The Phantom Gunman (A Neal Fargo Adventure. Book 11)

by John Benteen

  Nevertheless, after he had made a clean sweep of Carrizozo, he was ready to sit awhile and have a drink. He had already spotted the tough little district near the railroad tracks, catering to cowhands and miners; and such a place was always a good one in which to pick up gossip, rumors, and even, sometimes, hard information. Now, toward the close of day, he entered the biggest saloon in the quarter, the Oxbow Inn.

  Its large main room was loud with the chatter of voices, the jangle of a tinny piano; his nostrils caught the smells of smoke and sawdust, stale beer and cheap perfume. He found a vacant table, was pleased that it allowed him to sit with his back to the wall. He ordered a beer and watched the crowd.

  It was month’s end, payday, and the place was filling up rapidly with punchers from the outlying spreads and miners down from the gold diggings in White Oaks in the Baxter Mountains. There were girls, too—apparently whiskey was not the only thing sold in the Oxbow Inn—and they were circulating busily through the crowd. Most of them were pretty haggard, the ones who could no longer make it in El Paso or Santa Fe, but a few were evidently local talent, young and fresh and fairly pretty. When one of the latter spotted him, Fargo caught her eye and nodded. Girls liked to talk, and in a place like this they would pick up all sorts of information. And sell it.

  Then she had reached his table. She was blond, with green eyes, a pretty face only beginning to be a little hard around the mouth. Not much over twenty, Fargo judged, though in a year or two she would look five years older. Full, white breasts almost overflowed the low neckline of her tight dress; its skirt was cut to reveal a black-stockinged leg. A soft, red-painted mouth smiled. “Hi, big man. Buy me a drink?”

  “Why not?” Fargo motioned for her to sit, signaled for a waiter. She ranged curious eyes, not without admiration, over the tanned, rugged ugliness of his face. “You’re new in town, huh? What’s your name? Mine’s Cathy.”

  “Fargo,” he said. The drinks came. “Looks like business is good tonight.”

  She laughed. “It is. Be better when the Tres Rios bunch hits town.”

  “Tres Rios?”

  “Old lady Barber’s outfit from down at Three Rivers. That’s the wildest bunch in Lincoln County. But she’s pretty tough herself.”

  “Barber. I never heard of her.”

  “The hell you say. I thought everybody had heard of Sue McSween Barber.”

  Fargo sat up straight. “McSween?”

  “Yeah.” Cathy lifted her glass. “Cheers.” She sipped the cold tea it undoubtedly contained, while Fargo drank his whiskey. “You’ve heard of McSween, huh? He was one of the kingpins in the troubles here, back before I was born.”

  Fargo nodded. Alex McSween—Tunstall’s partner, the man for whom Billy the Kid had ramrodded gunmen, until McSween had been killed trying to escape from the house Dolan’s men had fired. “She was his wife?”

  “Uh-huh. After he was killed, she stayed on, still fighting. But the war finally ended and she pulled out of Lincoln, came to Three Rivers and bought a ranch there. Married a man named Barber, then divorced him. Anyhow, the Tres Rios spread’s the biggest in this end of the county now. It’s even got a silver mine on it. She taught herself how to prospect and found it herself.”

  “She sounds like a lot of woman.”

  “She is.” Cathy’s eyes turned misty for a moment. “She can ride and rope like any cowhand, but she’s a real lady, too, just as much at home at a tea party. If things had broken different for me, I’da liked to be that way … Well, what the hell. Buy me another drink?”

  “Sure.” Fargo gestured, but then he froze, staring at the man who suddenly loomed above them. “Savitts,” he whispered, in sudden recognition.

  “That’s right. Run on, girlie. I wanta talk to this big ugly character.”

  “Now, wait a minute—” Cathy began indignantly.

  Fargo thumbed a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket, shoved it at her. “Go have a drink on me. I’ll see you later.”

  Her face changed, as she dropped the money between her breasts. “I hope you do,” she said. “I like you.” She shot Savitts a searing glance, got up and disappeared.

  Cole Savitts was an inch or two shorter than Fargo, even wider in the shoulders, thicker in the chest. His face was square, but puffy. Ringlets of blond hair curled from beneath his Stetson; his eyes were a muddy brown, his nose broken and poorly mended, his mouth oddly red, full-lipped. He never seemed to look straight at anyone, always focusing his eyes a few inches to the side, as if he could not bear the direct gaze of other men. When he sat down in the chair the girl had vacated, he hitched at a Colt on his hip.

