they had traveled for twenty minutes and had made only two hundred feet in their meandering descent down the high wall.

  Then they came to the worst part of all: a six-foot gap in the ledge. It had to be jumped; there was no other way across. Meredith, for all his bulk, went across like a panther, and somehow he persuaded the reluctant horse to jump, too. It came after him, scrabbling for purchase, finally regained a foothold. Meredith led it on.

  Juanita’s terrified voice came from ahead. “Fargo. Fargo, I can’t!”

  “I know you can’t.” Fargo’s voice was sharp. “Meredith! Hold up!”

  “Goddammit,” Meredith snapped from the darkness ahead, “come on!”

  “Juanita can’t jump that hole. Throw her a rope.”

  Meredith cursed. “I told you not to bring the bitch.”

  Fargo said coldly: “Meredith. You get the girl across there or we’ll have something to settle when we get down.”

  Meredith snarled something. “Here’s your goddam rope. Put it under your arms,” he said a moment later.

  His view blocked by the mule, Fargo could not see what was happening up there. Instead, he made the mistake of looking off into space. There was just enough light to show him what a terrible void lay below. He could not help a quick dizziness; he leaned against the wall, as the wind, rising, clawed at him mercilessly, as if seeking to pull him loose.

  Apparently Meredith had got Juanita across safely. His voice came through the night. “Hit the mule. It won’t jump.”

  Fargo slammed it on the rump. It raised its head, brayed in protest, hunched itself to kick, then thought better of it, knowing there was no room. Unlike the horses, it was too wise to take the needless risk, it wanted to back up. He hit it again; it still balked. Fargo cursed, took out the Batangas knife. He jammed a half-inch of its blade into the mule’s rump. This time the mule moved; it gathered itself, sprang. Its sure, iron shod forefeet caught the narrow ledge on the other side, its body dangled into space. As it rent the night with hideous braying, its life hung in the balance. Then a clawing hind hoof caught purchase; the mule scrabbled and scrambled, and with a mighty effort pulled itself up.

  And now it was Fargo’s turn. He walked up to the edge of that gap. The wind pulled at him, threatened to fling him off the ledge. Below, there was only darkness, space. Six feet to jump, eighteen inches on which to land. He licked dry lips, rubbed sweaty palms against his pants. He adjusted all the heavy gear that hung on him. Then he backed off, ran, launched himself.

  In the two or three heartbeats of time that he was in the air, he seemed to live an eternity. Then he hit, hard, in the darkness. His left foot came down on solid rock, his right, slipping, went into space. He dro
pped to his left knee, clawed with his hands. Then he was all right. Sweating, he got up very, very cautiously and moved a few feet along the ledge.

  That left the last horse, the bay, on the other side. It stood there, feet planted, nostrils flared, willing neither to come forward nor back up.

  Fargo spoke to it coaxingly. On this trip, he had tried to get to know the animals; more importantly, to teach them to trust, even love him. That was not sentiment, but practicality; when your life depended on your horse, its trust in you, love for you, was important, another edge. Now Fargo spoke softly, as if to a lover. “Come on, sweetheart. Come on, there. You can make it.”

  Like any superb horseman, he could read the animal’s mind. It dreaded the jump, but, even more, it dreaded being abandoned. He kept talking to it, backing away to give it room. Then he saw, by the way it crouched, laid back its ears, that it had made a decision.

  It scrambled backward a few steps, then came on, making the jump itself easily. Its steel shod hooves struck sparks as it landed. Then a forefoot and a hind one both slipped over the edge. The horse teetered, lost its head, struggled.

  Fargo made a frantic grab for the bridle, caught it, tried to help the animal as it floundered on the brink of the great gulf, the endless drop, below. But then it went, with a despairing neigh, slipping over the edge. Fargo almost went with it. Just in time did he get his fingers loose from the headstall, pull back, drop to his knees. Then the horse was gone.

  It gave a shrill, ululating neigh as it plunged into space. That terrible cry seemed to go on endlessly. Then there was, from very far below, a curious, sodden crunch. The screaming stopped abruptly.

  Fargo turned away, sweating.

  “What the hell!” Meredith said. “There’re more horses at the mine.”

  They wound on down the trail. Five minutes more and they lost the other horse. Fargo never knew what happened; the mule blocked his view. But he heard Juanita scream, saw the black bulk of the animal shoot off the cliff into space, legs flailing. Heard that fading cry again, the ghastly crunch that put an end to it The mule, though trembling, went on.

  The trouble was, the ledge had narrowed again. Now there was barely a foot of it, hardly enough for a human to cling to in the high wind. Meredith, Fargo, Juanita moved along with their backs to the wall, clinging to rocks, anything that would give them purchase. The wind, like something vengeful, clawed at them, tried to break them loose, pull them over.

  The mule was magnificent. It had to find its own way, somehow did so. Fargo saw how it labored, strained, trembled, but it went on, its left fore and hind feet barely on the ledge, its right feet scrabbling and shoving on the side of the drop. Then the ledge widened again; the mule had all four feet on the trail.

  After that, it was easier. The trail spread out to two feet in width, then two and a half. That was like having a sidewalk. They went down rapidly. Then Fargo froze. They were a hundred feet from the canyon floor, now, and suddenly, down there, carbide lanterns blazed white, their beams searching the wall. A rifle went off, a bullet spanged into rock above them and screamed into space.

  Meredith’s voice was a bellow. “Sam! Goddammit, Sam Delaney, hold your fire! It’s Meredith, Ted Meredith!” The wind whipped his voice away. The rifle cracked again, another warning shot. Then the lights played over Meredith, Juanita, Fargo. Below, Fargo could make out now a half-dozen men, gathered beside their mounts. Then one of them waved reassuringly. Meredith hurried forward, Juanita after him, the mule almost galloping, and Fargo right behind. Suddenly they were off the cliff and on solid ground. Fargo let out a long, rasping breath and caught Juanita as she sagged against him.

