Fargo 20

by John Benteen

  Neal Fargo blinked and his finger froze on the shotgun’s trigger. “Kills Twice!” he whispered. “Clyde Kills Twice!”

  “That’s right. And I’m the one who saved your bacon. I changed my mind, Fargo. Not on your account, but Billy’s. Anyhow, we’re in this together, and all we got to do is figure out how to get out.”

  Instead of answering, Fargo snapped orders. “Dammit, we’ll talk later. You and Stokes get out of the line of fire through that window.” He grabbed the case of grenades, set it on the floor, shoved it to a corner with his foot. As Kills Twice realized what he was about, he lent a hand; the two of them up-ended the table, propped it as a bullet-stop against the flimsy door and just in time. Both men jumped back as a fusillade slammed lead into the door, hosed it through the window. Mud chinking between the logs flew and powdered, and it was as if the cabin were full of a swarm of angry bees. “The back door!” Fargo yelled. “Into the lean-to!”

  “Right!” Kills Twice, disregarding bullets, led the way. A windowless log structure had been added to the cabin for storage. Its outside door had been bolted by Kills Twice, who had just passed through it, but its half-inch boards were old, rotted, and bullets would pass through them as if they were so much cheese. Fargo hesitated, then saw the long wooden cases stacked there: boxes of rifles. “Gimme a hand, Kills Twice!” He seized a case, rammed it against the door. Kills Twice was there with another to stack on top of it, and together they built up a barricade of crated guns. Again just in time, for men had worked their way behind the house, and lead chopped into the door and thudded into the rifle cases.

  “That’ll do it!” Fargo turned, panting. As long as they stayed clear of the window, they had a moment’s breather. “Now, explain—”

  “Dammit, after you left me, I got to thinking. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Thought about Billy—and more than that. Thought about everything Schmidt had promised and then, for the first time, really, about what would actually happen when we got our guns and rose up against the Wasichu. And I could see that you were right. It would be a gesture, yeah, like thumbin’ your nose. But it wouldn’t amount to any more than that. It would be Wounded Knee all over again, the goddamn Army’d move in, kill us off, the innocent with the guilty, women and children might git hurt—And I saw I’d been a fool. It wasn’t my own people I was thinkin’ about—it was me. I wanted to be a war chief. That’s all I ever really wanted to be since I used to hear the old men’s stories—but I was born thirty, forty years too late. Then Schmidt came along, offered me the chance, and that blinded me for a while. But finally I saw that you said the truth, that all I’d do would be to get a lot of Indian people killed, set back any progress they could make by fifty years—and for why? To make myself a big man and to help out a bunch of Wasichu who mean nothing to me and really don’t give a damn about my people—”

  They edged back into the other room. “So I decided not to play Schmidt’s game. And then I knew what I really had to do was come and get him—for Billy’s sake. Him and me, and whether I came out alive, it made no difference. So I rode up here and the guards let me past. I saw somethin’ big goin’ on, came in through the back, saw what they were about to do to you and—you did the best you could for Billy after Schmidt killed him, buried him the Indian way. I couldn’t let ’em do it and so I opened fire. And now—” his mouth twisted “—here we are, all three together. Two whites, one Sioux. Like rats in a box. Schmidt has twenty men out there.”

  The shooting had died down a little; Schmidt’s men were conserving ammo. Fargo checked Stokes’ wound; it was superficial, though crippling; the bleeding had stopped. Meanwhile, his mind was working swiftly. “No,” he said, “not like rats. Schmidt’s in as bad shape as we are.”

  “Why? All he’s got to do is burn us out. Hell, a flaming arrow—”

  “And all his guns and ammo go up in smoke. So does ninety thousand dollars.” Fargo remembered Schmidt’s involuntary gesture toward the floor. “Watch that window. Kills Twice. Anybody raises his head, pop him. Something I got to do.”

  On hands and knees, he crawled around the floor; in a moment, he found them—the hairline cracks where two sections of split-log flooring had been cut. It took some doing to pry them out, but when he had them loose, he grunted with satisfaction as he lifted out the bulging saddlebags. A glance into them showed them stuffed with currency of high denomination. Now there was almost no shooting whatsoever. Fargo got to his feet.

