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

by John Benteen

  Despite his apprehension and his wariness, nothing happened. There was no shot from ambush, no encounter with hostile riders on the road. Near sundown, he reined in the horse on a hillcrest and looked down the slope at the town of Lincoln spread out below him.

  He had, in his time, seen perhaps a thousand such small range-country towns, but probably never one in which so much blood had been spilled. He let his eyes run over it, wanting its layout fixed firmly in his mind before he entered it. A knowledge of it and the terrain around it might make the difference between life and death.

  The road itself, which wound on to the towns of Hondo and Roswell beyond, comprised its only street. On its south side, at the edge of town, the courthouse, which had once been the Murphy-Dolan store, bulked large. That was where Billy the Kid had killed Bell and Ollinger, the two deputies, and made his spectacular escape from hanging.

  Diagonally across from it were the Lincoln Saloon and the Wortley Hotel and corrals. Beyond those, Fargo traced the outlines of what had once been a big L-shaped house. The foundations were all that were left, now, and he knew that they marked the site of the McSween place, held under siege by the Dolan forces for five days, then burned. Beyond it was a rambling building that had once been the McSween-Tunstall store, apparently still in business. Past that, an ancient tower of rocks, part of an old Spanish fort built almost a century ago as defense against Apaches. Dolan’s crew had fired through its loopholes on the McSween house. Not far away, the Army had camped and passively watched the battle. Farther down the road, there was a graveyard. It looked full.

  Just behind the town on the north, the Rio Bonito gleamed in dying light as it wound between steep cut banks. Hills towered behind it dotted with grazing cattle. Lincoln lay cradled in its valley; more hills jutted on the south behind the single row of houses on that side of the road. Between all these landmarks were scattered a few dozen adobe or frame houses, a church, a little school.

  Satisfied that he knew the place, Fargo touched the roan with cavalry spurs and rode down.

  ~*~

  At this time of evening, there were not many people on the street, but those who were narrowed their eyes at the sight of the tall man in the old cavalry hat astride the big roan, a Winchester across his saddle, a sawed-off shotgun in a scabbard under his left knee, a Colt on his hip. Even though some of those who stared at him wore guns themselves, he was evidently not a usual sight on the street of the town.

  He hitched the roan at the Wortley corral, entered the hotel, and registered. There was a dining room on his left, and the smells wafting from it were delicious; suddenly he realized he’d not eaten in ten hours.

  He saw personally to the roan, graining and watering it and watching it roll in the corral. Then he carried his weapons and gear to the room, which was spacious, with a brass-steaded bed and a fireplace to ward off the chill of high-country nights.

  He transferred the Colt to the shoulder holster, had a drink from the bottle he’d brought with him, and, locking the door carefully, went to the dining room.

  A few cowhands, a couple of townsmen, looked at him with covert curiosity as he took a table near the wall. He scanned the handwritten menu, decided on his usual supper of steak and eggs and hash-browns. Then he heard the tap of heels on the board floor and saw her coming toward him. One look at her, and he sat up straight.

  She was a tall girl, with hair thick and raven dark, brushed and gleaming. Her skin was olive, indication of Mexican or Indian blood mingled with the white; her eyes were huge, lustrous, and as dark as her hair. Beneath a tight bodice, breasts that were neither large nor small, but round and firm, jutted forward. Her waist was slender, her hips curved. There was both beauty and intelligence in her face; and when she saw Fargo, something kindled in her eyes. He had seen it in other women’s eyes, recognized it.

  So the two of them had an impact on each other; something arced between them as she stood over him, pad and pencil in hand. Her voice was soft and husky. “Good evening,” she said, her eyes meeting his gray ones, then moving away. “May I help you?”

  “For right now, I’d like some supper,” Fargo murmured. He gave his order.

  She jotted it; then, although she should have moved away, hesitated. Again her eyes met his; now what was in them was unreadable. He saw the color in her cheeks darken. Suddenly she turned away.

