Fargo 18

by John Benteen

  It seemed to take forever for him to fall. He had time to hope that there was plenty of water down below; otherwise, he would crush his skull or break his neck. He heard Harrod’s yell of surprise. Then he hit the water.

  Still head-first, he went under like a stone. The water was deep in the four-foot diameter shaft. Down and down he went into depths that were icy cold, and the shock cleared his head. He struggled below the surface to right himself in those narrow confines, had to, must get his head above the surface or he would drown. He got his knees up under his chin, his body bobbed, revolved, and then he was right side up. Desperately he fought toward the surface. His head broke water, he gulped in air. Above he saw a circle of bright light: faces peering downward.

  “There, Flash!” Harrod’s voice came faintly. “Blast him!”

  Fargo ducked beneath the water again, as the thunder of a six-gun rang in the well-shaft. He made it beneath the surface just in time, heard the eerie sound of bullets hitting water. One actually struck him in the head, but its force was broken by the barrier of liquid it had penetrated; it was only a gentle tap. Fargo turned his body, braced his back against one side of the shaft, his knees against the other. He held his breath until his lungs ached, and then, carefully, fought his way to the surface once more, controlling his movements by pressure against the wall. Only his nose and mouth broke water this time, and he sucked in air and sank again.

  There was, as nearly as he could tell, no more shooting. Another minute beneath the water, then a cautious breaking of the surface once more, to breathe. This time, when he came up, the circle of light up there had disappeared; he was in total darkness. And with a chill, he knew what that meant. A heavy cover had been put over the mouth of the well and probably weighted down. He was trapped here, and likely he would die here.

  Harrod probably figured him already dead and had sealed the well to make doubly sure.

  But, Fargo thought, heated by a rage that neutralized the chill of the icy water, he was not dead yet. And as long as there was any tatter of breath or strength left in him, he would not give up. He wanted Rex Harrod. He wanted him with a force stronger than despair; his fists actually ached with his desire to smash them into Harrod’s face.

  He braced himself against the wall, appraising his situation.

  He was lucky on two counts. This close to the stream behind the house, the water table had been high; they had not had to dig too deeply to strike water. Therefore, the total depth of the well was not over fifty feet.

  Secondly, there was plenty of water in the well. Fifteen feet of it anyhow, and that was what had saved his life. Count the elevated rim around the well, and he had only forty feet to climb to get out. Forty feet, he thought wryly, of mossy, damp stone, slick as glass. And, at the top, a cover weighted by maybe a hundred, two hundred pounds of masonry or whatever they had found, and, even if he had the strength, no purchase to be gained to lift it off. The chances were good after all that Harrod had won, but he would not acknowledge that.

  Time passed. Braced as he was, the water buoyed him and its chill numbed and soothed the multiple aches and pains of what he had endured. Sometimes he let go, trod water, to ease the strain on muscles. Then he jockeyed himself back into position again. He had no idea how much time passed before, back against one side of the well, feet against the other, he felt a subtle, but definite rhythmic vibration. He knew at once what it was: hoof-beats. He let out a breath. They were leaving—Harrod, his men and Lola.

  And so, while he still had strength, it was now or never.

  Fargo hated heights; they were the one thing that really frightened him, with some old, deep, instinctive fear. But a man in his profession had to learn to overcome fear, and he had, on this job or the other one, had to learn some of the techniques of climbing rock. He knew how mountain-climbers went up the cracks they called chimneys: and there was no other way of getting out of the well.

  If it had been a foot wider, it would not have worked. But now he edged upward, shoulders braced against one wall, feet against the other. It was no trouble to ease his torso upward; it slid easily over the mossy stones. His booted feet were a different matter. They kept slipping on the wet glaze. Only the mortared seams between the fieldstone well lining, and an occasional rough out-jut of rock gave him traction and kept him from falling back.

  It was brutal, muscle-wracking work. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he worked his way up the shaft, still with no idea what he would do when he reached the cover that sealed the well. Maybe when he did, he would find that all his effort was in vain. But, without trying, he would never know.

  Panting, muscles crying protest, body lanced with pain, he went on inexorably. Ten feet, twenty, and now he was high above the water. Often he stopped to rest, panting. The air in here was dank, musky, unsatisfying. But if he could only make another twenty feet ...

