Fargo 20

by John Benteen

  “No. Don’t answer now. Sleep on it. Maybe you’ll think differently in the morning.”

  Fargo looked down at her, reading something in those black eyes that stirred arousal in him. She did not turn her gaze away. A corner of his mouth quirked. “All right, I’ll sleep on it. At the hotel—”

  Donna Clyman murmured, “Who said anything about the hotel?”

  Fargo’s grin widened. “When you want something, you pull out all the stops.”

  “That’s right.” She was close enough now so that the tips of her breasts touched his chest. “And it doesn’t take me long to decide what I want. And what I want right now doesn’t have anything to do with whether you say yes or no. It has to do with the kind of man you are—and the kind of woman I am.”

  “In that case,” Fargo said, and he set his glass on the mantel. When he pulled her to him, she came eagerly, mouth already open ...

  The bedroom was upstairs, the bed ornate, silk-canopied. Donna Clyman’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress. “Oh, God,” she murmured, “I’m all thumbs—”

  “I’ll do it,” Fargo said. Despite the size of his big hands, he made quick work of unfastening her, peeled the dress away from white flesh, frothy underwear.

  “You’re good at that,” she murmured.

  “A lot of experience.”

  “Damn you.” But she laughed, pulled the dress over her head, managed the underwear herself. Then, in the dim light, she stood naked before him, rich, curved ivory flesh. She touched her breasts, their nipples hard and jutting. “Like me?”

  “You’re just fine,” Fargo whispered, savoring the sight of that perfumed loveliness. Unbuckling his gun belt, he stripped his own clothes away. Donna looked at him in awe. “Good heavens, you must be strong. And all those scars—”

  “Some people collect postage stamps. Me, I collect scars. Deal out a few, too.” Then, easily, he picked her up, carried her to the bed, dropped her sprawling.

  She held up her arms, tongue running over moist red lips. “Neal,” she whispered. “Come on, Neal ... Hurry—” And then, as his bulk covered her, with one hand she reached out to turn off the lamp, the nails of the other digging into his back ...

  It was as if the need in her had backed up like water behind a dam. Fargo was equal to it, but a long time passed before at last she lay passively beside him in the bed, and he himself, his gun within easy reach, dropped off to sleep. But he’d not forgotten that he was to meet Billy Kills Twice at the railroad pens at six, and he set an invisible alarm clock within his brain that woke him at half past four, as first dawn streaked the sky. He was buckling on his belt as Donna stirred, then sat up.

  “Neal, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Got work to do.”

  She rubbed her eyes, brushed back a strand of hair, made no effort to cover the breasts revealed by the falling away of the sheet. “But so early—”

  “No need to linger. I’ve slept on it. Your deal.” He shook his head.

  “Sorry Donna. The answer’s still no. I’m tied up with this remount thing. The Federal marshals will have to handle the Badlands gang.”

  “Not even for twenty thousand—”

  “Not even for double that, as things stand now. If they were interferin’ with my operations, that would be a different story. But I’ve taken on this job, and once I take a job, I don’t quit in the middle—unless somebody blocks me from finishin’ it and I have to go after ’em.”

  “I see,” she muttered dully. Then, naked, she swung out of bed, drew on a robe. “Well, if you change your mind, the offer still stands. And if you’re going to be in town another night—”

  “I will be, but I won’t be seeing you again. We’ll be workin’ late, movin’ out early tomorrow. But if I’m ever back in Rapid City ...”

  “All right, damn you.” There was, though, no rancor in her voice. “Go your hardhead way, then. And ...”

  She touched his arm. “Look out for them. Fifty horses. They could use ’em.”

  “First they’ve got to take ’em. That may not be so easy.”

  “At least,” she said, “kiss me goodbye.”

  “Uh-huh.” Fargo pulled her to him, ground his mouth down on hers. The kiss lasted a long time; then he released her. “Take care of yourself, Donna.”

  “You do the same,” she whispered. And she was at the head of the stairs, watching him as he went down, let himself out. As he went down the front steps, there was a rustle in the shrubbery.

  He moved like a striking snake, the Colt in his hand as he spun around. “Come out,” he rasped, seeing the outline of a human form in the bushes.

