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

by John Benteen

  For a moment, the room was silent. Nita, weary and haggard, stared at her father from a chair in the corner as if she had never seen him before. Sue McSween Barber’s eyes lit. But still she hesitated. “I could have raised an army long ago, but I didn’t want to give you away. Now you’ll have to start from scratch, and you and Fargo have both ridden all night.”

  “We can ride a spell longer,” Bonney said. “Can ride as long as we have to. Right, Fargo?”

  “Right,” Fargo said. His hand stroked the barrels of the slung shotgun. “Get us some horses, Mrs. Barber.”

  After a second, she nodded. “All right. Tom, you and Sam get the four best mounts in the remuda over here for them, then round up the men, tell them to look to their guns and get ready to ride. You’re to head for Lincoln as fast as you can. But don’t take any chances. Don’t try to make a head-on fight of it while you’re outnumbered. Wait until Billy and Fargo get there.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Brewer and Whitfield hurried out.

  “You’ll just have time to eat while they’re bringing up the horses,” the woman said. “Nita and I will wait here until you come back.” Her face was suddenly bleak. “I wish I could ride with my men. They ... they killed Alex, so long ago, brought my whole life crashing down around me. I wish … But you don’t need to be burdened with an old woman.”

  Nita was on her feet, then. “Dad.”

  He turned to her. “Yeah, honey.”

  “I—Oh, please be careful.” She kissed him on the cheek, then turned to Fargo. “You, too.” And he felt the brush of her lips against his. Then she whirled away, was gone.

  Bonney stood there a moment, thumb hooked in gun belt, staring after her. Then he said to Fargo, “No.” He looked at Fargo strangely.

  “No, what?”

  “She is not going to throw herself away on any gunfighter. Remember that, Fargo.”

  Fargo smiled without any humor. “Don’t worry,” he said. “When this is over, I ride out.”

  “Alone,” said Bonney.

  “Yeah,” Fargo said, and then they went into the other room and ate.

  ~*~

  Fargo had made long, hard rides in his time, but seldom had he pushed a mount that way he and Billy Bonney pushed those horses of Sue Barber’s in their wide, daylight sweep around Lincoln County.

  First to White Oaks, high in the hills. On the outskirts of the mining town in its canyon, Bonney drew rein before a cluster of adobe houses. Swinging down, he strode to the door of one, hammered on it. From the distance came the thunder of a stamp mill; beyond, the town of nearly three thousand people was strung out all along the canyon floor.

  The door swung open. The old man who stood there stared at the compact, slender form confronting him. He blinked several times, as if awakening from a dream. “By God,” he whispered. “It can’t be, but I’d swear—”

  Bonney smiled. “It is, Jack; it is. Billy Bonney.”

  “But—They said you were dead. I never believed it, I heard, but—”

  “If I’m dead, my ghost’s damned lively. Jack, no time to talk. You lost kinfolk in the Five Day Fight. Remember?”

  “Remember?” He was a bent, withered old man, but he straightened up. “The Dolan bunch shot down my brother like a damned dog when he tried to get out of the McSween house.”

  “Right. Well, the war’s starting again. This is the chance for the Morris family to get even. The Dolan bunch is gathering again, getting ready to hit Sue McSween. We’ve got to stop ’em and it’s gonna take every man of the old bunch we can get together.”

  “Billy, I’m too old to ride.”

  “You’ve got a son.”

  Jack Morris was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Yeah.”

  “Will he ride with us?”

  Slowly, the old man’s lips pulled away from snaggled gums in a kind of snarl. “He sure as hell will. Never was a time when a Morris wouldn’t ride against the Dolan bunch with Billy Bonney.”

  “Find him, tell him to arm himself, mount a good horse; meet me at the Bowdre place on the Ruidoso. And spread the word, Jack. All the other old McSween people: tell ’em I’m alive, I’m back, and that we’re riding against the Dolans again.

  “Sabe? Get the word around. But keep it from anybody in the camp who might be on the other side.”

  “Hell, yes.” Now the old man seemed about to cry. “Billy, maybe I can come myself. I can still handle a gun...”

  “Be glad to have you. But the main thing is, get the word around. I want every McSween man who’ll fight at Bowdre’s by sunset. You understand?”