  It was over.

  Chapter Six

  Sam Delaney poured more coffee from the big, blue enamel pot. He was a tall, loose-jointed man with a thin, bony face in which Fargo saw too much softness. Delaney might be a great geologist and a fine miner, but he was no fighting man. That showed in his obvious relief at Meredith’s return.

  Delaney set coffee down before the three of them. “So we’ve held Hernandez off this long. But you got back just in time. We’re running out of everything—out of ammunition, grub. Maybe we could hold out for another week, maybe two. Not much beyond that.” He turned to the thick-bodied man in range clothes who had been the one actually to challenge them when they had come off the cliff. “Right, Clark?”

  Morse Clark was a name Fargo knew. The man wore two Colts, crisscrossed on his waist like an old-time gunfighter; and his face was beetle-browed and blue of jowl. He was the leader of the fighting force here at the Sierra Princess, and the one who had challenged Fargo and the others as they had come down off the canyon wall.

  Now he nodded. “That’s the size of it. We gotta move— and quick.”

  “All right,’’ Fargo said; and he drank the scalding hot coffee gratefully. “Then we’ll move.’’ He looked at Delaney. “There are enough mules to carry the silver?”

  “Plenty. We use ‘em at the mines.” Delaney looked at Meredith. “The total’s gone up since you left. We hit a new vein. I’ve had the men and the smelter working around the clock. It’s closer to three hundred thousand now.” He sat down at the table in the mine mess shack, where they were gathered. “More than enough to clear up everything we owe and give us a good stake to hold us over until things quiet down and we can come back. You got everything straightened out in the States?”

  Meredith nodded. “Yeah. The banks are quiet now, they’re giving us more time.” He drummed his fingers on the rough board table. “Three hundred thousand ...” There was a sort of lust in his voice. “That’s good, Sam, damned good.”

  Fargo shoved his plate away. He and Meredith had eaten enormous meals; Juanita had barely touched her food. Now Fargo saw that she swayed with weariness. He put his hand on her back, asked Delaney: “Is there some place Senorita Ortega can bed down? She’s dead beat.”

  “Of course! I’m sorry, it was damned inconsiderate of me.” Delaney’s regret was genuine; he was a kindly man. “Let me go get Crystal. I should have woke her up, anyhow. She’ll be furious at me because I didn’t—what with Ted coming in and everything.”

  Meredith looked up. “How is Crystal?”

  Fargo shot him a sidelong glance. Despite the careful indifference of the question, the same something was in Meredith’s voice that had been there when he’d spoken of the silver.

  Before Delaney could answer, another voice said from the door: “Crystal’s fine.” Then the woman came into the room. “Except you’re right, Sam—I am furious at you.”

  Fargo turned. Crystal Delaney stood there looking at them. She was tall, and her copper-colored hair was glinting in the lamplight. Her eyes were sea green, curiously slanted; her cheekbones high and prominent. Her breasts, beneath her tight blouse, were large, pointed. She wore a leather riding skirt that hugged the flare of fine hips. Her very presence in the room seemed suddenly to fill it with a kind of electricity.

  She came across the room quickly, took Meredith’s big hand. Her voice was low, husky. “Ted, it’s so good to see you again. We worried about you.” Quickly, yet not quite casually, she brushed his cheek with her lips. Then she straightened, looked from Juanita to Fargo questioningly.

  “Who’re you?” she asked. Her eyes were bold as they ranged up and down Fargo, now on his feet. He caught a breath of strong, stirring perfume,

  “My name’s Fargo,” he said. She looked at him intently as he told her why he was there and about Juanita. There was a half-smile on her face. Her teeth were very white, small, sharp ... Delaney, Fargo thought, had himself a lot of woman. And maybe, he thought, too, a lot of trouble.

  When he was through, she put out a hand. “Welcome, Fargo,” she said. He took it, and he did not miss the way it slid across his almost like a caress. Then she turned to Juanita. Her words were hospitable, but not her tone; and it came to Fargo that she was not a woman who liked competition—not even from a girl as sun burnt, travel-smudged and frazzled
as Juanita was at this stage. “And you, my dear. Come with me. You could use a bath. I’ll see you get one and some rest.”

  “Gracias.” Juanita got uncertainly to her feet. Fargo’s eyes followed both women thoughtfully as Crystal led her out. When they were gone, the atmosphere in the room changed again; it was as if Crystal’s presence bad indeed charged it and now the electricity was gone.

  Morse Clark got to his feet, looked at Fargo. “I reckon you’ll want to bed down, too.”

  “After a while,” Fargo said. “First, I’ve got to clean my guns.”

  He saw the light of approval come into Clark’s eyes; they understood one another. “Sure,” Clark said. “Come on with me. I got the stuff in my shack.”

  It was a small place constructed of rough boards. There was an extra bunk. It had belonged, Clark said, to one of the fighting men who had stuck his head up a little too high during an attack by Hernandez. He was buried up near the mine.

  Fargo took the shotgun apart, began to work on it, sitting on the bunk. “That’s a wicked-looking thing,” Clark said,

  “Beats a revolver at close range.”

  “Sure would.” Clark paced the tiny room, boots clumping on the board floor. “I don’t mind telling you, Fargo, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Things are rough, eh?”

  “Plenty rough. Hernandez sitting out there with fifty, seventy-five men. And we’re down to eighteen here.”

  “Delaney any good?” Fargo asked.

  “He ain’t worth a damn in a fight. He’s a good miner, but he’s still a tenderfoot and he’ll be one even if he stays out here the rest of his life. Hell, he can’t even handle that wife of his, much less a gun.”