  He made it, after an interminable struggle. Now he was just below the well-cover, a platform of boards sheathed with tin. The well was left open in the daytime, the cover placed over it at night. The cover alone weighed seventy-five pounds, at least, a formidable obstacle for a man in his position. He did not doubt that Harrod and his men had piled another hundred pounds of weight on it to seal him in.

  And so now he would learn his fate. With all the strength in legs and hips, he braced himself against the sides of the shaft. Up here, above ground level, the stones were dryer. That, at least, was a break; he had better purchase. His body taut and rigid, he raised his hands, pushed against the cover.

  Fargo made a sound in his throat.

  The cover was unexpectedly light. It moved.

  “The stupid bastards,” he wasted breath enough to pant aloud. Exultation rose in him. Greed, that was it—and, of course, fear of being caught. They had not even taken the ten minutes extra required to weight the cover and seal him in. They could not wait that much longer to be on the way to a half million dollars. Sloppy work. He hated, had contempt for, unprofessional behavior. He would never have failed to weight the cover, had taken it for granted that they would. But they had let greed overcome professionalism and—

  Every muscle straining, he shoved. The cover lifted, slid back a little. Fargo saw sunlight, breathed fresh dry air. Both revived him somewhat, and he shoved again. Once more the cover grated across the well, and he pushed harder, and then, over-balanced, it fell away and the top of the well was completely open and above Fargo’s head dangled the two oversized buckets that operated on a windlass arrangement and were the reason why there had been no permanent cover on the well with a trapdoor, the usual arrangement.

  Fargo, still braced, reached up as high as he could. His trembling hand caught the bottom edge of one bucket. He dragged it down within his reach. Then, cramped in position, he seized its rope, began to pull.

  As one bucket went down, the other went up. Fargo spent five minutes paying out slack. Then one bucket was in the bottom of the well, the other jammed at the windlass and the rope was taut. Fargo clamped his hands around the rope. With almost the last of his strength, he swung himself up, legs clawing. One gained purchase, over the rim of the well. He twisted, and then he was in the clear and free. His big body spilled off the well’s rim, landed on the hard, dry ground, and its feel against his flesh was like a blessing, and so was the dry, hot wind blowing over him.

  He lay there in the hot bright sunlight for a long time. His sodden clothes dried and slowly but certainly he felt strength returning to him. After a while, stiffly, he got to his feet, and, in morning sunlight, surveyed the ruins of the ranch house.

  Half of it was rubble; the other half still stood.

  Moving stiffly, he limped into the ruins to see if he could find his weapons. Exhausted as he was, they were his first, thought. His weapons were his life.

  And there again they had been too greedy, too hurried to be professional. Picking in the rubble, he found them all. Here the Colt, there the Batangas knife. And over there—his eyes lit and he stroked it lovingly—th
e Fox shotgun. Unharmed, and something eased within him. This was no ordinary gun: his hand traced out the inscription worked on the ornately engraved breech. To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt. His old commander in the Rough Riders, and later President of the United States: and nobody but the donor and the recipient would ever know what Fargo had done to earn this fine gun; but it had been plenty. Anyhow, it was safe and—

  He scrabbled in the ruins, found a can of beans, hacked them open with the Batangas knife and wolfed them cold. The nourishment took hold and helped to clear his head. Harrod, Flash and Jimmy-the-Blade were on their way, with Lola guiding, to a mine in the Sierra Diablos forty miles away, on horseback. They had a start of several hours. He knew the Sierra Diablos, bleak and rugged mountains. Two days, Lola had said, it would take them to climb to the mine. Long before then, he could be in El Paso, even if he had to walk, alert the Rangers, and the Rangers would know the location of the mine and cut Harrod off.

  Fargo grunted, a thick animal sound. Rangers, hell! Harrod was his meat! And so, by God, was that half a million hid somewhere in the Sierra Diablo! The hell with Rangers!

  Then the reality of the situation bore in on him. With the head start they would have before he could get to El Paso and get some idea of where the J & D mine was and take out after them on horseback, they would have been at the mine and gone long since before he could get there. Besides, he was not made of steel, he needed rest, had to have it, or it would be suicide to go up against a trio like Harrod and his understrappers. Long before he could make the mine, the money would be gone and Harrod with it—and Lola would be dead.