  “Damn betcha. I can get you twenty!”

  “With plenty of cartridges.”

  “They’ll be there,” Jack Morris said. He took Bonney’s hand. “Billy, I’m glad it’s true. I’m glad Pat didn’t really get you.”

  “The Dolan bunch will wish he had. Jack, we’ll talk old times later. Get moving, now. We need those guns at Bowdre’s.”

  “They’ll be there,” the old man said and gave a high-pitched cackle. Then, gimpily, he left the house, legged it up the street. Bonney watched him go, but for only thirty seconds, then whirled, ran back to his horse and swung up. “Let’s ride,” he snapped. “Carrizozo next.”

  ~*~

  Later he told Fargo that the fat Mexican woman on the outskirts of that town had once been a slender, vivacious girl—and his lover. Indeed, somehow the sight of him transformed what had been only a dull-eyed, work-deadened mujer into something with a spark and curious trace of beauty. “Spread the word, Conchita,” he told her. He kissed her on the lips, and swung aboard his mount as she went waddling off full of excitement. He reined the horse around. “Bowdre’s place on the Ruidoso!” he called after her, and they pounded off.

  Fargo’s mount ran level with his. The morning wind was fresh in their faces, and despite lack of sleep and their hard night’s riding, exultancy beat in Fargo with every pulse of blood. This was what he lived for, his meat and drink, impending battle. He could see the same emotions in Billy Bonney’s face. There was no chance, he thought, that Trent and Cannon and all the rest could stand against Neal Fargo and this … ghost, he thought, this phantom gunman who rode beside him, recruiting an army from the past.

  Swinging north of the Lincoln Road, they turned into the hills. Bonney knew every fold and wrinkle of this country, each isolated ranch and settlement, and at every one, people greeted him with joy and fervor, and ran for their guns. None questioned that he was who he claimed to be; none had ever really believed that he had died. It was as if they thought of him not as a man but as something more than mortal, something or someone no bullet could kill. When they pulled up at a creek to water their horses, which they changed from time to time to preserve their strength, Fargo first scanned the surrounding hills, rifle at the ready. Finding no menace, he said to Bonney, “Damn. In your time, you knew everybody. Hell, you could have run for sheriff of Lincoln County.”

  The man who was Billy the Kid smiled, and that smile transformed his face, lighting it. “During the war, the little people here got kicked around a lot, caught in the middle between the two sides, and with Selman and Jesse Evans preying on ’em to boot. They had nobody to stand up for them, nobody. I fought their battles when I could. In return, they hid me when I needed hiding, gave me food when I was hungry. We … understood each other.”

  Fargo nodded. But there was more to it than that, he sensed. Not only had the Kid commanded the loyalty of the ones he called the little people but hardened gunfighters years older than himself had followed him back in those old, violent days. Billy Bonney had been and still was a natural leader of men, with something magnetic and inexplicable within him that drew people to him, made them give him love and confidence. Fargo had never met another gunfighter like this.

  Then the Kid pulled up his horse’s head. “Well,” he said, “let’s ride. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

  And they rode: in and out of the hills north of Lincoln; across th
e Roswell road and fording the Rio Hondo, to Casey’s Mill, the Coe ranch, the sleepy little settlement of San Patricio. The Kid’s passing was like a flame drawn through dry grass; wherever he traveled, men reached for their guns and sprang into their saddles.

  Late in the afternoon, Bonney and Fargo swung west, following the narrow Ruidoso to Bowdre’s place, pushing their horses to the limit, for the Tres Rios riders, after their long trip over the hills, would be nearing Lincoln soon, to open the battle. It was close to sunset when they reached the Bowdre ranch in a fertile valley, and as they slowed their lathered mounts, Fargo drew in breath.

  The men were waiting, in a vast army. They filled the ranch yard, standing at their horses’ heads and bristling with guns.

  Gray-bearded veterans with stooped shoulders mingled with the young descendants of other warriors in that old conflict. Mexicans rubbed shoulders with Anglos, ranchers with farmers and sheep men and miners. Fargo saw weapons ranging from new Springfields to ancient muskets, from Navy Colts to modern automatics. But, even so, his heart sank.

