by John Benteen
It poured down on the town like thick black rain. Five wells, valves blown away, sent up spouting gushers that rushed high in the air, cascading thousands of gallons of raw oil down on Golconda. Suddenly Fargo was coated with it, nearly drowning in it, as the street rushed with oil like a flooded creek. He could not see, could hardly breathe, dared not fire.
The downpour of oil blotted out everything. People screamed, ran into the street, and were drenched in the cascade. Fargo scrambled to his feet, slipping, black as tar, his clothes and hair plastered and face streaming. He was nearly knocked down and trampled. He lurched to one side, made the shelter of an alley between two buildings. The night had been moonlit, but the vast curtain of black rain cut off all light; Golconda was in total, oil-soaked darkness.
Then, in that impenetrable blackness, he heard a voice, strange, husky, audible even above the shouting and screaming of the fleeing crowd. “Fargo! Damn you, Fargo! Where are you?”
Fargo pressed back against the streaming flank of a building. The voice came again from the mouth of the alley not more than a dozen feet away. He could not see its owner, not in the waterfall of oil under which they stood.
“Fargo, damn you! Come here! It’s Brasher! The voice trembled. “You blew my wells. Damn you, you blew my wells! But they’ll be capped. I’ll put my field back in operation. But I’m gonna let ’em blow for a while. I’m gonna let ’em blow until I can find you and kill you with my bare hands.”
Fargo said nothing.
“You’re in there somewhere. You gotta be. I saw you dodge, just before the lights went out. You don’t dare shoot, Fargo. You shoot, you’ll set fire to the oil. We’ll all burn up in a flash. I’m not gonna shoot either, Fargo. I’m just gonna find you and take you apart bit by bit, with my hands. I can do it. You saw what I did to Russell.”
Oil ran around Fargo’s boots in a tide. He heard above the sullen rumble, the screaming, the slosh of somebody else wading in it. He could not tell how close or how far Brasher was. But the man was right about one thing. Neither of them dared shoot. Not in this sea of oil. A single gun-flame—Fargo holstered the Colt.
All right. If this was what Brasher wanted, it had to come. His hand went to his hip pocket. But when he had fallen, rolled, the Batangas knife had dropped out; its sheath was empty. Maybe, Fargo thought, that was just as well. Hatred for Brasher was ranker in his mouth than the taste of oil. He unslung the shotgun, laid it across a barrel in the alley. In hand-to-hand combat it could only be this way.
Then, grinning coldly, he called: “I’m here, Brasher.”
“Ah,” said the voice from somewhere in that black waterfall. “Good. Let the goddamn oil come. Let it gush. There’s plenty more. Millions of barrels. Let it drown the whole damn town. What I want right now is you.”
“Come and get me,” Fargo said.
“I’m coming.”
Fargo crouched, moved forward through the downpour so thick and heavy that it was almost solid. Raw oil swirled halfway up his calves. He groped in darkness; then his hand struck something. Flesh! Brasher!
The big man touched him at the same instant. “Fargo!” he rasped, and suddenly his weight slammed Fargo back against the wall of the building, pinned him. Oil slick hands groped for Fargo’s throat.
Fargo struck out with clubbed fists, hard, connected; but it was like striking oak. He found Brasher’s head, hit it again and again, but Brasher’s fingers were deep in his throat, closing. Fargo twisted; oil made those fingers slip; for an instant Brasher lost his grip. Fargo got up a knee, pushed with it, but Brasher grappled him, hooked a hand in his belt. Suddenly both of them were down, in the deep river of flowing oil that the alley had now become.
This was a new kind of fight. In total darkness, each adversary slippery as a greased pig, coated, soaked, with oil. They clutched, could get no hold, grappled and their grips slid free, struck at each other, missed. They wallowed, threshed, in the oil that poured around them, then struggled to their feet, sought each other in darkness once more.
“My wells ... you blew ’em,” Brasher panted.
“Five for one,” Fargo had swallowed oil; he felt sick. He spat, backed off. “I promised you—” Then he thought he saw a swirl of movement in the darkness: he charged.