  “Don’t shoot.” Slowly it resolved itself into Chang, working out of a row of ornamental junipers with a double-barrel shotgun trained on Fargo. “I only guard Missy.” He lowered the gun.

  Fargo let out a long breath, let down the hammer on the revolver. “All right,” he said tautly. “But you damn near got us both killed. Watch how you come up behind me in the future, you hear?”

  The Chinese only nodded, black eyes impassive. He was still staring after Fargo as the big man in khakis walked down the driveway to the road. Donna Clyman was safe, he thought, with watchdogs like that on guard.

  ~*~

  By noon, their shirts were drenched with sweat, and one of the two Indians Billy Kills Twice had brought with him had been kicked in the thigh by a fractious roan and limped as he worked. Still, they had half the horses branded U.S. on the left hip, thanks to a handy squeeze chute at the pens, and they would be finished by nightfall. Fargo mopped perspiration from his leathery face with his sleeve, let out a long breath. The temperature down here by the tracks must have been at least a hundred.

  “All right. We’ll knock off for dinner. The three of you wait here a few minutes. I’ll be back with a bucket of cold beer. God knows you’ve earned it.”

  A grin split Kills Twice’s coppery face. “That would be good.”

  Fargo mounted a saddled gelding, swung it toward the business district, himself thirsting for a beer. Then, entering the main street, he reined up abruptly.

  They came into it from its far end, a long, slow procession: dusty Model T’s; lathered horses, riders slumped with weariness; and, at its end, a Ford truck that looked familiar—the same, he realized suddenly, in which the robbers had yesterday escaped. As the returning posse halted before the courthouse, Fargo gigged his mount with cavalry spurs and cantered toward it.

  Wearily, a squat man in a panama hat, rumpled seersucker suit, and boots got out of the lead car, a sheriff’s star on his coat. Well past middle age, he had a gray moustache, wattles of skin beneath a sweat-and-dust-streaked face. “All right, Jesse, Murdock,” he growled tiredly to a pair of men in range clothes dismounting from the following car. “Git the bodies out of the truck. I’ll notify Miz Burton and Miz Richards soon as I’ve had a drink of water.” Then, seeing Fargo, he looked up. “Oh, it’s you, the one that shot that bastard yestiddy.”

  “That’s right.” Fargo glanced at the truck. “Any luck?”

  “Luck?” The sheriff spat. “We had luck, all right—all bad. Chased the sonsabitches damn near to the Badlands on the road. Then we found the truck abandoned, sign where they’d had horses waitin’. Struck off cross-country, and we followed. But the minute they got into the edge of the Badlands, they laid an ambush. Killed two men, then disappeared into that goddamned stronghold of theirs—and with Lord only knows how many more of ’em holed up in there waitin’ for us, it’d ’a been suicide to follow. That’s what kinda luck we had.” He turned away, shoulders slumped. Fargo saw that Donna Clyman had not exaggerated; this man was old, burnt-out, probably more politician than lawman.

  Well, it was not his problem, and he had horses to deliver. And yet—twenty thousand dollars and a challenge. The combination almost made his mouth water, as he rode over to a saloon to get the beer. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  Three

  Already through
with breakfast by daybreak, Fargo, the next morning, opened the battered trunk in his hotel room. First he took from it a Model 94 Winchester .30-30 carbine in a saddle scabbard.

  He checked its action, which was silken-smooth, then loaded it and returned it to the sheath. Next he removed from it a chamois-skin case from which he took the various components of a disassembled shotgun, which he carefully fitted together. A ten-gauge Fox Sterlingworth, originally it had been a long-barreled fowling piece; Fargo had sawed off the extra length of barrel so that what remained was an open-bored, short riot gun, one of the deadliest sidearms a man could carry, capable of throwing nine buckshot from each bore in a pattern which, at short range, nothing could escape. His eyes glowed as he caressed the beautifully chased, inlaid and engraved breech, and his thumb traced the inscription on it: To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt. He had earned that gun the hard way, after his old commander in the Rough Riders had become President of the United States, and only two people knew how and on what secret mission. He was one, the other was the man who had presented it.

