The Wildcatters

by John Benteen

  The cartridge belt, which was the next item he removed from the trunk, was full of such specially altered loads. He would not, however, wear it now; the gun was better off in the concealed holster under his coat; and he could draw it from there with a speed that matched his ability to snatch it from the lowcut, open-end, swivel-mounted holster on the gun belt. He laid the gun belt aside and fished two bandoliers heavily laden with other ammunition from the trunk.

  They were designed to crisscross his torso. One held rounds for the Winchester carbine, the other was stuffed with ten-gauge, buckshot-loaded shells for the shotgun. Fargo put them by the trunk and checked to make sure that all the additional boxes of ammo in the trunk were intact. He had his own preferences in loads and bullet-weights. Rounds loaded to his specifications were not available everywhere. Since his life could depend on a single cartridge, he carried a supply of ammunition that met his specifications everywhere he went.

  Having completed his inventory, he restored his gear carefully to the trunk. Then he locked the special padlock and put the trunk under his bed. Seating the Colt in its shoulder holster, he wiped every possible speck of dust or mud not only from the weapon, but from the inside of the scabbard itself. Fargo drew his jacket over it and then left the room. Carefully locking the door behind him, he went down the stairs to finish sizing up Golconda.

  ~*~

  It was fantastic, he thought an hour later. He had never seen anything like it. Within a few years, maybe even a few months, Tull Brasher was likely to be one of the richest men in the United States.

  Not, of course, that every well being drilled around Golconda would come in. Nor, for that matter, were all of them Brasher’s—or at least not wholly so. Not even Brasher’s proven wells could give him the capital to do so much drilling at once; he would have to sell off or sub-lease some of his rights; other companies were in here.

  Yet Brasher was Number One. Brasher was pumping most of the black gold out of the ground. With war in Europe, oil prices had already skyrocketed. They’d go up again before long. Brasher would, without doubt, be a millionaire many times over in less than a half-decade from now.

  Fargo, reentering the Drillers’ Rest, thought hard, frowning, as he took a table, ordered a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He had never rubbed up against so much money. Brasher hadn’t been joking: Tie in with him now, serve him well, and some of that money would flow to Fargo.

  The whiskey came; he poured, drank, poured and drank again. Twenty thousand here, thirty there; he’d picked up such sums in his life. He’d spent them, quickly as possible, on the things he liked: women, whiskey, the turn of a card, his judgment of horseflesh, fine weapons, high living. But this was different. Suddenly twenty thousand dollars seemed like peanuts. What Brasher had been talking about was hundreds of thousands, maybe a slice amounting to a million or more.

  Because, Fargo thought, it worked like this. You found a man making that much, pulling dollars out of the ground as if by magic. You attached yourself to him. You did his bidding, made yourself invaluable, and he paid you. Not in the coin by which ordinary men paid for ordinary work; but on the fantastic scale at which he, himself, operated. Fargo lit a cigar, rolled it between his teeth. A quarter section like that of Curt Russell could be worth millions in itself. Brasher wanted it; a man who got it for him could figure on hundreds of thousands.

  And when you had that kind of money, you’d never have to work again.

  And that meant what?

  Fargo considered. He was pushing forty. No matter how tough a man was, sooner or later he gave out. The legs slowed down, the reflexes did, the wits did, the eyes dimmed. He’d seen them: the prizefighters who’d lost it, been hammered into punchiness before they realized it. The gunmen who could not match the speed or courage of youth, yet did not know when to quit. They were planted in Boot Hills all around the West. The old soldiers who had to retire when their nerve or their bodies went; when the aching wounds got to be too much in wet weather; when they realized that they’d used up the edge the law of averages gave them and they were overdue to catch one between the eyes.

  He was not getting any younger. He had nothing or no one to fall back on. Five years, maybe ten, and he would be finished! He would be old and the world would have changed. It was getting tamer, more filled up, more civilized every day. A freelance gunman, ten years from now, in 1925, would have hard pickings except in the meanest and most remote parts of the earth.