  They were an army, yes, but an army of amateurs. The older ones knew how to fight, were battle-tested, but time would have slowed and weakened them. The young ones, unblooded, were willing but inexperienced. And in addition to a host of Dolan people of the same stripe, Trent had thirty professionals, at the very least, and each one of those thirty was worth five of the kind of men gathered here. Fargo shot a look at the Kid, read on his face something of the same dismay. Then Bonney masked it, and a great cry went up from the people in the ranch yard as he spurred his tired mount forward.

  They surged around him, those people of Lincoln County, reaching for him, everyone seeking to touch him. Their voices mingled in a babble. “Billy! By God, it is the Kid, big as life and twice as natural! I knowed Pat Garrett lied ... El Chavito! Come here, Billy, let me shake your hand … Viva Bonney! ... Kid, you remember me, was with you at that fight at Agua Negro ...!”

  Bonney smiled down at them. “Jeff, Walt, Ramon. How are you, Tomas? It’s good to see you all again.” Then he turned in his saddle and his face changed. Standing apart from that crowd was another group, perhaps twenty-five men, watching silently from the shade of a big cottonwood. The Kid put his horse around, rode toward them, and Fargo followed.

  Those men eyed him gravely as he rode up. One stepped forward, bulky, thick-bodied, with an iron-gray beard. He wore a sixgun, had a Sharps buffalo rifle cradled in his arm. “Hello, Bonney.”

  Now the ranch yard was silent. Bonney said, “Morton. What are you and all this other Dolan bunch doing here?”

  “We heard you were back,” Morton said. “And we aren’t the Dolan bunch.”

  “You, your people, fought on that side.”

  “That was a long time ago. Things have changed, Billy, Dolan, McSween, it makes no difference. We’re all from Lincoln County, and we don’t want the war starting again. We’ve had enough of war. We want to help stamp it out, now. Throw in with you.”

  Bonney was silent for a moment. “A lot of your people are riding with Trent,” he said presently.

  “Not our people.” Morton spat. “What Trent has got together is the riffraff and dregs of this county. The people that would ride with anybody for money and use the old grudges as an excuse. Billy, we all live together here in Lincoln County and we got to keep on doin’ it. We don’t want Trent and Selman on our necks any more than you do. We … would like to go with you—if you’ll let bygones be bygones.”

  A few seconds passed before the Kid answered. “There’s nothing I’d rather do, Morton. This is a twist, Dolan and McSween people riding together. But you’re right: Selman is the common enemy.”

  He leaned forward from the saddle, put out his hand. “We’re glad to have you. Join the others.”

  ~*~

  A few minutes later, Billy Bonney stood on the bed of a wagon, his voice husky as he spoke. Tersely, he outlined exactly what was happening. “I don’t know how many men Trent’s got, but Morton says he thinks it’s at least twenty or thirty more than us, even counting Sue McSween’s Tres Rios riders. And those extra men are all professionals, all gunslingers. So this is going to be hard and rough, and some of us aren’t gonna ride home tomorrow. Maybe there are men here who’d rather drop out now. If so, nobody will hold it against them.”

  There was silence. Then a voice called out, “Dammit, I’d rather die than have John Selman runnin’ this county!”

  A general, angry murmur of assent roiled up. The Kid smiled faintly, as no one made any attempt to leave. “All right. We’ll do the best we can with what we’ve got. This battle will be fought in darkness, and it’ll be hard to tell friend from foe. I want every man here to wrap something white around his left arm. Otherwise, we’ll be shooting each other.”

  They nodded, understanding. “More than that. There are women and children and men who are neutral and innocent in Lincoln. That won’t hold Trent back, but it will hamper us. Nobody shoots wild, and nobody shoots at anybody who isn’t shootin’ at him. Understand? I’ll personally kill the first man who shoots down anybody that’s unarmed.”