  The shotgun was equipped with a short sling. For the time being, Fargo, after checking it carefully, laid it aside on the bed. Next he brought out a peculiar knife sheath which he slipped on his belt to ride over his right hip. The knife was as exotic as its holster: he had got it in the Philippines. Called a Batangas knife, crafted by the incomparable artisans of that region of Luzon, its grip was made of two hinged pieces of water-buffalo horn folded forward to cover all but four inches of the ten-inch blade. Fargo flicked a catch; his hand blurred. Both sections of grip snapped back into his palm, revealing the blade’s full length of glittering steel. Razor sharp, it had been tempered to keep its edge, and its point could be driven through a silver dollar at a single blow, without breaking or dulling—Fargo had done that once on a bet. Now, with it in his right hand, he made a few loosening up passes in the style of the experienced cold steel man, wrist-artery down and covered, blade parallel to the ground, chin tucked in, belly guarded. His hand was snakelike in its flicker, and when he transferred the knife to his left and went through the same routine, there was no lessening of speed or skill. He had been born ambidextrous, capable of using either hand with equal ease, an edge he never gave away till necessary, but one that had more than once saved his life.

  After a few minutes, he snicked the split grips back over the blade, sheathed the knife. Then, from the trunk he lifted the bandoliers, two heavy leather belts made to crisscross over his thick-chested torso. One held fifty rounds of ammo for the shotgun, the other even more for the Winchester. He draped them across his body, after making sure all loops were full. Then he loaded spare ammunition in a pair of saddlebags. After that, he made a bedroll to pack behind his cantle—blankets, spare clothes. Closing and locking the trunk, he rammed a pair of shotgun shells into the Fox sawed-off, snicked its safety on, and slung it over his right shoulder, muzzles down behind his back. In the lobby, the clerk stared at the gun-laden form but made no comment as Fargo paid his bill, had a boy sent upstairs to bring down the trunk, and gave the clerk instructions to have it sent to Fort Bliss by rail via Omaha. A fat tip insured the instructions would be followed.

  Outside, Billy Kills Twice waited with two saddled horses and a pack animal carrying food and cooking gear.

  At the sight of Fargo, his black eyes widened in his hawkish face. “Man, you’re a walkin’ arsenal!”

  “Tools of my trade.” Fargo latched the rifle scabbard to his saddle. “The only thing worse than carryin’ all these guns and not needin’ ’em is needin’ ’em and not carryin’ ’em. And a gun ain’t worth a damn unless you’ve got plenty ammo for it. How you fixed for artillery?”

  Kills Twice indicated the Peacemaker on his hip. For a long-gun, he had an ancient Model 73 Winchester slipped through improvised loops on his saddle. He touched it fondly. “Belonged to my daddy. He used it at the Rosebud and Little Big Horn. It’ll shoot where I point it, and I’ve got a box of cartridges.”

  “Good enough.” Fargo swung into the saddle, shifted gun harnesses, ammo belts, until they rode comfortably and correctly. “All right, Billy. Let’s move ’em out. Next stop’s Casper and then Cheyenne. We’ll swing as wide of the Badlands as we can.” He touched his horse with spurs and headed toward the pens, Kills Twice following. Once he paused, looking back regretfully at the town, thinking of Donna Clyman and twenty thousand dollars. Then he shrugged, rode on.

  The day was another scorcher, the heat already brutal by eight o’clock, as they moved the geldings out of the railroad pens, formed them up and drove southwest at a slow pace, partly because of the heat, partly to give the herd a chance to settle down. Rapid City lay on the outskirts of the Black Hills and their rugged, timber-clad heights loomed to the west. It was Fargo’s aim to skirt them, following up the south fork of the Cheyenne River, a course which would inevitably pinch him between them and the Badlands in a day or two. Meanwhile, as soon as they were well out of town, he left the driving of the geldings to the Indian and swung out ahead and on the flanks to scout, rifle across his saddle bow, field glasses with which he occasionally surveyed the terrain dangling from a strap around his neck. He hoped the excitement they’d created in the town would force the Badlands gang to lie low for a while, long enough to let him pass in peace, but he had not made it through all those hard years of combat by taking anything for granted.

  Nightfall found them only twenty miles from town, in a sheltered valley where there was a good graze, and so far there’d been no sign of trouble. While Kills Twice made camp, the geldings stringing out to graze, Fargo scouted the surrounding ridges, then, satisfied, galloped back to the fire, where the Indian was slicing bacon with a long-bladed Bowie that, Fargo noted, was razor keen.