  As he had told Tess, he had never counted on growing old. Now it occurred to Fargo that he might, like his old friend, Wyatt Earp, wind up in a rocking chair sunning himself in a place like Southern California. But a man doesn’t rock in the sunshine if he’s old and broke. He winds up on Skid Row, drinking cheap wine, panhandling, sleeping in doorways and under bridges....

  Fargo ground out the cigar; it tasted bitter.

  But if a man had hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe a million ... if a man tied in with Tull Brasher, played his game, took his orders, took his money—He looked up, aware that somebody was approaching. Then he scraped back his chair. Tess Kendall stood over him. “Don’t get up,” she said.

  She was in working clothes, and they were designed to show her stunning figure to best advantage. Not quite thirty, she was at her peak; ripe, mature, not yet depreciating with age. She had always been one of the most beautiful women Fargo had ever known—and he’d known plenty in his time. Now she sat down.

  “You looked so thoughtful. I’ve never seen you look like that before.”

  He grinned. “Even I think every now and again. Want a drink?”

  “Why not?” He motioned to the bartender who brought a glass.

  Fargo poured her a strong one; she tossed it off easily, sighed, and her melon-sized breasts rose, showing the cleft between them above the low-cut neckline. “Some town, eh?”

  “You picked a winner,” Fargo said. “Brasher.”

  “I know, Tull’s a go-getter. A hard man, but he works.” She looked at him curiously. “Did he make you an offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it. You can’t go wrong, hooking up with Tull Brasher.”

  Fargo looked at her. “How close did you hook up with him?”

  Tess’s face reddened. “Fargo, I had no idea he had so much money. The whole time I knew him, he lived on the edge. But now he’s rich.”

  Fargo laughed softly. “So it’s like that, eh?”

  “It’s money, Fargo. Not chicken feed. Money.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, when you helped me out of the mud, I thought... I promised ... but I didn’t know Tull would be ...”

  “So rich and getting richer?”

  “Yeah.” She looked down at the table, poured herself another drink.

  “So it’s him and not me.”

  She raised her head. She was, he thought, very lovely. “Damn it, Neal,” she said softly, “you’ve got to understand.”

  Fargo gave his wolf’s grin. “I understand. Don’t blame you. No hard feelings.” He laughed. “We’re both professionals.”

  “Will you work for Tull?”

  “Haven’t made up my mind.” She put out a hand, covered his with it. “Do it, Fargo. Cut yourself in.”

  “We’ll see.” He pulled the hand away. “That girl, Maggie ... How did you get her in your bunch? She doesn’t stack up.”

  “Of course she doesn’t. She’s not—uh—part of my bunch. She’s my niece.”

  “Your niece?”

  “My sister’s daughter. I’m the black sheep of the family. Clara married a good man who ran a hardware store back in Baltimore. Worked himself to death young, keeled over from a heart attack. He was in debt, overambitious, stretched himself too far. Then Clara—she loved him, Fargo, couldn’t live without him. They say it was an accident; I know it was on purpose. The gas left on in the apartment one weekend when Maggie was away ...”

  “I see,” Fargo said tonelessly.

  “The girl had nowhere els
e to go, nobody to turn to. I hated it, for her to find out what I really was. But when she came to me, I couldn’t turn her away. Couldn’t change my way of life, either. It’s a bad bargain, Fargo. I’m responsible for her, but I can’t put her to work, wouldn’t if I could. I’d sooner die than see her working in a place like this. If I can pull some money out of Tull Brasher, I’ll send her off to school, raise her to be a lady. Meanwhile, she has to go where I go....”

  “Sure,” said Fargo. “When Clay tackled her, I knew she wasn’t that kind. That’s one of the reasons I pistol-whipped him. He also pushed me down in the mud.” He toyed with his glass. “So Brasher’s got first call after all.”

  “Fargo, I have my future to think of.”

  “Sure, Tess, your future. Don t blame you.”

  “I did want you to understand.”

  “Like I said, we’re both professionals.”

  “Yes,” Tess Kendall said. She stood up. “Now, I’ve got to get the girls together. Business ought to be good tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Fargo. “It sure ought to.”