  “You’re a long way from home, Neal,” he said.

  “Not necessarily. I was born in New Mexico.” Fargo tried to make Savitts meet his eyes, failed. “You’re the one off your home range. Thought Oklahoma and Wyoming were your favorite huntin’ grounds.”

  “Used to be; no more. The pickin’s are too thin. Everybody with a reward on his head’s been killed off or left the country. No new ones comin’ up. They don’t rob trains and banks the way they used to. Times are hard for a bounty hunter nowadays.” He yelled across the room for whiskey, turned to Fargo again. “I just wonder what you’re doin’ in Lincoln County.”

  “Was wondering the same thing about you. No outlaws here that I know of. Leastways, none with bounties on ’em. You’re thirty years too late. You should have come before Garrett shot the Kid.”

  Savitts laughed. “Wasn’t but three years old, then. Hadn’t practiced my draw enough.”

  Fargo’s mouth twisted. “Since when did you ever draw on a man?”

  Savitts shrugged. “Sure. It’s better business to shoot ’em in the back. And I’m in business, Fargo. Money is what I’m after, not playin’ games.” Then at last, with effort, he managed to look straight at Fargo. “Come on, now, Neal. Tell me why you’re here. I want to know. It’s important for me to know.”

  Fargo shrugged and, for answer, sipped his beer.

  Savitts leaned forward, and Fargo realized that he was already full of whiskey. “Dammit, Neal, don’t fob me off. You’d better tell me what you’re doin’ in Lincoln County.”

  “I don’t tell anybody anything unless I take a notion to.”

  “Then you’d better take one.” Savitts’ voice was thick. “I paid out a lot of money for some information and I’ve made a long trip to git here, and the first man I see when I arrive is you.” He slapped the table. “Neal, don’t you try to cut in on me! I’m warnin’ you! I got a fortune in the palm of my hand, and I’m not lettin’ anybody screw me out of it. Nobody’s gonna git to Bonney before I do!”

  Fargo said quietly, “Savitts, it might be a good idea to keep your voice down.”

  “The hell with that! And don’t sit there lookin’ like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. You’ve found out the same thing I have, that Garrett didn’t kill the Kid, that he’s back in Lincoln County, alive somewhere here, and—”

  Fargo cut in. “Savitts, you’re crazy. The Kid’s been dead thirty years.” Inwardly, he cursed his luck at running into this drunken loudmouth. Already people were beginning to turn their heads, stare. “Even if he wasn’t, what good would that do? The old rewards probably don’t still stand.”

  “Some do, I’ve checked that,” Savitts laughed ropily. “Besides, the rewards ain’t the main thing.” He hit the table harder this time. “The main thing is, if he’s still alive, I’ll be the man who kills him! That’s what’s worth a fortune!”

  He gestured wildly. “Good God, man, don’t you see? Think of what the newspapers and magazines would pay for the story of the man who finally killed the Kid! Think of the offers to go on the stage, in vaudeville! Jest like Bill Cody and even Hickok did years ago! Why, I could hire somebody to write a play about the death of Billy the Kid, put it on Broadway in New York and play myself; people would flock in to see it and it’d make a fortune! To hell with rewards, the man that can prove Pat Garrett was a liar and that he
himself has killed the Kid will be so rich he’ll never haf ta work again!”

  “I still say the Kid’s dead,” Fargo whispered. “But even if he wasn’t, on the best day you ever had, you couldn’t take him on the worst he ever had. Unless, of course, you shot him in the back.”

  “What difference does it make how I git him? Long as I git him? It could be changed when we put it on the stage. Hell, look at what they did with Buffalo Bill and Yellow Hand. I read up on it. Yellow Hand shot at Bill Cody with a single shot rifle and missed and Cody blew him out of the saddle with a Winchester or a Henry. And then took his hair and yelled out, ‘First scalp for Custer!’ Christ, I know lotsa people that killed Injuns in tougher fights than that, but Cody had a play written around it with a big hand-to-hand fight with knives and made hisself out a hero. I could do the same thing.”

  Fargo poured another drink. “The difference was that Cody could have done what he claimed he did, even if it didn’t happen that way.”