  “We’re in here with grenades and guns and plenty of ammo. If Schmidt’s got any sense, he won’t rush us and he won’t burn us out.” Fargo gestured to the water bucket in the corner. It was less than a quarter full. “But that’s all the water there is, and Schmidt knows that. All he’s got to do is sit tight and keep this place covered day and night, and when that’s gone, we’re finished. Unless he’s a fool, that’s what he’ll do. And he’s no fool. So we got time to breathe and plan.” He fumbled at his pocket. “Goddammit, I’m out of cigars.”

  From the window, Clyde Kills Twice tossed him a sack of makings. Fargo rolled a cigarette, drew in smoke, stared at the burning match a moment before it winked out. Then, slowly, his mouth curled in a wolf’s-snarl grin. “I think we’re gonna turn the tables on Mr. Schmidt.” He opened the saddlebags, began to take out packets of currency. “Here.” He passed them out to Stokes and Kills Twice. “Stuff these in your shirts. When we go, this money goes with us. Anyhow, it’ll help to stop a bullet if you take one.”

  He began to do that, and, puzzled, they followed suit. He had just buttoned his shirt, dropped the empty saddle bags back into the hole when Schmidt’s voice rang out. “Fargo! Neal Fargo!”

  He edged to the window. “I’m here, Schmidt!”

  “Fargo, I’ll strike a deal with you. We got you sewed up in there and you haven’t got a chance. Come out with your hands up and we’ll give the bunch of you safe passage down the mountain.”

  Fargo’s laugh rang contemptuously. “In a pig’s eye you will! What’s the matter Schmidt? Afraid I’ll find your money?”

  There was silence. Then: “It makes no difference what you find. You can’t live without water. What’s in that bucket won’t keep you alive very long. We’ve got time to wait.”

  “Then wait! We’ll take our chances! And Schmidt—don’t try to rush us. There’s three of us here that know how to use these grenades!”

  Another silence. Then: “All right, you’ve had your say. We’ll wait you out. The cabin’s surrounded. The minute one of you sticks his head out, he’s a dead man.”

  “We’ll see,” Fargo said and turned from the window. Stokes rubbed his face nervously.

  “Neal, can we break through them? Mary’s out there somewhere, and I’ve got to find her. If we made a deal—”

  Fargo spat. “You ought to know Schmidt well enough by now to know what kind of deal he’ll make. No, I got another plan. I—” He broke off as he saw Kills Twice had found something in a corner—Stokes’ bow and quiver full of arrows, taken from him after he’d been captured.

  “Whose are these?” asked Kills Twice.

  “They’re mine. But,” the young man added bitterly, “I can’t use ’em with this wounded shoulder.”

  Something glittered in Kills Twice’s eyes. “No, but I sure can. Fargo, you can keep those grenades. With these, I can—”

  “Don’t worry; you’ll get a chance to use ’em. If bein’ an Indian brave’s what you want, you’ll get all you can handle tonight.” And then, puffing on the last of the cigarette, he told them what he had in mind. Kills Twice listened intently.

  When Fargo had finished, he nodded.

  “It might work. These arrows will make it easier.”

  “It’s the only chance we’ve got,” Fargo said.

  Kills Twice stroked the bow and deftly strung it, tried it. “Good,” he said, voice rich with satisfaction. “All right, Fargo. I’ll buy it. You do your part, I’ll do mine.”

  The last hours of daylight crawled b
y with agonizing slowness. Fargo made Stokes drink most of the remaining water; he was the one who’d lost blood, needed fluid to replace it. Then it was dark. Carefully, quietly, before darkness settled, Fargo and Kills Twice had removed the table from the front door, the stacked boxes of guns from the back one. Their Colts and Winchesters—save for Kills Twice’s—were missing, appropriated by some of the Badlands bunch. Fargo opened a couple of boxes, took out the big Mausers and clips of ammo for them. Each came with a wooden scabbard to which the pistol’s grip attached to make a short carbine. They were guns he’d used before, and patiently he instructed Stokes in their use. “Forget the scabbards,” he said. “Just stick a couple of these in your waistband for back-up. You’re mainly gonna be a grenadier. Any room you got left in your shirt, you stuff with these.” And he began to help Stokes with the deadly metal eggs. “Just be damned sure you don’t throw ’em in my direction. When I give the signal, toss a couple through the window, and then grab some more to replace ’em.” He began to fill his own shirt.

  Time ticked by. Outside, all was very still, except for an occasional called signal. The ring of men was drawing closer in, Fargo knew, but it would halt well outside the range of a thrown grenade.