  Chapter Three

  Later, Fargo went to a crowded restaurant. After a long wait, he got steak, eggs, and French fries for three times what they should have cost. He ate sparingly, stopping when he was moderately full, always careful never to cram himself until he was sluggish, his reflexes slowed. Whiskey, though, was different; he could put away a tremendous amount without being affected. Back at the Drillers’ Rest, he sat with his back to the wall, began to drink again, watching the crowd attracted by the girls. Then he stiffened, tilted back his hat, stared.

  “Friday,” he called. “Hey, Ross Friday!” The man who had just come in had obviously been on the trail a long time. In Stetson, leather jacket, wool pants and short boots, he was travel-worn and muddy. Tall as Fargo, maybe a year or two younger, he was lean as a greyhound and had something of Fargo’s predatory look about him. He wore a Smith & Wesson .38 in a spring clip holster slung low on his right thigh. He saw Fargo, and his hard, big-nosed, tanned face broke into a faint grin. “Damn, Neal. When’d you blow in?” He came to the table.

  “Today, same as you. Set.” Fargo pushed the bottle forward. Ross Friday took it and drank deeply, sighed, wiped his mouth, dropped into the chair across the table. He drank again, grinned. “Now I’m alive, I think.”

  Fargo laughed. “I thought you were down in Nicaragua.”

  “Was, until two weeks ago. Then there was a counter-revolution. First I was on the winning side, then on the losing. Got out just in time to save my skin. Used a lot of cartridges doing it.”

  “How was it?”

  “Hair side out. Made some money, though. Blew most of it in New Orleans. Needed another stake, heard about this place and drifted in. What’s the deal?”

  Fargo shrugged. “It’s here, if you want it.”

  “Anybody hiring?”

  “Brasher, Tull Brasher.”

  “The stud duck of this town? Yeah. I’ve heard of him. You hiring out to him?”

  “He wanted a ramrod gun hand. Offered the job to me. Haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “If you don’t take it, let me know. Might be my sort of thing. Or I’ll work with you. We always did work good together.”

  “Yep.” Fargo sipped his drink. He and Friday were cut from the same cloth, two of a kind. Next to Fargo, Friday was the best gunman, the best professional fighting man around. In fact, it was possible that he was as good as Fargo. They’d fought on the same side in at least two small and bloody Central American wars. Elite members of the same trade, they eyed each other with respect.

  Now Friday took another slug from the bottle. “What’s the layout with Brasher?”

  Fargo told him. When he finished, Friday whistled. “Might be the big one. A man could get set up for life.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “I don’t take orders good. Brasher likes to give ’em.”

  Friday grinned. “I’m not as touchy as you. For that kind of money I can take a lot of orders.” Looking around the room, he frowned. “Somebody coming,” he said. “Fellow with a headful of bandages.”

  Fargo followed his gaze and went taut. “Name’s Clay Samson. Had to pistol-whip him this afternoon.”

  “Looks like,” Friday murmured, “He wants another round.” He shoved back his chair. “I’ll stand clear.”

  “Yes,” Fargo said. He placed both hands on the table before him. Samson, head swathed in cloth, had obviously been drinking. His face was set, hard and ugly as he pushed through the crowd toward Fargo, right hand swinging close to the gun on his hip. He came up to the table and stared down at Fargo. “I been looking for you,” he said thinly.

  “Well, you found me,” Fargo said.

  Samson swayed slightly on his feet. “Nobody does to me what you did and gets away with it.”

  “Let’s settle it another time,” Fargo said. “You’re drunk and the place is crowded. No point in hurtin’ innocent bystanders.”

  “To hell with them. I’m gonna make you crawl, Fargo.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “I won’t fight you in here. Let it drop, Clay, until you’re sober. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

  Samson laughed, a curt, harsh sound. “You kill me? That’ll be the day. Come outside, Fargo.”

  Fargo only looked at him. He could see that he would have to kill Clay Samson. But he didn’t want to do it tonight. He really didn’t want to do it at all if he could help it; killing went against his grain when there was no profit in it. And yet—

  Then Friday spoke. Standing up, he had moved back a couple of feet. “Friend, why don’t you save your quarrel until another day? Neal and I were talking business.”

