The Wildcatters

by John Benteen

  “Yah, by God!”

  As Fargo tried to rise, the whip hissed down and down again. At each lash, it cut flesh. It sought his eyes, he covered his face with his forearm; it slashed his forearm. The Swede was expert; Fargo had to do something or the man would chop him to pieces.

  With lightning speed, the whip jerked back, slashed forward again. Fargo tried to scuttle out of its range, pull toward the door, but the Swede followed him. He tried to seize the lash, but the man was too quick; it jerked from his grasp like a live thing. There was no chance to get his feet under him, no chance to fight back—

  “Now I through playing!” Jorgenson laughed. “Now we take the eyes and ears.” The whip sang back all the way as he raised his arm for a massive stroke. In that instant, Fargo whipped off the campaign hat. Ramming his left fist in the crown, he came up fast. When the lash ripped forward, instead of covering his eyes, he threw his shielded hand directly in its way. It hit the hand hard, but the heavy felt protected his flesh, and only the end of the lash, its tip, got past to slice a wound in Fargo’s cheek. In the same instant, the Batangas knife flashed; its keen blade chopped through four feet of lash. The thin black end fell to the floor like a snake with a severed head.

  Jorgenson stared, surprised. He started to jerk back the lash, but Fargo had already thrown the hat aside. Now Fargo’s hand seized the end of the whip, the knife slashed again, another four feet dropped. That still left eight feet in the Swede’s huge hand, and Jorgenson pulled it back, high, brought it down with terrific force.

  It crashed against the floor. Fargo jumped aside nimbly, out of its shorter path. His foot came down hard on it, pinned it before the Swede could draw it back. He bent, slashed again, and now another yard was gone. Grinning wolfishly, Fargo lunged in as Jorgenson pulled back the stub of the whip in blank amazement. Then he saw Fargo coming at him; with all his strength he brought down the thick, lethal remaining five feet of heavy braided leather.

  It would have cut Fargo in two if it had landed. But it could be dodged, and Fargo dodged it. Then he was on the Swede, the knife blade held low, glittering as he thrust it forward. Instinctively, Jorgenson raised the whip again, leaving himself wide open. He tried to back away, let out a cry of fear as Fargo got inside, but it was too late, hopeless. His yell ended in a moan as Fargo thrust home with the Batangas knife.

  Fargo turned the blade, withdrew, stepped away, panting and bleeding from a half-dozen whiplash wounds. The room was hushed, awed, as Jorgenson sank to his knees, the whip sliding from his hand. He stared at Fargo with pale, agonized eyes. Both great palms clutched the wound in his chest. His lips moved soundlessly. Then blood gushed from them and he fell forward on his face with the impact of a great tree toppling to earth; bottles rattled behind the bar.

  In the same instant, Fargo spotted the Colt, swept it up. With the knife in one hand, the gun in the other, he faced the crowd. “Anybody else want some?” he rasped; and he was, in that moment, full of a quite insane killing fury. He would have welcomed the chance to do battle again. But nobody moved, and except for a single whispered word from some onlooker—“Jeezus!”—no one spoke. Fargo picked up his hat, clamped it on his head. He backed to the doors, was out on the sidewalk. The whole battle and the killing had taken not more than three minutes, though it had seemed to last forever. Tess and Maggie waited for him out there.

  “Go on,” Fargo rasped. “Head for the hotel.” They did. He followed them, gun at the ready. There was confusion back in the saloon. But, for the moment, no pursuit. No one wanted to dare risk confronting his gun. But—Ross Friday; he worried Fargo.

  ~*~

  They made the hotel. The people in its little, crowded lobby stared at the two women and the bleeding, ferocious man in slashed shirt, gun in hand. But no one offered opposition, and Fargo crowded the women up the stairs. In his room he locked the door.

  “Neal,” Tess cried. “He cut you to ribbons! Let me—

  Fargo shrugged her aside impatiently. “No time for that!” He jerked the trunk from beneath the bed. “Can you handle a rifle?”

  “Pretty damn well!”

  “Here!” He tossed her his Winchester. “It’s loaded. Use it when I tell you to, not before.”

  “Right.” She was hard as nails, cool as ice.

