by John Benteen
“Likely it will,” said Fargo evenly.
“Oh, I hope you try something!” Liz rasped. ‘Damn you, I hope you make a break so he can shoot you!”
“Be quiet, woman,” O’Brien said tersely. He rapped an order. Then a man brought Fargo’s mount.
“Swing up,” O’Brien said. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
~*~
Four of Carlos O’Brien’s men moved out ahead as advance guard and scouts; two rode behind, rifles up. O’Brien himself rode beside Fargo, mounted on a fine black stallion. Liz Baines rode on O’Brien’s other flank. The big Hispano-Irishman in the enormous Villa hat was a superb horseman and as watchful as a cat; the pistol he kept trained on Fargo never wavered.
“Yes, it’s funny,” he said. “You work your way south, I work mine north, we meet in the middle. We O’Briens are an old family in Argentina, Fargo, and a rich one. Myself, I was always the black sheep. They said I had too much Irish in me, not enough Spaniard. All I know is that I took off a long time ago, started roaming. I’d worked my way as far north as Panama, a lieutenant in the Government forces when you hit there years ago with your filibusteros. You won, but you almost didn’t. I had you in my sights one time. I even pulled the trigger but it was my last cartridge and it was a dud. So ... you lived. For a while, I was furious. But then I saw it was the workings of fate. I had watched a man in action who was everything I thought a man should be. You might say I had been given a sign from heaven. I escaped, and I learned all about you and how you worked, your thoughts, your attitudes … and, quite consciously, I’ve modeled myself after you.”
“I’m flattered,” Fargo said dryly.
“You should be. Oh, I didn’t go all the way: not the shotgun and the funny knife and the hollow- point bullets. I can use a knife, all right; you don’t grow up in Argentina without being an expert. But I stick to a Colt and a good Mauser rifle. It’s the attitude that counts: the frame of mind. That’s where I set out to copy you.”
Fargo did not answer.
“First,” O’Brien went on, “you’ve got to be professional. Professional to your toenails. No room anywhere for sentiment or wishy-washy thinking. Either something works or it doesn’t. You learn your job, how to do it better than anybody else can. If you meet somebody better, you learn from him, then prove yourself by killing him. You come up the ladder, right?”
When Fargo did not speak, he said, “The next thing is to learn not to care for anything or anybody. What you live for is your job and your own reputation. You hire your gun, you give value received and better. And nothing stops you from doing what you’re paid to do; nothing.”
Fargo felt a coolness on his spine. “That’s the way I look, eh?”
“It’s the way you are. The ultimate professional. You’d kill your own grandmother if she interfered with your job.”
“I never saw my grandmother.”
“Good thing for her,” said O’Brien wryly. “You’re an animal, Fargo, but, by God you’re the best animal in the jungle. At least until another better one comes along. Well, here I am. I’ve served my apprenticeship. I’ve fought in all the little wars, too. I’ve learned all kinds of ways to kill. If my grandmother, God bless her, weren’t dead, I could slit her throat, too, to get on with the work and collect my pay.”
“Good for you, sonny boy,” Fargo said.
O’Brien moved quickly, the gun-barrel making an arc. He hit Fargo hard enough to rock him, not enough to knock him out. Fargo swayed, clung to the saddle horn, felt wetness that was blood from the gunsight’s rake running down his cheek.
“Another thing. I understand you take no guff off of anybody.”
“No, I don’t,” Fargo said. “Remember that.”
O’Brien laughed. “Sure. Spit in the devil’s eyes. That’s your style. But it won’t help you this time, Fargo. I’m the devil, and you haven’t got that much spit.”
“Hit him again, Carlos,” Liz said throatily. “Harder.”
“No. No, I want to keep his head clear. When we reach camp, he and I are going to have a long session. He’s got a lot of information that I need.”
“The hell with that! Just kill the bastard!”
O’Brien said, not taking his eyes off Fargo, “Woman, you’ll shut your mouth. I don’t take orders from your kind. Or even suggestions.”
Liz was silent for a moment. Then she said, ferociously: “Jeez. My mother was right. You’re all alike.”
“Fargo and I are,” O’Brien said. “Very much alike. Now, shut up. He and I were talking.”