He collided hard with Brasher’s big, rocky body. Brasher grunted, staggered back. Fargo got his arms around Brasher’s waist, and the impact of his rush bore them both out of the alley, into the street. It was deserted, now, a vast pool of oil that came almost to their knees. But the wind had changed, or maybe the pressure of one of the gushers. Instead of a solid curtain of darkness, there was a heavy spray. They could now see each other, see how to fight. Even as Brasher went to one knee in the oil, he clubbed Fargo on the head, the first solid blow he’d landed. Dazed, Fargo slackened his grip; Brasher wrenched free of his slippery arms and was on his feet.
They faced each other, panting, sick with swallowed oil, in that black rain. Then they charged again, and collided like angry bulls.
Brasher’s arms encircled Fargo in a bear hug. He squeezed, and Fargo felt his own ribs yielding, his own guts compressed, about to pop. “Now,” Brasher rasped happily. “Now, damn you, Fargo!”
Fargo grunted, brought up his head in a sharp, short, powerful motion. His skull caught Brasher under the chin. Those arms relaxed for an instant; Fargo wrenched loose and Brasher staggered back. In that instant, Fargo hit Brasher in the belly.
Brasher’s breath whooshed out; he bent and Fargo hit him in the face. Brasher fell sideways, but, falling, he hooked his hand in Fargo’s shirt. The fabric tore, and Fargo was pulled downward with Brasher as the big man dropped,
Then they were both in the oil, locked together, rolling over and over. “You wanted oil,” Brasher snarled, “I’ll give you oil!” Suddenly astride Fargo, Brasher got his hand on Fargo’s face, shoving his head down.
Just in time, Fargo held his breath, clamped shut his mouth. Oil swallowed him, he was submerged in it. He bucked, rolled, twisted, but Brasher had him now, had him pinned with all his weight, had the leverage on Fargo’s face. Fargo’s lungs were bursting, he felt his strength ebbing—
He summoned what was left in one desperate effort. He got one arm free from beneath Brasher’s pinning thighs. He waved it high and out, hacked blindly with the blade of his hand, putting every ounce of force left in him in that blow.
It caught Brasher on the side of the neck, and its impact was like the slash of an ax. Brasher grunted, slid sideways. Fargo twisted like a snake.
Then he was free, on his feet. He saw Brasher rising out of the oil like some prehistoric monster from a swamp. Fargo dived at him, hit him hard, knocked him backward. Brasher’s body vanished under the oil, with Fargo on it. And when Brasher had gone down, his mouth had been open to yell.
Beneath Fargo, Brasher twisted convulsively. Fargo fell forward, got his bent forearm across Brasher’s neck, pinned the man’s head there beneath the surface of the oil. Gritting his teeth, Fargo bore down with every bit of weight, every bit of strength.
Probably Brasher yelled something. It could not be heard beneath the black torrent that obscured his head. He clawed at Fargo’s arm.
Fargo shoved down remorselessly.
Brasher’s body thrashed. But now the strength was ebbing from it. Brasher’s fingers still clawed at Fargo—but now they were growing weak.
And still Fargo, panting, held the man down.
And then, beneath Fargo, that great body went slack. Brasher’s hand fell away.
Fargo did not move. He just sat there on Brasher.
He sat there for a long time, until he was sure Brasher was dead.
Then, gasping, vomiting black mixed with green, Fargo staggered to his feet. He lurched weakly through the black downpour into the alley. He picked up his shotgun, slung it across his shoulder. Then, with the oil flowing around his knees, he stumbled out into the deserted street again and began to slog toward the end of the street, toward the open count
ry. By the time he reached it he was out of the black rain. Still gagging and retching, he drew in breath after breath of petroleum-tainted air; but to him it was the sweetest draught he had ever taken. No one paid much attention to the oil-soaked figure that fought its way through the crowd, broke into a clearing, and staggered on into the night. It collapsed in the shelter of a small gully and lay still. Uncle John Morris found Fargo the following morning.
Chapter Ten
Russell-Erickson Number One, the discovery well, came in as a gusher at two o’clock in the afternoon ten weeks later. Even Uncle John was surprised; he had expected to go down another hundred feet.
But the derrick trembled, the tools clanged, the turntable drive froze. And Uncle John, on the derrick floor, stared, then let out a yell. “Clear out! She’s blowing in!”
Men swarmed off. The earth vibrated. It made a bellowing sound, deep in its violated guts. Then the oil came.
Its force threw the tool string out of the well, up through the derrick, like toys tossed by a careless child. The kelly and all the other gear went too, sailing through the air as if caught in a tornado. A vast black spout fingered up through the well, reached high in the air with an incredible roar, sprayed a dark, sticky rain.