  “The hell with that. A man’s gotta make a livin’.” His voice rose. “And you’re tryin’ to screw me outa the biggest score I ever made.” He was almost yelling now, in his self-induced anger. “You’re here to git Billy Bonney ahead of me, and I won’t stand for it!”

  His voice rang out in the room, and almost immediately the place hushed and Fargo felt the pressure of many pairs of eyes on him.

  “Shut your goddamned mouth,” he said softly, and with fury.

  “No!” Savitts yelled. “You can’t fool me! You’ve come here to kill Billy the Kid and I—”

  Fargo, then, leaned forward in the chair and hit him with a straight right jab, hard, in the mouth.

  The force of the blow knocked Savitts and his chair over, and the bounty hunter sprawled on the sawdust covered floor. He blinked his eyes rapidly, his red mouth worked. Then, he was on his feet.

  Fargo was up before him, his blood running high. He had run into Savitts a half dozen different times in a half dozen different places, and the man had the same effect on him as a snail crawling across his skin might have. Now blind reckless fury surged up in him; this idiot had ruined everything; from this day on, Neal Fargo would be a marked man in Lincoln County. Well, there was no help for that, but Savitts would pay for the damage, if he’d fight.

  Then he saw, with exultance, that Savitts would fight, all right. The bounty hunter scrambled to his feet, blood running from his smashed mouth. He was no great shakes with a gun, but, Fargo knew, he understood the use of his fists. He was immensely powerful; and the stories ran that he’d killed at least two men in knuckle-and-skull barroom fights. Fargo saw now that the stories were true; when Savitts realized that Fargo had not drawn on him, a look of satisfaction overspread his bleeding face.

  “All right,” he rasped. “Guns out of it?”

  “Guns out of it,” Fargo said; and in that instant Savitts dived at him.

  His big arms locked around Fargo’s waist, the force of his charge knocked Fargo backwards. As he fell, Fargo brought up a knee, caught Savitts in the gut. Foul breath whooshed into his face; then he hit the floor with jarring force, Savitts on top.

  Even as he landed, Fargo rolled. Savitts kept his grip; the two of them struggled across the floor, Savitts with his arms locked like great steel bands around Fargo’s waist, squeezing with tremendous force, his face buried in Fargo’s belly so Fargo could not get to it, his groin out of reach of Fargo’s knee. Fargo clubbed him on the back, the shoulders, aimed a ferocious blow with his left hand at Savitts’ temple, exposed and vulnerable. Savitts moved his head; Fargo hit the hard bone of his skull instead, and agony lanced through his hand. He knew sudden fear that it might be broken. It was out of this fight, anyhow; he could not take a chance on losing its use with what lay ahead of him.

  Savitts rolled him over and over, using greater weight to try to pin him. Fargo clamped saddle-toughened thighs around the man like pincers, squeezed, felt Savitts’ belly compress, scrabbled with his right at Savitts’ face, tried to get an arm around the man’s neck to choke. Savitts bit at his hand; Fargo jerked it away, fearing to risk it.

  They slammed into the legs of a table. Their writhing bodies tipped it, brought it crashing down, dousing them in beer from half-empty glasses. Savitts was on top; the table landed squarely on him. Startled, shaken by its weight, his grip loosened. Fargo got his right arm between their bodies, shoved, loosened his legs. Then he was undamped from Savitts, rolled away, sprang to his feet, panting. The bounty hunter’s terrible grip had exhausted his breath; he had to suck in great gulps of air.

  Savitts was up nearly as quickly, scrambling out from beneath the table, shaking his big, blond head. Greasy ringlets fell over his forehead; his red mouth twisted in a grin. He seized the upended legs of the table, raised and swung it with both hands, threw it at Fargo.

  Fargo dodged; the table hit him a glancing blow on the shoulder, sent him reeling. The table crashed against a wall; then, while Fargo was off balance, Savitts came at him, fists clubbed.

  Instinct and footwork perfected in the ring saved Fargo from a whistling right that would have finished the fight then and there. It rushed past his ear; he dodged, jabbed with his own right, caught Savitts in the gut. If he could only have followed with his left, the advantage would have been his; Savitts would never have had a chance. But he dared not damage the left further; it ached now like an abscessed tooth. He had to use the right again; that gave Savitts a chance to throw another blow. It landed fair and knocked Fargo around and flung him against the bar. Savitts rushed at him, and Fargo dropped and dodged, and Savitts hit the mahogany counter hard. Bottles fell and splintered.