  That last did not bother him particularly. She had asked for what she got. He hated double-crossing women—men, too, for that matter. But the half-million in big bills, really no-man’s money, since it was political graft proceeds ... that was another matter.

  Fargo threw away the bean can. It was hopeless. There was no way he could beat Harrod to the money. A man would have to be an eagle, with wings, to do that ...

  Fargo grinned tightly. He wished he had a cigar, but there would be none until he reached El Paso. Stiffly he arose. When he went to the stables, there was still one horse there, a fat old mare. Probably a family pet, kept for sentimental reasons. He found a blanket, saddle, bridle and put her in shape to ride. His bandoliers, retrieved from the house, clicked dryly on his shoulders as she went into a lurching trot. He turned her south, headed for El Paso.

  Nine

  A hand shook him awake. He came up on the bed reaching instinctively for the gun beneath the pillow. “Easy, Neal,” a man’s voice snapped. “It’s only me—Bill Gaston.”

  Fargo blinked. Then his vision cleared and he relaxed a little, swinging out of bed. “What time is it?”

  “Six in the morning. You’ve had twelve hours sleep. There’s coffee hot and bacon and flapjacks. And I’ve got the map you asked for and I’ve looked it over. Hell, yes. We can do it.”

  Fargo said, “Let me see the map.” He knuckled sleep from his eyes, stood up.

  Gaston’s house, on the outskirts of El Paso, was little more than a shack. Gaston was single: the way he lived, the risks he took, a woman would have been a fool to marry him. A lanky man, originally from South Carolina, he was cold-nerved, intelligent, and wholly without fear. “Don’t you want some coffee first?” he asked.

  “The hell with coffee. Lemme see the map.”

  Gaston spread it on the rickety table in the middle of his one-room shack. “I got it from the Land Office. It’s fairly accurate: a Geological Survey team did it.” He laid a thick finger on a certain point. “Here’s the mine, the J & D. Way to hell and gone back in the Sierra Diablos. I know that country: it’s rough as a cob. Forty years ago it used to be a hangout for Victorio and his Apaches. The Army should have let ’em have it. But anyhow, you can read the contour lines. The mine’s way back up on this peak. They’ll have hell’s own time reaching it on horseback, and she was right: the roads are all washed out. But ... see? Right here in front of the mine. This big bench ...”

  “Yeah,” Fargo said, and as the terrain leaped alive in his brain, he drew in a breath of satisfaction. “It’s big enough?”

  “And to spare. I remember it anyhow. In my business, you have to know places like that in case you ever need ’em.”

  “Yeah,” Fargo said. “How long will it take?”

  “Hell, it’s only forty miles or so. Two hours at the most. Plenty of time for breakfast, and I can have you there before noon.”

  Neal Fargo straightened up. “Let’s eat,” he said.

  Like most men who cook for themselves, Bill Gaston was good: the bacon was crisp, the pancakes light. Fargo stuffed himself, not knowing when he might eat again. Then, while Gaston went out to attend to matters only he could take care of, Fargo washed, shaved, and checked his weapons. They were all in good shape, and he was thumbing fresh ammunition Gaston had bought for him into his bandoliers when the man returned.

  “Neal,” Gaston said, “I’m ready when you are.”

  Fargo stood up, slung the bandoliers, the canteen, the musette bag with some canned food in it. He adjusted the Colt in its holster, tucked the Fox sawed-off and his Winchester under his arm. “I’m ready,” he said.

  They went out into the fresh-washed morning. Gaston’s shanty sat on the edge of an enormous, absolutely level field. Sunlight shone on the taut-stretched canvas of the airplane parked at one end of that and tied down by ropes. Fargo halted. “That’s not the old crate you used when you flew for Villa.”

  Gaston laughed softly. “Nope. This is something brand-new and I used the money Pancho paid me to buy it from Glen Curtiss. Ain’t she a beauty? It’s called a JN-4, officially, but everybody calls her a Jenny. It’s one of the first he’s produced. He hopes to sell ’em in Canada and England. Anyhow, it’s got a ninety-horsepower engine, and it’ll take you up and set you down in the Sierra Diablo. I’ll tell you, Fargo, this Jenny is a big jump forward from the old scrap iron and baling wire and used-rag planes I flew for Pancho down in Mexico three years ago. As different as a Tin Lizzy from a horse.”