Dikes had already been built around the well to trap the precious fluid. It fell back within that pond, collected in a sump. Covered with blackness, Uncle John threw off his hat, did a crazy, capering dance. Curt Russell whooped, hugged Lily, kissed her hard and shamelessly. And Tess Kendall, hair matted with oil, seized Fargo and pulled his head down.
“Oh, God, Fargo,” she breathed, “we did it, we did it, we did it! We’re rich, we’re all rich!”
“Yeah,” said Fargo coldly. He pulled her arms loose, turned, walked well clear of that black spray.
Tess hurried after him, eyes wide. “Neal! What’s wrong? Don’t you understand? We’re rich!”
Fargo nodded. “I guess.” He felt it all again, though. Brasher’s body pinning his face down under the oil; his own weight pinning Brasher; the terrible sickness that came from having swallowed so much oil in the fight. “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon. Only, I think I’ve about had all the oil I want.”
The woman stared. “I don’t understand. You did it all, Fargo. Killed Brasher—”
“Hush,” Fargo said quickly. “That’s supposed to have been an accident.”
“All right, let everybody think he drowned in his own oil accidentally. We know what you did. Then you straightened out the whole mess afterwards—”
“Yes,” Fargo said. He stared toward Golconda. A new town had been built well away from the old one, which had been put to the torch. It had taken some straightening out, all right. Five oil wells had been blown and a whole town had drowned. Maybe that had been a mistake; innocent people had suffered. The blame for all this, of course, had been put on nameless marauders, responsible for blowing up not only Brasher’s wells, but Russell’s rig as well. Nobody but Uncle John and Lin Gordon’s men knew how the wells were sabotaged. If they didn’t blow when they did, Fargo’s life would have been forfeited. Nevertheless, Fargo was not proud of that part of it. It had been ill conceived; had the town burned then, women and children might have died. But a miracle somehow prevented that.
Well, the town was rebuilt. Brasher’s wells were capped and under control, now the property of one of the big oil companies. With Brasher’s opposition removed, this new company financed a new rig for Uncle John. They would be paid from the proceeds of this gusher, too. A lot of people would have to be paid. But Tess was right; they were rich, all of them. There would be more wells, thousands more barrels of oil. Fargo had made his big score at last. He would never have to work again—nor risk his life.
“Neal, I don’t understand.” Tess’s hand was on his arm. “You look so sad. Don’t you want the money?”
Fargo was silent. Then he tipped back the old campaign hat, staring at that black spout of oil. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, sure. I want it. I want enough to pay back my man back East. Enough to have a good blast in San Francisco or Chicago. Maybe some of the rest of it from time to time, when I get short.”
Tess stared at him for another moment. Then, slowly, a smile of comprehension broke on her oil-streaked face. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, now I get it.”
“Do you?”
“Sure. What would a wolf do with money. Or a mountain lion? For that matter, what will I do with it? Marry some fortune hunter? Go out of my mind trying to settle down and live a peaceful life? Get fat and dull-witted and wear a lot of jewelry? That was what Maggie wanted, wasn’t it? She may even get it when she runs into some sucker she can love, wherever she’s gone to. But I’m not Maggie, am I?”
“No,” said Fargo. “You’re Tess.”
“And you’re Fargo. And we’re both wolves, aren’t we? And that’s all we know how to be, money or no money.”
Suddenly Tess laughed. It was a deep, happy, yet ironic sound. “You know what, Fargo? Let’s have that blast in Chicago. Let’s squirrel some of this cash in the bank and forget it’s there. And then let’s go back to living exactly the way we’ve always lived. That way, we’ll never get fat or old or dull.” She laughed again. “A real blast, huh, Neal?”
And suddenly Fargo was all right once more. He looked down at her and an evil grin split his leathery face. “Yeah,” he said, pulling her to him. “A real blast. Anyway, there’s one thing about havin’ an interest in an oil well, Tess.”
Holding him close, she looked up at him and whispered, “What’s that?”
“Well,” said Fargo, “when you get down to bedrock, it’s always something you can put up for stakes in a poker game. Who knows? A couple of months in Chicago and we may come to that.” Then he kissed her and went to help Uncle John and the roughnecks cap the gusher.
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