  “We’ll stand guard in two shifts,” Fargo said. “I’ll take the first.” He unlashed his bedroll, began to spread it on level ground near the fire, where the tall grass would serve as mattress. “We—” Then he heard the dry whir of the rattlesnake close at hand, not six inches away, and, bent over, froze. “Kills Twice,” he said thickly, knowing the least movement would provoke the snake to strike. He could see it now, almost hidden by the grass, coiled, head weaving, less than half a foot from his unshielded wrist and hand.

  “Yes,” Kills Twice said behind him. “Be very still. Don’t move a fraction of an inch—” Then, in the last light of sundown, something metallic flashed past Fargo’s hand. Fargo stared. The Bowie, thrown hard at an angle, almost slung, had cleanly sliced off the triangular head. It fell, tongue still flickering, in the grass, as the rest of the snake’s body launched itself in a striking motion out of sheer reflex, barely missing Fargo’s wrist, then writhing and twisting.

  Fargo straightened up, aware that the sweat trickling down his flanks was cold. Cautiously, but matter of factly, Kills Twice moved past him, retrieved the Bowie. “Billy,” Fargo said thinly. “I’m obliged. You sure as hell know how to use a knife.”

  Kills Twice straightened up, then kicked the head and twisting body away. “Yeah, I can use a knife,” he said. He wiped the blade with a tuft of grass. “It’s okay. That was the only one.” He sheathed blade. “It was my fault. I should have seen him when I laid out the gear.”

  “Your fault, hell.” Fargo clamped a cigar between his teeth, eyes narrow as they ranged over the Indian’s tall, lean form. “I got careless.” He lit the cigar. “You use a six-gun as good? A rifle?”

  “Stand easy,” Kills Twice said. There was no apparent motion of his hand, but suddenly his Colt was there, cocked, outstretched, aimed as at an invisible opponent. Fargo whistled at the speed of that draw. Then Kills Twice eased down the hammer, returned the gun to leather with the same blinding speed.

  Fargo took the cigar from his mouth. “Hell, you’re as fast as any pro I ever met. Where’d you learn to use a Colt like that?”

  “From my older brother,” the Indian said. “The white men call him Clyde Kills Twice. His real Indian name is Slits-the
-Throat. Kills Twice is my father’s name, so that’s how they registered me at the mission school. I’ve got an Indian name, too, but never mind ...” He turned back to the bacon, resuming his slicing.

  “Slits-the-Throat. Sounds like a damned tough hombre.”

  “He is,” said Billy tersely. “When I came back from the mission school, he took me out, taught me all the tricks, to make sure I hadn’t forgotten. He was a hard master.” He laid the bacon in the skillet. Then, in a sudden rush of confidence, the words burst from him. “We haven’t talked to each other in five years. He won’t speak to me.” Fargo sensed the pain in Kills Twice’s voice. “Why not?”

  The Indian laid the skillet on the coals, straightened up. “Ordinarily, I’d say it was none of your business. But you stack up considerably different from any Wasichu I’ve run into so far. You seem to take me for what I am, not just for another lousy, lazy Injun ...”

  Fargo said: “I was in the Philippines, and I’ve served as an officer in Pancho Villa’s army, and half of it was Indio. I don’t judge a fightin’ man by his color. I know a lot of white men who low-rated ’em, and are buried now. There’s only one thing I give a damn about in a man. Either he does what he sets out to do, or he dogs it. If he dogs it, the hell with him, red, brown or white.”

  “Yeah, I figured that was the way it was with you. All right. The reason my brother won’t talk to me is because I went to work for white men. He don’t feel like you do, you see. He hates you all, hates you from his guts.” He turned the bacon with a fork. “You see, he was at Wounded Knee.”

  Fargo frowned, trying to remember something. “You’re an Oglala,” he said at last. “It was a different band the cavalry wiped out at Wounded Knee.”

  “Yeah. Big Foot’s band—Minneconjou. But the Oglalas on the reservation heard the shooting. The Seventh Cavalry was still huntin’ down women and children and what few men escaped when a bunch of Oglalas—a damned big bunch—came over the skyline. The cavalry pulled out. And my brother—he was eighteen then—was among the first on the battlefield to see what they’d done.”