“You were talking,” Fargo said.
“All right. I just wanted you to know what you’re up against. Like I said, I’ve fought my way north in the past few years. And I’ve studied everything about you I could learn. Lain awake nights thinking about it. Remember this, Fargo; you don’t have a trick I haven’t heard of, not one I can’t foresee. I know you can use your left hand every bit as good as your right; if I came against you with a knife, I’d be looking for that. I know you used to be a professional boxer: I took lessons from a professional myself so if we ever had it out with fists I’d not be at a disadvantage. I know about your shotgun, and I’d never let you get your hands on it. You can’t get away from me, because ...” his voice soared slightly, “ ... I am you!”
They rode on through the night. Then Fargo said, “No.”
“What?”
“No. You ain’t me. Nobody is me but me.”
“Ah, yes I am. But I’m O’Brien, too. That’s even better, because soon there’ll be no Fargo, only O’Brien. And someday O’Brien will be President of Mexico—and by then maybe it’ll take in half of what you call now the United States.”
Then he broke off. “We’ll talk about that later. We’ve still got ground to cover. We’ll strike a faster pace.” He gave a command, and the detail broke into a hard gallop. After that, there was no more conversation.
~*~
Fargo knew Northern Mexico, but he’d not dreamed of this valley’s existence. A bowl, really, hemmed in by barren hills, its only entry a cleft in a jumbled line of ridges, and that easily defended by a few men against a regiment. He could not help a thrust of admiration for O’Brien as, well after sunrise, they entered this hidden place. “Where the hell are we and how’d you find this?”
“So. You don’t know.” There was triumph in O’Brien’s voice. “I thought you knew everything about this country, but I’ve gone you one better, eh? It’s been here all along, but nobody ever comes here because there’s supposed to be no water. Not enough for a roadrunner, much less an Army. But there’s water, Fargo. Plenty of it. The Indians have known of it all along: I did what Fargo would have done. Should have, anyhow. I listened to the Indian stories. There was one about a lost Spanish mine. So much water in it that the Spaniards sealed it. It’s here, in this basin. We found the mine’s entry, right where legend says it was, and blew it. Three hundred years of water, Fargo, backing up in the shafts from an underground river. Before we let it pour out, we built a tank. There’s water here for five hundred men and all their horses. Surprised? Well, you’re getting old and you’ve got too much on your mind. But ... look.”
He gestured, and Fargo did look as they reined in their horses. “Five hundred, all right,” he said, staring at the swarm of men and animals on the valley floor below. He could not stifle a twinge of admiration—and of jealousy. How had he, how had Pancho Villa, let this hideaway go undiscovered for so long? With water, it was a fine staging area for an attack in any direction in a vital part of Mexico. And, he thought suddenly, a damned good take-off point from which to hit Columbus.
“Now, we’ll ride down,” Carlos O’Brien said and touched his horse with spurs.
They passed through a full-scale encampment of an army. The men slept in the open; only at one end, shaded by a bluff outcropping, was there a brush hut, open on the front. Fargo surveyed the troops as they passed among them. They were as tough a bunch of fighting men as he had ever
seen, and not a one wore anything to identify him as a member of Carranza’s Army. It was as if he were riding through a Villa encampment.
They pulled up before the hut. “Get down, Fargo,” said O’Brien. “You, too, Liz.”
Fargo dismounted, and the woman. O’Brien said, “Arriguela, you and Gonzalez stay and keep guard. Prieta, bring up a fresh mount for my use, in case I need it. The others: dismissed.”
He entered the brush hut; its shade was welcome, for already the sun was a high-rising scalding horror. He still kept the Colt trained on Fargo. “So,” he said. “Here we are, the old champion and the new one.”
“Carlos,” Liz whined. “I’m tired as hell and hungry.”
“Are you, now?” O’Brien tilted his handsome head, eyed her strangely. He was truly an imposing figure of a man in his gold-braided sombrero, ornamented jacket, conchoed trousers, black boots with big hammered-silver spurs. He looked to be, though, what was called “black Irish” through and through, his skin very light, his hair and eyes and mustache raven. “Well, we wouldn’t want you to suffer. Arriguela. Send Captain Jimenez to me.”