  Fargo watched her go toward the kitchen. He leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette. Lincoln, he thought, was going to be an interesting place in a lot of ways.

  Then, as someone else came into the dining room, he forgot her, instinctively appraising the new arrival.

  The man stood in the doorway of the dining room, looking around. He wore a black slouch hat, neat town clothes, a gray suit and a tie with a small diamond stickpin. He was in his late thirties, floridly handsome, perhaps six feet tall, with a pleasant, faintly smiling face. His body was muscular and thick and he had the beginnings of a paunch. His pale, greenish eyes shuttled to Fargo, then lit. He came forward, headed for Fargo’s table.

  Fargo sat tensely. The man smiled down at him, showing teeth that were good, but stained with tobacco. “Do you mind if I share this table?”

  “There’re plenty of others.”

  “I know. But you aren’t sitting at them. My name’s Trent, Harry Trent. You’d be Neal Fargo.”

  Fargo thought he saw the bulge of a snub-nosed pistol in the coat pocket. So this was Selman’s other man in Lincoln County. Selman, he thought, picked them tough and smart. “Sit,” he said.

  Trent put his hat on a rack, dropped into a chair. “You are Fargo.”

  “Yes.”

  Trent’s voice was low. “I had word that you were coming. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Seems like a lot of people have.”

  Trent laughed. “Yeah, I heard about your fight in Carrizozo. And Sue McSween Barber braced you, too, didn’t she?”

  “News travels fast.”

  “On the wind, in Lincoln County. Well, we work for the same man. As soon as you do your job, I can do mine.”

  “Which is?”

  “Get my people together and hit the McSween crowd. Start the war again. And this time finish it off, once and for all. Wipe the McSween faction out completely, ruin ’em, chase ’em out—or kill ’em.” His eyes gleamed. “Then Lincoln County lies ready for picking: range, mines, commerce, everything …”

  “Why wait on me?” Fargo asked. Mentally, he cursed Selman. The man had withheld too much information. This was a lousy setup, one that, if he were wholly sucked in to it, must inevitably bring him foul of the law. Selman had realized he’d shy away if everything were revealed, had paid him the ten thousand, made him give his word, and had planned all along to involve him in a range war on Selman’s side. Well, he had two choices: head back to El Paso and return Selman’s money, or do the job he had come to do in his own way and stand clear of the rest of this mess. He had no intention of returning the money.

  “I have to wait on you,” Trent said. “I’ve got a tough bunch together, one that can hit the McSween crowd like a sledgehammer. But they’re afraid of the Kid. They won’t move until they’re sure he’s dead. He’s the one man in Lincoln County who draws enough water to put together an army that could beat us. They’re ready to tackle the McSween group any time, but they won’t take on the Kid.”

  Fargo shrugged. “Well, then, you’ll have to wait until I can find him and take him on. You know where he is?”

  “I wish I did. Every rumor I pick up says he’s in Lincoln. But I’ve combed this town and I can’t find him. He’s hiding deep.”

  “Then it’ll take time,” Fargo said.

  “We don’t have any time. He’ll be working underground against us, organizing his people to oppose us. You’ve got to find him quick and wipe him out; that’ll break the McSween crowd’s hopes. We can deal with ’em then.” He lit a cigarette. “There’s a way to bring him out—now that you’re here.”

  Fargo looked
at him through narrowed eyes. “How?”

  “You’ve got a reputation, too—a hell of a rep. I could make my bunch move if they knew you were riding with us, ready to deal with the Kid. We could organize a raid, hit the McSween bunch hard, say the Tres Rios ranch. That would force the Kid’s hand, bring him out of hiding, make him fight. Then you could deal with him.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “That ain’t the way I aim to do it.”

  Trent’s brows drew down. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I’m getting paid to fight only one man, not lead an army against the McSweens. Listen, Trent, I have to operate all over this damned country, and I’ve got to be free to move. I can’t make a living if there are warrants out against me, and nobody ever fought in a range war without getting a bunch of ’em slapped on him. I’ll find the Kid and kill him; nobody can law me for that. But the rest of it is your deal and your risk.”