  They understood that, too, the hundred men gathered there. All gave assent. “Then, good,” the Kid said. “This time we end the war. When we’ve won this fight, the old days will be over, and we’ll have the first peace and security here we’ve really been able to count on in forty years. It’s fifteen miles from here to Lincoln. We’ll plan to hit there at nine o’clock; by then the men from Tres Rios will have Trent’s people engaged. We divide into two groups. One rides with me and we go in from the north; the other rides with Fargo and hits Lincoln from the south. If we take Trent by surprise, we’ve got a decent chance.” He stepped from the wagon into the saddle of a fresh horse and put it through the crowd, splitting it in half. “All those over here, come with me. The rest with Fargo.” He swung the horse around, rode into the clear; and men mounted, with a creak of saddle leather and a rattle of guns. The Kid pulled back on the reins and his horse reared, teetered on its hind legs. “Let’s ride, amigos!” he cried, and when the horse came down, he spurred it.

  ~*~

  At the head of fifty men, Fargo rode north, guided by a rancher named Chavez. The hooves of all those horses made a thundering drum roll on the earth of Lincoln County. Under no illusions about what they faced, his blood still beat high. He thought of Trent, of the knife point over his eyes, and cold, implacable hatred was like steel within him. Trent was the one he wanted especially, personally, and face to face. Trent thought he knew something about knives. Fargo touched the Batangas knife on his hip. Maybe Trent had a lot to learn.

  Chavez guided them surely through the hills. The moon came up, full and high, flooding the land with a silver light almost as bright as day. A hunter’s moon, thought Fargo; a killer’s moon. A good moon to do battle by. The bullets in his bandoliers clicked as his mount galloped steadily on.

  Then, ahead, there raised itself the dark hump of a line of hills, and Chavez gave the signal to halt. “Over those,” he whispered. “The town lies down there in the valley.”

  Fargo nodded, hauled from his pocket a big gold watch of the kind used by railroad men, accurate to the fraction of a second. Twenty minutes to nine. As he put it back, he tensed in the saddle. From across the ridge came a splattering of gunfire, scattered and sporadic.

  “Dios,” Chavez whispered. “The Kid has hit already.”

  “No,” said Morton on Fargo’s other flank. “That’ll be the Tres Rios bunch.”

  Fargo cocked his head, appraising the shooting from long experience. It intensified, moved. Apparently Whitfield and Brewer were doing exactly what they’d been told to, had hit Lincoln from the west, stirred up a fight with Trent’s men, then were falling back, not risking slaughter, only tolling as much of Trent’s force as possible out of town and into the brakes and woods along the Bonito.

  As the gunfire swelled, a rustle of impatience went through Fargo’s army, but he motioned it to silenc
e. The timing had to be right, exactly right. Both he and Bonney had to hit at nine sharp. If they went in too soon, the horde of gunmen Trent had on his side could wipe them out before the Kid got there.

  It was hard to wait, but there was no help for it. Fargo took out the watch again, while the gunfire across the ridge and down in Lincoln swelled, intensified. The Tres Rios men must be hard pressed; damn it, would nine o’clock never come?

  Then, five minutes. And Fargo put his horse into a trot, led his army forward, up the ridge.

  At its crest, he halted once more, dismounted, slid forward and reconnoitered. Below, in a flood of silver light, the town of Lincoln was plainly visible. At its western edge, down along the Bonito, gun-flashes winked like fireflies. And the street was thronged with men, Trent’s men, nearly a hundred of them. Fargo’s heart sank. Trent was no fool, or, rather, Jess Cannon was not. He had detached just as many men to deal with the Tres Rios riders as needed; not one man more. The rest he held in reserve.

  That, Fargo thought bitterly, was the hell of coming up against another professional. Cannon had figured out this was a diversion; he was poised for the main attack.

  Fargo scanned the ridges on the other side of town. No sign of Billy Bonney and his men. He checked the watch again. Well, it was nine sharp. Time to go down into battle. He scuttled back to his horse, swung up. “Tell ’em to spread out,” he whispered to Morton. “We’re going down, and fast, and there’s a lot of lead waiting for us at the bottom. Keep low and go in shooting and hit along the whole length of the street.”

  Morton nodded, passed the word. When Fargo was sure they all had it, he raised his arm, brought it forward, down. Then he spurred over the ridge.

  ~*~

  Fifty of them: they thundered down toward Lincoln, guns up. Fargo’s horse stretched itself beneath him, and he held the shotgun lined and ready, though Lincoln still lay five hundred yards away.