Liz’s hand went to her throat. Her eyes widened, and she sat down suddenly on a mat in a corner, as if her legs had come unhinged at the knees. “Jimenez?”
O’Brien’s red mouth curled. “You remember him? I believe I’d just turned you over to him when you escaped. He’ll see you don’t do it again.”
Liz licked her lips. “Wait a minute, Carlos. You left me with Jimenez because you had to go away. But now you’re back ... ”
“Indeed I am, but I fail to see where that makes any difference.”
“Now, please.” Liz mustered strength, got slowly to her feet. “Carlos, you can’t do that. You can’t give me to that fat slob Jimemez ... After all we’ve been to one another—”
O’Brien laughed flatly. “Been to one another! I never heard a mare say that to the stallion before.”
“You never—” Her jaw dropped. “But I ... I made you happy.”
“And I made you happy. So we’re even.” O’Brien looked at her oddly; then his face turned savage. “Woman,” he said, “do you think I am interested in a puta like you? Any man’s plaything. Do you think, because I am half-Spanish, I should feel honored to go to bed with a blonde American puta whose blondeness isn’t even real? Do you think you’re conferring some great favor on me by offering to share my blankets? As a matter of fact, I have an American woman back in Mexico City—the daughter of your government’s commercial attaché. A girl of family, breeding, culture, not a slut.” He threw the words at her like sharp rocks. “You were handy for a while, but I have no further use for you. So I give you to Jimenez. What he does when he’s through with you is no concern of mine.”
Liz Baines’ face was the color of the bolls of cotton they grew around Saltillo: blanched, pure white. Even her tan seemed to vanish. “But I … Suppose I hadn’t called out to you? Then you’d never have caught Neal Fargo.”
“True,” O’Brien said, “but you had reasons of your own, not affection for me. I believe you said Fargo beat you with a quirt. You were lucky he was such a gentleman. Jimenez will, if you are not good, probably use a stick. All right, you’ve had your revenge on Fargo. I have no time for you, and you can nurse the knowledge of what will happen to him while Jimenez trains you to his own ways. I hope it will console you.”
“Why, you double-crossing bastard!”
She came at O’Brien, halted as he raised a big hand. He smiled. “Fargo and I are enemies and maybe I’ll kill him. But believe me, we’ve got much more in common than either one of us has with you. We’re men making war; you’re an interference and a distraction ... Captain Jimenez!”
His uniform was filthy with grease and campfire ash; his big belly flopped over his belt. Bandoliers of cartridges clicked as he halted; his spurs rang once. His face was round and dark and sad and ugly; his dark, sand eyes hardly lit as he saw the woman. “Colonel O’Brien,” he said hoarsely.
“I think this belongs to you, Captain. Would you be good enough to remove it?”
“I don’t think she likes me, Colonel. She ran away from me before.”
“Then teach her not to run away again. Beat her, cut her throat, give her to your lieutenant, I don’t give a damn. Just take her.”
“Yes, sir.” Jimenez stepped forward, seized Liz’s wrist. “Come, woman.”
She tried to fight, but his strength was inexorable. As she clawed at his face, he hit her. “Fargo!” she screamed. “Do something!”
“You should have kept your mouth shut when they rode by those boulders,” Fargo said. He took a cigar from his pocket, clamped it between his teeth and lit it, as Jimenez hit her again and she quit fighting. The fat captain dragged her away.
O’Brien fished out a cigarette, one-handed, thrust it in his mouth and set fire to it, the pistol never wavering. Liz and Jimenez disappeared into the crowd of men camped in the basin. Neither watched. “Sit down, Fargo,” O’Brien said.
Fargo did, cross-legged on the mat. O’Brien sat on the pile of blankets opposite him, gun still trained. “Well. In my position, what would you do?”
Fargo blew smoke and did not answer him.
“I always ask myself,” O’Brien went on, “what would Fargo do? Always, my answers turn out right. So far, anyhow. Now I must be truly right. Because you have information that I need. I know the girl told you that it was I, not Villa’s men, who killed those mining engineers. I probably told her too much else. A mistake I took no chance of repeating. Now. I want to know exactly what you and Pancho Villa know and what you intend to do.”