  Fargo slung bandoliers across his shoulders. He shoved the Colt into the hip holster, buckled on the gun belt. He crammed more ammo from the boxes into every pocket. Then he picked up the sawed-off shotgun. “All right,” he said. “My horse is downstairs. You and Maggie mount up, ride double, head out the road southwest for the Russell place.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.” He kicked open the door; they headed for the stairs.

  At the top of them, he halted. What he had feared had happened. Ross Friday was coming up the stairs, a half dozen gunmen behind him. He stopped short, though, when he saw himself looking into the twin bores of the riot gun.

  “Whoa up, Ross,” Fargo said. “I can pull both triggers and you’ll all go.”

  Friday stared at him. “Put it down, Neal.”

  “Why? So Brasher can arrange to have me lynched? No, thanks.”

  “You killed a man—”

  “In self-defense. Plenty of witnesses to that. Two more right behind me. This young girl—Brasher tried to rape her.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I know Tull wants you.”

  “He ain’t going to get me. Not as long as this riot gun works.”

  “Neal—”

  “Back down, Ross. All the way down.”

  Friday’s eyes met Fargo’s, and Friday’s face was pale, and something crossed it; and in that instant, Fargo knew that there was no longer any friendship left between them. One thing a fighting man could not do was yield, be buffaloed, in public like this. It left a wound, and the only way that wound could be healed was to kill the man who had done it. Friday’s reputation, his own image of himself as a fighter, was more important to him than anything else in the world, even friendship. Now, to restore it, he would have to kill Neal Fargo.

  Just as Fargo was prepared to kill Friday now, if necessary.

  There was a moment, then, when it could have gone either way. Fargo’s fingers were tight on the triggers.

  Then Friday let out a rasping breath. “Okay, Neal. You win this round.”

  “Yes. Call off your wolves. We’re leaving town. Nobody had better try to stop us. I can do a lot of damage with this thing.”

  Friday’s mouth twisted. “All right. But—this means we got to have a settlement between us.”

  “Sure, Ross. Sure. But another day. Now—down the stairs.”

  Silently, Ross backed downward, the men crowding behind him. They moved away as Fargo came on with the shotgun, its barrels sweeping the crowd. Against such a weapon, no one would try anything; those eighteen blue whistlers would chop such a crowd to pieces.

  They made it through the lobby. Then they were on the street. Holding the shotgun trained on the hotel door, Fargo unlashed the sorrel’s reins from the rack. “Mount up,” he told Tess.

  She did so, deftly, a good rider, oblivious to the way her skirt rode up on her thighs when she hit the saddle. “Up behind me, honey.” She gave Maggie a hand, and the younger girl swung up behind the cantle. “Put your arms around my waist.”

  Maggie did. “Ride!” snapped Fargo, and Tess lashed the horse. It thundered down the street.

  Another horse was at the hitch rack. Fargo slipped its reins loose, threw them over its head. Still holding the shotgun, he was in the saddle of the hammerhead dun in an instant. He swung it around; it ambled down the street as he kept the Fox’s barrels menacing the front of the hotel. He made some distance that way; then, deciding he had gone far enough, jerked the horse around, rammed home cavalry spurs. It flattened its ears, lined out in a dead run. Fargo bent low in the saddle as he followed Tess and Maggie out of town.

  Chapter Five

  He caught up with
the two women well out of town. Reining in, he motioned for silence, but he could hear no pursuit. The darkness behind them was devoid of the sound of hoof beats, empty. Fargo frowned; he had expected Ross Friday and Brasher’s men to come after them hell-bent for leather.

  Then he grinned. No, Friday wouldn’t operate that way. He was too experienced to come barreling down that road, target for Fargo’s shotgun. He’d wait, be patient, choose his own time, make sure the odds were on his side. He wouldn’t give Neal Fargo any edge, none at all; he was too smart for that.

  So they slowed to a fast walk in the last mile before the Erickson place. “What the hell happened back there?” He asked Tess, riding alongside her.

  “That damned Brasher.” Her voice still trembled with outrage. “I told him that Maggie wasn’t one of my girls and that I didn’t want any man laying his hand on her. And I warned her to stay in the room at night. Then Brasher broke in on her, tried to rape her. I caught him in the act and he slugged me. Well, that’s it.” Her voice was rueful. “Another good set-up shot to hell.”