  Fargo spat into the grass. “Me, I’m a cavalryman. Given a choice, I’d rather have a horse. Goddam cars, airplanes, they’re changing everything. But I can’t be choosy now. The main thing’s to get to the J & D mine before Harrod does.” But to himself he admitted that there was something sleek and satisfying about the airplane’s lines, like the conformation of a fine horse. It had a real fuselage, not just a contraption of struts and wires with a seat in the middle of it, and two strong-looking wings, and it had real wheels instead of skids.

  “Okay, so you’re a cavalryman. But you’re gonna have to take that hat off and tuck it inside your shirt. Wear this.” Gaston handed him a leather cap and a pair of goggles. Fargo put away his treasured hat, slipped that gear on. Then Gaston gave him further instructions, and five minutes later he found himself standing in front of the propeller, holding it, awaiting the high-sign from the pilot.

  It came, and Fargo leaned into the prop and spun it. It coughed, stopped. He tried again, whirling it with all his strength, jumping back, and this time it caught and the engine roared and the wooden blade was a shining whirl and the dawn was full of engine-thunder. Carrying his weapons, he climbed into the rear cockpit of the shuddering airplane. Carefully, following Gaston’s previous instructions, he strapped himself in with the safety belt. Gaston turned, looked, nodded, gave a sign and dropped back in his own seat. Then he gunned the engine, taxied the aircraft into position for take-off.

  Fargo chewed an unlit cigar. He had ridden with Gaston twice before, on orders of Pancho Villa, in this action or another he’d been caught up in, deep in Mexico. Skimming over the chaparral, they’d reconnoitered, dropped crude bombs on the Federales. Each flight had been an ordeal for Neal Fargo, but he’d had full confidence in Bill Gaston. Like himself, Gaston was a thorough professional.

  And when, strength coming back to him at the ruined
Dane Ranch, he had tried to figure out what to do, how to overtake Harrod or beat him to the mine, Gaston’s name had popped into his brain unbidden. It would have taken a bird to reach the mine in time—and Gaston was an eagle. Fargo had pushed the old mare hard to El Paso, where, he knew, Gaston, no longer flying for Villa, had a shack, a hangar, as he called it, and an airfield. Gaston was trying to negotiate a contract with the Army at Fort Bliss to reconnoiter for them along the Rio, but so far having no success and living off of thin soup and hope. Fargo’s offer of three hundred dollars to be taken to the mine by air had been a godsend, and Gaston had leaped at it. While Fargo slept, he’d obtained the necessary maps and bought the gasoline and naphtha and castor oil this thing ran on, and now, for the time being, the rest was up to him.

  The plane shuddered, then sped down the field. Wind rushed around Fargo’s exposed head as it lifted smoothly from the close-cropped grass, was airborne. The earth fell away, and Fargo looked down, queasy, yet fascinated. In a few moments, El Paso was a clutter of child’s toys spread out on the Rio, with desert above it, the Organ Mountains nearby, and the rich fertile strip of the Rio Grande valley a streak of green against the dun-colored bleakness. Beyond was the tan expanse of Chihuahua. Fargo saw troops drilling on the outskirts of Juarez—toy soldiers.

  The Jenny banked, turned southeast. Fargo chewed harder on the cigar. Now there was nothing to do but sit back and wait.

  Wild, broken country, like a relief map, unfolded beneath them, studded with sparse, occasional ranch buildings. Fargo, leaning out, surveyed it closely. In almost no time at all, he saw ahead the bleak folds of the Sierra Diablo, the high peak of the nearby Sierra Blanca. Apache country, he thought. No wonder Victorio’s Warm Springs braves had been able to hide out for so long, foiling the General for whom Van Horn was named.

  Then he stiffened. Through drifting, wispy clouds, he could see antlike figures below, moving up through the lower slopes of the Sierra Diablo. Four of them, on horseback, tiny, lost, in the massive, hostile terrain. His mouth twisted. Lola, Harrod, and the others. For riders, they had made good time.