Fargo said, “You ought to know me well enough to know I’m not going to tell you.”
“And you should know me well enough, because I operate like you, to know I intend to torture an answer out of you if it comes to that. The only question is finding the level of torture to which you will respond. Of course, there are many. We have Indians in our command who are experts at such things. We could cut you apart, bit by bit, skin you alive, starting with the soles of your feet; or we could stake you out and build a fire on your belly and let it burn through. We could cut off your eyelids and leave you spread-eagled staring at the sun. Or we could bury you alive, with only your head sticking out of the sand, and tomorrow we could charge our horses across you. All these are customary methods, as you understand. They have been used by both sides in the revolution. Maybe you have used them yourself. You know, as well as any man, what it can be like. So I offer: a quick, clean death in return for information.”
Fargo looked directly into the handsome face. He knew O’Brien meant exactly what he said. He quailed inwardly at the prospects before him. But something in him said, fiercely, “Go to hell.”
O’Brien sighed. “I’d have given the same answer. Fargo, I don’t know what to do with you. Once you’ve made a deal, I know, you stick with it to the death. So do I. But we’ve made deals on opposite sides. Still … ” O’Brien moved restlessly. “Still, there might be a chance. You could come over to us and get very rich. All you’d have to do is acknowledge I’m the better man, that you’ll take my orders, and tell me all you know about Villa’s Army.”
“Come over to you?” Fargo said. “You mean to Carranza?”
“No, I mean to me. To me personally.” Suddenly O’Brien sprang up, began to pace. “And when I am president of Greater Mexico, which will contain most of Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and southern California—the greatest state in the Western hemisphere—you could be a great man, too.”
Fargo said, tensely, “O’Brien, you ought to keep that big hat on. The sun’s got to you.”
“You think so?” The dark eyes glittered. “Well, I’ll tell you why Neal Fargo will die and Carlos O’Brien go down in history! Because you froze up, Fargo! If you had kept on the way you began, you could have become the president of some South or Central American country yourself! You could have become rich by now and retired. But you always t
hought too small! Just to the next paycheck and the next binge! Me, I’ve adapted your tactics to thinking big! And it’s set, it’s all set, laid out before me.”
Fargo rolled the cigar across his mouth. “How so?”
“Simple. So absurdly simple nobody will believe it.” O’Brien’s chest swelled. Then he broke off.
Fargo’s mind worked quickly. “The Germans,” he said.
“So. You guessed that much. All right. Maybe we’ll trade information. Yes, the Germans. They came to Carranza and Obregon, they made them offers; Carranza and Obregon can’t make up their minds. So the Germans came to me. I’ve got their backing, Fargo. I took those mining engineers off the train and killed them and not even Carranza knows Villa didn’t do it. And next I’ll—” He hesitated.
“Columbus,” Fargo said. “New Mexico.”
“Well. So you’ve guessed that much. And we do trade information. So Villa’s guessed or heard about Columbus. The Germans discussed it with Carranza and Carranza turned it down. But I didn’t. I operate on my own, anyhow, and I’m free to hit where I want to. I’ve earned that right, the hard way. Yeah. With German money and, German guns, I hit Columbus. Not even Carranza knows it wasn’t Villa. The American Army comes in after Villa. Carranza stands up against this invasion of Mexico. After Villa’s caught and wiped out, I hit the Americans from behind. Carranza’s sucked in, no choice but to fight. Meanwhile, with German help, I pull a coup. The old double-double-double cross. We’re at war with the United States by then. Villa’s gone, Carranza’s at zero, once I kill Obregon, the strong man in the government, it’s all mine, The Germans lay on pressure, money, guns, I’m the new Presidente of Mexico—or dictator, if you prefer—and everybody rallies round me while I fight the gringos and take back the lost territories. By then, the Germans will have whipped the French and English and can help me whip the United States, if it comes to that, I work with them, they work with me. But it all starts with Columbus. I thought it would start with murdering the mining engineers, but that got patched up, a little. They can’t patch up Columbus. It’ll be the end of Villa—and the end of Carranza and Obregon as well. But just the beginning for Carlos O’Brien.”