  And then, presently, close to midnight, it was time. “Kills Twice. You ready?”

  The Indian squinted out the window, nodded. “No moon. Good. Yeah, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” He slipped into the lean-to.

  Fargo said, “We’ll make the real break when you come with the horses. Be sure to come hell-a-mile, as much noise and confusion as possible. When you hit, we’ll be there to back you up.”

  “Right.” Kills Twice slid the bolt on the rear door, dropped flat on his belly. Fargo, the Fox ready in his right hand, a grenade in his left, went to the front. Stokes, grenade in hand, took station beside the window.

  Fargo pulled in a deep breath. “Now!” he snapped, and kicked the front door open. Yanking the grenade’s pin with his teeth, he rushed through, hurled the bomb as far as possible. Simultaneously he hit the ground, fired the Fox, right barrel, left barrel. Instantly he was rolling, and as he rolled, ramming fresh rounds into the gun. Promptly the night erupted with gunfire, as Schmidt’s men targeted on his muzzle flashes. He heard lead around his ears and then the grenade went off, with a loud crump, lighting the darkness briefly seventy yards away. At the same time, two more bombs exploded, closer at hand, thrown through the window by Stokes.

  Even as their thunder faded, Schmidt’s voice rang out in the dark. “They’re makin’ their break! Let ’em have it!”

  Fargo fired, rolled again, fired once more, and jerked a grenade from his shirt. In one smooth motion he threw it out, unpinned, lay flat and waited. Lead chopped around him, a bullet fluttered the brim of the old cavalry hat. Then the grenade went off and he heard the whir of shrapnel overhead. Instantly he was on his feet, and now he yanked a Mauser from his belt, got off four rounds, even as, under cover of the dust and smoke raised by the bomb, he hurtled back toward the cabin door. Bullets chunked into the logs around him as he flung himself through it, slamming it behind. Climbing to his feet, he seized the table, used all his strength to prop it before the door.

  Splinters flew from the door boards and more bullets thwacked into the table, spending themselves. Then, in a matter of a minute and a half, it was over.

  Fargo rammed shells into the Fox. “Kills Twice. He get away all right?”

  “Yeah, he’s gone,” Stokes said unsteadily.

  “Good,” Fargo said. “Then there’s nothin’ to do but wait and hope they don’t rush us.”

  So, he thought. That much of it had worked. Now the rest of it was up to Clyde Kills Twice. Now he had to prove himself as an Indian.

  The brief foray had confused, excited the men out there. They thought the captives in the cabin had tried to make a break, been driven in; and now they wasted ammunition, sending slugs through doors and windows. But Schmidt, too wise to countenance trigger-happy firing, put an end to that, and soon silence fell again. Schmidt’s voice broke it. “Fargo, you see? No way in hell you people can get out of there!”

  Fargo wanted to make sure Schmidt knew he was alive, in fighting shape. His own reply was a robust bawl. “The night ain’t over yet!”

  “For you it is! You’ll never see another sunrise!”

  Fargo didn’t even answer. Instead, he replenished the grenades he’d used, made sure Stokes did the same, and reloaded the Mauser. Then, patiently, he waited, feeling a kind of savage joy. Soon the moment of decision would be at hand: life or death.

  There was a headiness in it better than any drink or drug could yield. His excitement somehow made time condense itself: a full hour passed, with only an occasional random shot through the window or the door, but to Fargo it seemed only minutes.

  Then another half hour and some of his elation faded. It was taking Kills Twice a hell of a long time. Maybe he hadn’t made it. Maybe they’d caught him before he reached the horses—in which case, their goose was probably cooked.

  The same thing was running through Stokes’ mind. “Neal, damn it—”

  “Don’t get jumpy. These things take time. Patience. He’ll be along.”

  Fargo, to mask his own misgivings, went ahead with the final preparations. He lugged the grenades to the rear of the lean-to, what remained of them after he and Stokes had stuffed their shirts. Then he groped in the corner until he found the coal-oil lamp that had been on the table until he and Kills Twice had used it as a barricade. Taking off its chimney, he unscrewed the wick-holder, dribbled what kerosene it held in its reservoir across the cabin floor. He searched his pockets, found a couple of dry matches, held them ready, one with head beneath his thumbnail. And still no Kills Twice, still no—

  Then it came, drumming out of the west like a roll of thunder, punctuated by shrill neighs and whinnying. A grin broke Fargo’s face. “He did it! Ready, Stokes?” Suddenly, above the sound of nearly a hundred horses in wild stampede, there rose a cry that he had heard before—the shrill, gobbling whoop of a Sioux on the warpath. Fargo snapped the match.