  “Dammit, Fargo—”

  Fargo shook his head. “I see Selman’s setup now, and where you fit in. Like a kid with his eye on the apples in an orchard, only there’s a watchdog he’s afraid of. All right, I kill the watchdog so you can get to the apples. But I didn’t hire out to steal apples, too.”

  “Apples, hell, we’re talking about a fortune! Listen.” His face was dark with anger now. “I can contact Selman, have him order you to do what I say.”

  “Selman can’t order me and neither can anybody else,” Fargo said, making each word hard and distinct. “If you’re smart, you won’t try. You understand that, Trent?”

  Trent’s fists clenched on the table before him; his face was crimson. Then he let out a long breath. “All right, Fargo. You try it your way, then.”

  “I aim to.” He looked up as the girl came with his supper. When she saw Trent at his table, she hesitated for a moment, then came on, wordlessly put a platter before Fargo.

  Trent, his face still dark, turned toward her. “Hello, Nita.”

  She neither answered nor looked at him as she set down Fargo’s coffee.

  The anger Fargo had roused in him was still in Trent’s voice. “Dammit, woman, when I speak to you, answer!” His hand shot out, clamped her wrist.

  She looked down at him coolly and with loathing. “Let go of me, Harry,” she said evenly.

  “Not until you soften up a little. I’m tired of the cold shoulder you’ve been givin’ me.”

  Nita raised her hand. “I’ll give you something else—”

  “Don’t try that, girl.” Fargo saw Trent’s hand clamp tighter, saw her wince with pain. “I’ve tamed wilder stuff than you.”

  With her other hand, Nita slapped him then—hard.

  Trent’s chair fell over as he sprang to his feet. “Why, you slut—”

  Everyone in the room was staring at them. Fargo arose. “Let her go, Trent,” he said, voice edged, slicing through the other’s anger.

  Trent jerked his head around, eyes meeting Fargo’s.

  “I said, let her go.”

  For a long second, Trent’s gaze locked with his. Then Trent let his hand drop from her wrist. “All right,” he said, face pale. Nita shot a glance, unreadable, at Fargo. Then she whirled, strode off.

  Fargo kept his eyes on Trent, especially on the hand near the bulge in his coat pocket. But Trent let out a long breath, pulled his chair upright, sat down again.

  “That wasn’t any of your affair,” he whispered.

  “Anything that attracts attention to me’s my affair. The less there is of it, the better. That girl, who is she?”

  “Nita Antrim? Her father’s Henry Antrim, the doctor here, only sawbones in town. She’s his nurse, helps out here at mealtimes. She’s a proud one, but I’ve handled—” His face changed. “Listen, I’ve got her pegged out. You stay away from her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything,” Fargo said. “I’m just tellin’ you that I don’t need any more enemies than I’ve already got and I don’t aim to be tied in with you in the sight of everybody in Lincoln County.”

  Trent’s eyes glittered. “Fargo, you’re making it hard for us to get along together.”

  “I didn’t come here to get along with you. Now, on your way, Trent. I’m hungry and I want to eat in peace.”

  Trent stared at him a moment more; and Fargo could feel that the man was tight-wound. Nor did Fargo underestimate him. He was a man with strength, ambition, pride. And sense enough to know his own limitations as a gunman. For only one second his rage threatened to overmaster caution. Then he controlled himself. “Okay,” he said in a different voice. “I’ll stay out of your way while you do your job, then. You stay out of mine while I do mine.” He stood up. “If you don’t, once you’re finished with that little chore of yours, you might find yourself in some extra trouble.”

  “So long, Trent,” Fargo said coldly. Trent hesitated, then turned, strode out. Fargo watched him go, and when he had passed through the front door of the hotel, turned his attention to his food, which he ate with gusto.