  Samson turned. “Who cut you in?” He stared at Friday, full of mindless hostility; full of liquor. He had obviously been brooding all day over his public humiliation, and built up a head of steam that only gunplay would satisfy.

  “I’m sorry,” Friday said easily. “You’re right. None of my affair.” He backed away. “I’ll leave it to you and Fargo.”

  “No. I want to know who told you to butt in.” Samson’s lip curled. “Who are you, anyway? Another skunk out of the same den?”

  A change came over Friday’s face. His eyes turned to steel. His hands dropped easily to his sides. “I’ll ignore that. It’s drunk talk.”

  “I’m not afraid of you. I can handle both of you.”

  “Friend,” Friday murmured, “you couldn’t even handle half of one of us. Now, go on, sleep it off, come back tomorrow when you’re sober. You got problems, we’ll talk about ’em then.”

  Samson backed away a couple of paces. “We’ll talk about ’em now,” he rasped. “I’ll take on both of you. I’m not scared of either one of you dirty bastards.”

  His voice was loud. It rang out across the room, and in that instant the steady din of talk and laughter withered like wheat before a storm. All at once the room was quiet, except for the shuffle of feet as men made their way out of the line of fire. Now there was a wide circle around Samson and Fargo and Friday.

  Fargo still sat at the table. Friday said, wearily: “You want ’im, Neal?”

  “No. I already had him.”

  Gently, Friday said: “Boy, I don’t like people talking to me like that. But I’m gonna give you one more chance. Go to bed and sleep it off.”

  Facing Friday, Samson s face was flushed. His eyes glittered. “Mister,” he said hoarsely, and then he drew.

  It was impossible to see Friday’s hand move. All he had to do was twitch it. The holster was open-fronted and the gun popped loose from its spring clip. It came up thundering from the simple pressure of Friday’s finger. Clay screamed as a bullet smashed into his right shoulder and sent him spinning around before his Colt had even cleared leather. Still screaming, he dropped to his knees, right hand dangling. Friday stood over him with the Smith & Wesson ready, smoke curling from its barrel.

  “S
omebody git a doctor,” he said, without looking around. “I aimed to bust his shoulder joint and I think I did it.” Now Clay rolled over on his side, still howling with agony, blood trickling through the fingers of his left hand, with which he clutched the ruined shoulder. Fargo stood up, deftly removed the Colt from Samson’s holster. “Yeah,” he said, looking down at the man. “That arm’s finished. For good.”

  “He asked for it, though,” another voice broke in. Tull Brasher pushed through the crowd, stood over Clay, looking down at him with disgust. “I saw it. He had it comin’.” His eyes went to Friday. “Who’re you?”

  “Ross Friday.”

  Something moved in Brasher’s eyes. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Likely,” Friday said.

  “You can put that thing away,” said Brasher. “Nobody’s going to take up this quarrel, I’ll guarantee it.” He turned to a bystander. “Get this idiot to a doctor. I’ll stand his bill. But when he can travel, I want him out of town.” Then he faced Friday again. “What about you and me havin’ a drink?”

  “Why not?”

  “Come on over to my office. Fargo, you come, too.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “Not now. We’ve already talked.”

  Brasher hesitated. “Suit yourself. Come on, Friday.”

  “See you, Neal.” Friday holstered the gun and alertly followed Brasher.

  Fargo took another drink from his bottle and watched them go. Samson’s voice rose in agony as men got him to his feet, dragged him toward the door. A swamper came, pouring sawdust on the blood-pooled floor. Fargo drank again; that killed the bottle. Then he went outside, walked back to his hotel. Everywhere he looked the lights of oil derricks were bright against the sky; the business of getting rich went on twenty-four hours a day.

  ~*~

  Nor did the town ever sleep. There had been whooping, noise, traffic, and gunfire throughout the night. Maybe the West was settling down, tamed, but oil towns were in a class by themselves; no rules held. In Golconda, time could have been rolled back forty years. When Fargo awakened, it was still going strong.