  Outside, there was yelling, surprise. “What the hell? It’s the horses—” The match flared and flickered, and the war whoop rose again now, and the horses, Fargo knew, were in among the men out there, terrified, stampeding, and as Schmidt’s wild yell arose, “Damn it, stand fast—” Fargo threw the match. Suddenly the kerosene on the dry floor turned into leaping, dancing flame. Fargo pulled the pin on a grenade, held the lever tightly. “Come on, Stokes!” He hurled the table to one side and bolted out the door. Stokes came right behind, crouched low.

  And it was working, Fargo saw as he broke into the open. The horses pounding wildly were like a flood that washed everything before its path. Men broke from hiding places, ran, to keep from being trampled. And behind Fargo, the cabin was bursting into flame, lighting the nightmare scene.

  He saw two men break from cover behind a hill, fleeing from the oncoming herd. He lined the shotgun, fired one barrel. The man on the right went down; before he could pull the other trigger, so did the one on the left—and Fargo thought he glimpsed the arrow buried between the shoulder blades, shaft and feathers protruding, as the gunman fell. “Out of the firelight!” Fargo yelled, and his legs pumped as he ran for darkness. But for an instant he was a fine target, and from a hump of land twenty yards away and out of the path of the stampede bright muzzle flames winked. He heard the slap of lead past his ear, felt a bullet rake his thigh. Falling forward, rolling, he pulled a grenade pin with his teeth, lobbed the bomb. It landed behind the hump, and somebody yelled. Then it went off, and the yelling changed into a scream and died as the bright orange flare subsided.

  “Hiiiiiaaaaaa! Hiiiiiiiaaaa! It’s a good day to die!”

  Coming up, Fargo saw Kills Twice, then, riding hard behind the horses, bow in hand, arrow nocked. “Hiiiiiaaaaa!”

  But now the first shock of the stampede had passed. Schmidt was yelling. “The cabin, damn it! To
the cabin! We’ve got to save that money and those guns! Come on! Come on, damn you!”

  And now it was all working as he’d planned. The burning cabin was the flame that drew the moths. Everything the Badlands gang had was in there—all they’d worked and risked for: ninety thousand in hard cash, they thought, and all their weapons and ammunition. Guns were roaring to his right, but he heard grenade thunder over there, and knew that Stokes was carrying out his task. And then, as horses milled and circled, reared and plunged and ran, terrified by the roar of the grenades, Schmidt and half a dozen men ran into the firelight.

  Fargo snarled wolfishly, concealed by darkness now, he whirled. The Fox, reloaded, came up; he felt it buck as he let go with both barrels. Men screamed as, good targets in the light of the burning cabin, the eighteen buckshot found their marks. Two dropped limply; one fell kicking. Fargo did not reload, but yanked another grenade from his shirt, pulled the pin and threw it.

  The cabin was an inferno now. Briefly the grenade’s explosion veiled it. Smoke drifted, and as it cleared, Fargo saw one man plunge through the door into the flames, Schmidt, and Fargo ran back toward the cabin, cramming fresh rounds in the Fox as he did so.

  Then, out of darkness, silhouetted by the firelight, a man rose up, Colt in hand, no more than a foot away. Instinctively Fargo fired the right barrel of the Fox, saw the figure slammed backwards to disappear, leaped the body, and ran on. There was time, still—not much, but a little. Weaving and dodging, once almost knocked down by a running horse that came from nowhere. Fargo made the cabin.

  The roof had caught now, the whole forepart was a mass of flame. Through swirling fire, he could see inside, see Schmidt on his knees, Colt in one hand, other clawing at the cut floor logs. He saw Schmidt drag out the empty saddle bags, his mouth gape in surprise. Schmidt scrambled to his feet.

  “Schmidt!” Fargo yelled above the roar of fire. “It ain't there! I've got it!”

  Schmidt whirled, face blistered, blond hair singed. He stared at Fargo for a fraction of a second. “God damn you!” he roared. “You’ve ruined it all, ruined everything I—” He jerked the Colt up into line.