  ~*~

  In his room, he built a fire against the chill of the high-country night. Having closed the wooden shutter of the single window, locked the door, he sat before the blaze, nipping at his bourbon bottle on occasion and meticulously cleaning the trail dust from his weapons.

  Maybe he had been too rough with Trent. The man could give him help he could use. Nevertheless, Trent had rubbed him the wrong way. For that matter, this whole deal was beginning to rub him wrong. If it were not for the irresistible lure of confronting Billy the Kid...

  Fargo lived for the moment; in his profession, that was all a man could count on. Yet, with reasonable luck, he probably had ten good years ahead of him, if the demand for a man of his stripe held up; and he was pretty sure it would. During those ten years—or if only for the next moment, for that matter—he intended to live to the fullest, accept second best in nothing, neither fighting, women, whiskey or all the other pleasures he was addicted to. When the day came that the bullet with his name on it found him, he had no intention of regretting any wasted opportunity or missed chance. His way of living took money, lots of it; he had made a great deal and spent it; and he always needed more. If he could find Billy Bonney and take him, he would not only have the personal satisfaction of knowing that he himself was the best there was in his trade, but he would never lack for high-priced jobs thereafter either. In the long run, he supposed, that was worth dealing with all the crappy complications involved in this thing. Still, once he had Selman’s final installment, Selman, he resolved, had better not cross his path again. He did not like being tagged a sucker, and that was what Selman had tried to do, undoubtedly had instructed Trent to make a pitch at: buy, for his twenty-five thousand, not only the Kid’s death, but Fargo’s help in his war against the McSween faction. Well, Fargo thought, Selman could—Suddenly he snapped the loaded shotgun closed. There were footsteps on the board walk outside his room. Even as he arose, the knock came at the door.

  “Who is it?” Fargo lined the Fox, moved to one side so no blast through the door could find him.

  “Nita Antrim. The girl who waited on you.” The answer was soft, hardly audible.

  Fargo stood poised a second longer. “Anybody with you?”

  “No. But I would like to see you for a minute.”

  Fargo blew out the lamp, edged toward the door, gun up, stood to one side, turned the key in the lock. Looking through the crack, he saw her silhouetted against the immensity of the starlit night. She was, indeed, alone. He stepped back, opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  She entered; he closed the door behind her. Then he went to the lamp and touched a match to it. In its light, she stared at him with huge, dark eyes. “You’re very cautious.”

  “They tell me it’s the best policy in Lincoln County.” He laid the shotgun aside, appraising her. She had discarded the apron of a waitress, wore a dress of blue watered silk that clung to every line and curve of her lush body. It shimmered in the lampligh
t. “What can I do for you, Miss Antrim?”

  “I came to thank you. That could have been an ugly scene with Harry Trent in the dining room.”

  He shrugged. “No thanks necessary.” He gestured to a chair before the fire. “Sit down.”

  She was looking at him strangely, her gaze running over the scarred ugliness of his face, the guns all around the room. He saw her breasts move beneath the tight fabric as she drew in a long breath. “Yes,” she said. “But only for a minute.”

  “I was having a drink. You want one?”

  It was an era when nice girls didn’t drink. Fargo thought that what nice girls did made no difference to her one way or the other. Like himself, she would do what she pleased without regard for what others thought, or she would not have come to his room after dark in such a way. In that moment, as he waited for her answer, something electric again arced between them. “I think I do,” she said.

  There was cold mountain water in a pitcher and a couple of glasses. Fargo made the drinks. Nita, instead of taking the chair, tucked her legs beneath her and sat by the fire on the floor. “Thanks,” she said, as he handed her the glass and sat down in the chair she had not occupied. Then they both drank. Fargo saw that she was no stranger to whiskey, knew how to handle it. As she lowered the drink, her eyes inventoried his guns.

  “You seem to be expecting trouble.”

  “I understand Lincoln County’s a good place to find it.”

  Her lips thinned. “It was all right until Harry Trent came in here, began to stir things up. You’re mixed up with him, aren’t you?”