  In the instant that he was up against the bar, back exposed, Fargo hit him twice with the right, in the kidneys. Savitts grunted with pain, twisted, came around with a terrible left. Fargo was a blur, dodging out of its reach. Even so, it caromed off his arm, shook him. Savitts put down his head exactly like a maddened ram, then charged, and that rocklike skull caught Fargo in the belly.

  Fargo reeled back, the remains of his breath going. Savitts’ head flashed up, slammed Fargo under the chin. Lights exploded behind Fargo’s eyes; he felt a trickle of blood from a bitten lip. Savitts hit him again, while he was dazed, and then he was up against the wall and Savitts had him pinned and his huge fist was hurtling straight at Fargo’s face.

  Fargo’s head twisted; that fist brushed by his cheek, slammed into the wall. Savitts snorted with pain; dazed, still, acting instinctively, Fargo brought up a knee.

  It did not land squarely; it hit Savitts’ thigh, slid off. But its impact in the big man’s groin was enough, combined with the pain of his hand against the wall, to break the bounty hunter’s attack. That gave Fargo, head clearing, a chance. He got his right into Savitts’ gut, drove Savitts back, had the advantage now, managed to strike his first real blow to Savitts’ face. He felt the bounty hunter’s nose crunch under his knuckles; blood sprayed across Fargo’s wrist. Savitts reeled back and now Fargo had him. The right flickered out again and again, and now Savitts’ face was a bloody mask. He raised his hands to ward off Fargo’s attack, but Fargo penetrated his guard, feinting with the useless left, smashed Savitts’ mouth, bore in mercilessly, remorselessly, and now Savitts retreated.

  Fargo drove him to the bar. Savitts’ legs were unsteady, his face pouring red, his eyes closing. He brought up, back against the counter, flung out one arm. It closed on a whiskey bottle sitting on the bar top. Fargo reached for that wrist, but too late. Savitts lurched away, shaking his head, blood flying, and the sound of shattering glass was loud as he smashed the bottle’s butt against the wood. Then, with jagged end outthrust, he lunged.

  The deadly shards of glass were aimed straight for Fargo’s face and throat. He had less than a clock tick to respond. If he stepped back, Savitts had him; if he threw up an arm, Savitts might slice an artery. All he could do was send his own right hand flying at Savitts in a straight, hard blow as Savitts rammed the jagged bottle end at him, and hope
that his fist would land first.

  It did; he felt the shock all the way up his arm, as his knuckles caught Savitts between the eyes. The impact knocked the bounty hunter back in the last hair’s breadth of time before the broken bottle ground into Fargo’s face. A sixteenth of an inch more and Fargo would have been slashed, likely blinded. The splintered glass brushed by his face as Savitts’ hand dropped. Dazed, Savitts hit the bar again, hung there. He still had the bottle, tried to raise it. Fargo’s booted foot came up, quickly, accurately, caught the bottle end. It splintered in the man’s grip, and suddenly Savitts’ hand poured blood; he was the victim of that terrible, impromptu weapon now. He yelled, opened his palm, threw the jagged bits of bottle neck that had slashed his hand straight at Fargo’s face, but Fargo dodged and came in again, and he hit Savitts between the eyes, on the mouth, and then on the point of the jaw. His right fist against Savitts’ face made a curious, sodden thudding sound that was ugly in the silent room.

  Then it was over. Savitts’ eyes lost the light of consciousness; glazed, they rolled back in his head. His mouth fell open slackly. Face and hands scarlet, he dropped limply as his knees crumpled beneath him, and sagged to the floor against the bar.

  Fargo stepped back, panting, shaking with reaction, his face aching from Savitts’ blows, his left hand throbbing. He flexed it, was relieved to find it working. His right, almost equally battered now, poised itself to draw, if need be, the shoulder-holstered Colt, still miraculously in place. His gaze raked the crowd that formed a circle around him.

  Fifty pairs of eyes were riveted on him. And, he saw, every pair was hostile. Selman had been right: Billy Bonney had a lot of friends in Lincoln County, and they had heard everything Savitts’ drunken mouth had spewed.

  Fargo said harshly, “Anybody else?”

  No one spoke or moved.