  “What about your other girls?”

  “They’ll have to look after themselves, I guess.” She sounded disgusted. “I don’t expect I can go back to Golconda. Do you?”

  “No,” Fargo said.

  “Maybe it’s just as well.” He was aware of her eyes on him in the darkness. “It was a mistake, getting tied in with Brasher. I owe you thanks, Fargo. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d just stood with your hands in your pockets and let him beat me to a pulp, after the way I treated you.”

  “Forget it,” Fargo said. “Lily Erickson will put you up. A day or two, anyway. I’ll have to go to Tulsa soon. You and Maggie can come along, take the train back to Texas.”

  She put her horse close to his; he felt her hand cover his where it rested on the horn. “I’m in no hurry. Like I said, I’ve got to thank you first.”

  Fargo grinned faintly. “Maybe we’ll get around to that, too.” Then they had reached the gate of the Erickson place. There Fargo dismounted, slapped the dun he’d taken on the rump. He didn’t want a charge of horse stealing lodged against him; that would be harder to fight than a charge of murder.

  The animal galloped back toward town. With the shotgun slung, Fargo trotted on foot alongside the sorrel carrying the two women. It was not far to Lily’s, and he could, if necessary, travel at such a pace for miles without slowing; it was a knack he had learned from Tarahumara Indians in Mexico.

  Ahead, now, he saw the squares of lighted windows. They entered the dooryard; then he checked the sorrel with a hand on its bridle. There was a battered old truck parked in the yard next to Curt Russell’s Model T. “Hold up,” Fargo said. “Russell’s got some company, and I don’t know who it is.” He led the sorrel into a pool of shadows. “I’m going to see. If there’s any gunplay, stay under cover.”

  Like a stalking wolf, he edged up to the house, peered through one of the lighted windows. Then he relaxed, grinned, and swore softly. He motioned to Tess Kendall to come on, and went to the porch, hammered on the door. “Hello! It’s Fargo!”

  The door swung open; Russell stood there. “Fargo, come in! I was hopin’ you’d be back tonight. You’ll never guess who’s here—God, what happened to you?”

  “A little trouble in town. I’ll be okay. Just get a wet cloth.” He stepped past Russell. “Hello, Uncle John.”

  Uncle John Morris got to his feet and Russell went for the cloth. The old man’s face was deceptive; except for the tobacco stains at the corners of his mouth, dying his snow-white beard yellow, he could have been mistaken for Santa Claus. He had plump red cheeks and bright blue eyes. Had he chosen to notch his gun butt for every kill he’d made, including Comanches, Mexican border hoppers, and revolutionists, the old man’s Colt handle would have looked like beavers had worked on it. Short, pot-bellied, bowlegged, he waddled forward with a broad smile. “Fargo! Howdy, boy!”

  Russell returned and Fargo put the cold swab to his thin, welted wounds. Then, to Morris: “What are you doing here? I just sent you the telegram today.”

  “I was already on my way; picked up enough money in a poker game down in San ’Tone to ship my rig by freight train far as Tulsa. I came on in my old one-lunged truck. Lotta talk down in Texas about this field. Way I heard it, Brasher’s on top, and this land is about the only hunk he don’t control. Well, I don’t aim to do any business with Tull Brasher. When I hit town, I came directly out here to see young Curt. Me and his Daddy was friends once upon a time. When you’re lookin’ for a place to drill you don’t want to waste a minute, or the other feller’ll git there ahead of you. So I didn’t even take time to eat a bite in Golconda, just checked how to get here and came straight on. I—” He broke off, staring past Fargo into the darkness. Then he chuckled. “By God, Fargo, you up to your old tricks? Only it ain’t one woman this time, it’s two—huh?”

  Fargo turned. “Tess, Maggie; it’s all right. Come on in.”

  Tess swung down off the sorrel before Fargo could give her a hand, but Maggie was awkward, no rider. Fargo clasped his hands around her slim waist, just under the breasts, and swung her down. Then he frowned. There was something about the way the young girl had leaned against him for a moment, about the way she had touched his hand ... He released her, ushered her into the house; and, in the lamplight, looked more closely at her.

  Somehow, in the half-buttoned shirt, her golden hair in a tangle about her face, she no longer looked young and innocent. Young, yes; and lovely enough to make a man catch his breath, but—

  then she brushed her hair back, cast down her blue-gray eyes shyly, and the fleeting impression of wantoness vanished. Once again she looked demure, yet frightened.

  Lily Erickson was staring at Tess, at Maggie. Uncle John, his eyes on the younger girl, let out a shameless, bawdy whistle. Nor did Fargo miss the way Curt Russell’s gaze was drawn to the thrust of Maggie’s breasts under the blouse, the curve of her hips beneath the skirt that should not have been quite so tight.

  He introduced the women. “I had some trouble in Golconda,” he explained, and went on to tell them what had happened. “Thought maybe the two of ’em could stay here for a day or two, until we can make some other arrangements.”

  Tess looked abashed. “Maybe Mrs. Erickson don’t want a woman like me under her roof.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Lily said instantly. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Only—there’s not much room,”

  “I’ve got a tent in my truck,” Uncle John said. “Figured on sleepin’ in that. Curt or Fargo can share it with me.”

  “Curt can have it; I’ll roll my bed outside,”

  “Then let’s go pitch it,” Morris said. “I want to hear some more about this set-up.”

  They went outside, unloaded the rolled canvas stiff with mud and gummy with old oil, and made short work of pitching it behind the house. Driving in stakes, Russell asked: “Well, where does this dust-up you had in Golconda leave us?”

  “Right where we were before,” Fargo said. “I was going to have trouble there sooner or later. That’s why I told my man to send my money to Tulsa.”

  Russell froze, hatchet in hand. “Money? You did get it?” His voice trembled.

  “Twenty thousand. Be in soon as the mail can bring it.”

  “And Uncle John’s already here.” Russell got slowly to his feet. In the moonlight Fargo could see excitement spreading over his face. “Then, by God,” he whispered, “we’re in business.”

  “Maybe,” said Fargo. “We ain’t heard from Uncle John yet.”

  The old man looked at them. Then he turned his head, surveying the moonlit country all around them. He was like a bird dog scenting quail, Fargo thought. Head raised, hands in hip pockets, he looked this way and that. “Curt,” he said presently, “where was it you figured we ought to put down the first hole?”

  “I’ve checked every foot of this ground. I haven’t run across any spot any better than yonder.”
He pointed to a gentle rise not fifty feet away.

  “Come on,” said Uncle John, and without waiting for an answer, he strode forward on stubby legs. The others watched as he squatted in the sparse grass, took out a sheath knife, scraped at the dust. He stared down at the soil as if it bore print that he was reading. Then he picked up a pinch of dust and put it in his mouth like snuff. He chewed for a moment, thoughtfully, and spat. Slowly and with some difficulty, he arose to a standing position.

  “Well?” Curt blurted.

  The old man turned to face them. His grin was broad, showing stained, snaggly teeth. His eyes seemed to shine in the darkness. “She’s there,” he whispered. “By God, she’s there. I can taste it in the ground, stronger’n cat pee! Fargo, Russell, there’s enough oil down there to make us all greasy rich! This is the strike I been waitin’ for! All my whole life I been waitin’ for a strike like this!”

  Curt Russell let out a long, shuddering breath. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed.

  Rubbing his beard, Uncle John began to pace. “The rig oughta be in Tulsa in a couple of days. Soon as Fargo’s money comes, we’ll freight it out here. We’ll have to hire a few drillers—we’ll want to keep tours goin’ around the clock. Got to pour foundations, get everything set. ...” He halted, turned. “Way I figure it, we can start drilling in maybe two weeks.”

  ~*~

  They sat up far into the night, drinking coffee, making plans. “Twenty thousand sounds like a lot of money,” Uncle John said, after the situation in Golconda had been explained to him, “but, really, it’s gonna be shavin’ it close. From what you tell me, we can’t depend on gettin’ anything from Golconda; we’ll have to freight it all in from Tulsa. That means not only my rig, but all sorts of supplies—grub, gasoline for the engines, everything. God help us, I hope the well comes in clean, that we don’t have to shoot it with nitroglycerin. I would hate to have to haul nitro all the way from Tulsa. Anyhow, it’s gonna be expensive. We’ll all have to bear a hand on the rig “