Massacre River (A Neal Fargo Western) #5

by John Benteen

  He had even sympathized with the rebellious Tagalogs. The Spanish had ground them down for centuries. Then, just as the Spanish had begun to lose their potency, the Americans had wrested the archipelago away from them, and then the Filipinos had new masters. As a man whose own creed was total freedom—from all the niggling restraints of society all the niceties and hypocrisies of civilization— Fargo had almost hated to fight them. He had enjoyed fighting the Moros more. They fought for no ideology; they fought because they loved to fight and kill; to wipe out a Christian was passport to Paradise, and with them anything went. In a way, he was a Moro himself, he supposed, due to his love of fighting and his love of women (the Moros maintained enormous harems) but he was fair game to them and they were fair game to him. Not so with the more civilized Tagalogs.

  They were good people. He’d been to their fiestas and their cockfights, had drunk tuba, their potent coconut wine, and had consumed, at his own risk, his share of the deadly whiskey they made from sugar cane. He knew how they valued the virginity of their women—and how totally depraved they could be once they had learned what a peso could buy. He knew, too, that they were a patient people who fought only for what they believed in; and that once you had won their confidence, they were your eternal friends. Full of contradictions, they were fascinating to him; and he felt at home here, despite the strangeness of the surroundings. But he was not fool enough to think that, because he liked them, they liked him. They’d had too much of white oppressors. The cold-blooded Spaniards had left a bad taste in their mouths, so to speak, so that no matter how much the Americans tried to win them over, their success could only be limited.

  And he knew of their propensity to form bandit gangs; and if Ching were right, and a new insurrection was in the works, he would have to kill Tagalogs, too, before he got Jade Ching to her husband. He was charging two hundred and fifty dollars a mile to get her north; it would be worth it, every step of the way.

  ~*~

  Then he was back in Manila proper. He got off the trolley halfway down Rizal, the street that had been named after the martyr executed by the Spaniards, and went looking for a bar. He had a lot of thinking to do about the trip north, and he always thought better with a drink in his hand.

  His experienced eye soon picked out a cantina not vastly different from those in Mexico, or, for that matter, in Texas. Batwing swinging doors, a long bar, sawdust on the floor, tables—and percentage girls, Only, instead of being American, these were short, round-breasted Tagalogs, almost flat Japanese, one or two Spanish mestizas, taller and more voluptuous than the rest, and an occasional Chinese girl, who might be shaped like any of the others. But there were not many Chinese; they did not let their women sink to such depths.

  Anyhow, the place would do. There was a traffic of Americans into it—soldiers from Fort McKinley, sailors from the naval base at Cavite. He would not be conspicuous. He went in, claimed a table, ordered a bottle of Stateside whiskey and when it came, he checked the bottom of it carefully. The bartenders in Manila had a nasty habit of cutting the bottom out of bottles of good whiskey, draining their contents, refilling them with the deadly sugar-head which might blind you or drive you crazy, and sealing up the cut glass with a hot iron. All this without breaking the seal, and unless you looked under the bottle for the cutting marks, the fusil oil could get you. Fargo looked under the bottle, saw it was sound, and accepted it.

  He poured a drink, tossed it off. A Filipina, Tagalog, small, with breasts like a twelve-year-old girl and a brown face painted white, came over and bent close to him. She reeked of cheap perfume. “Hey Senor, you buy me drink? We drink, then pam-pam.”

  Fargo mentally tabulated the venereal diseases with which she might be infected. Anyhow, oddly, the vision of Jade Ching lingered in his brain. Though he had not had a woman in a long time, the image of the Chinese girl blotted out the mindless desire he expected to feel. “Go away,” he said.

  She protested. He got rough with her and she left. Fargo knocked back a drink and then another. Three hundred miles. Up through the level country of Pam-panga and Tarlac. Then into the mountains, fog-shrouded and pine-clad on their crests, the valleys clogged with wet jungle—and, he thought, headhunters and maybe cannibals. He began to make hard, concrete plans. He would need so many packhorses, and he would need so many trustworthy Tagalogs—and he would have to have a few American fighting men to side him. Now—

  Then she came out of the back room.

  ~*~

  She was a white woman. She was lovely. She wore a tight red dress, slashed low at the bosom to show her breasts, slit up the thigh to show legs sheathed in gleaming black silk stockings. Fargo took a look at her—white skin, lovely features, a helmet of blonde hair, breastworks that jutted forward like the gun turrets on a battleship, and all at once he forgot Jade Ching. As she ambled out into the room with an erotic switch of hips, he suddenly knew how he wanted to spend the evening.

  Almost as if he had sent out signals, she looked around and saw him. Her eyes were blue beneath pale brows, and they widened with interest. He saw her breasts swell, noted, even, the jut of nipples under the red silk dress. He gestured, and she came over. Bending as she approached the table, so that he could look down between the cleft of her breasts, purple-shadowed, she let her red-painted lips curve in a smile. “Hello, soldier.”

  “I’m not a soldier.”

  “You’re wearing a soldier’s hat.”

  “I’m still not a soldier. You want a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Whiskey. Not cold tea.”

  She sat down beside him. “I always drink cold tea. But ... I’ll tell you what. You’re so goddamned ugly that you’re pretty. You did something to me just looking at me. So, with you, I’ll drink whiskey.”

  Fargo noted the strangeness of her accent. “You’re not from the States.”

  “No. Australia. My name’s Dorothy.”

  “Dorothy. I’m Fargo.”

  “I really don’t give a damn what your name is. I just like your looks. I write my own ticket in this bar; that’s how scarce white women are here. White women like me, anyhow. If I want to sit with you for hours, I can. Because when you get me, it’ll cost you, anyhow.”

  Fargo took out a slim, dark cigar and bit off its end and thrust it between his white teeth. “I don’t pay for women. Not in money.” Her eyes half-lidded themselves.

  “What do you pay in?”

  Fargo chucked, and as a waiter set down a glass, he poured whiskey from his bottle. “You figure that out.”

  Her leg moved beneath the table, her thigh touched his; and it was soft and warm. He felt her hand cap his knee. “Damn you,” she said, “I wish you weren’t so ugly. And so strong-looking. Then I could make a little more money—”

  She broke off as the swinging doors clashed open. Then a deep, masculine voice bellowed: “Have no fear! O’Bannon’s here!”

  Fargo jerked around. The man who had strode through the door was shorter than he, about the same age, thickset, with tightly curled red hair and pale blue eyes in a pale, freckled, Irish face. Something— an old remembrance—stirred in Fargo, even as the newcomer, dressed in Army khaki, but lacking insignia, stared around the room. Then the pale blue eyes hit Dorothy.

  O’Bannon grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Well, now, and here’s me darling. Waiting for me, aren’t you, sweetheart? Your own heart’s ease, ex-sergeant O’Bannon of the U.S. Cavalry, come to spend the day with you.” Then his eyes, glazed, for he was already drunk, shuttled to Fargo. “And who be this, with whom ye’re fillin’ in the time ’til my arrival?”

  Fargo crushed out his cigar. “Hell’s fire, O’Bannon. I haven’t seen you since I pulled you out of that ambush on Samar.”

  O’Bannon stared at him. His face twisted. “No. no. It can’t be. Not that goddam Neal Fargo.”

  Fargo grinned. “The same.”

  “But, ye bastard, ye didn’t rescue me. Ye led the second platoon and I led the f
irst. The first could have got me out of there bright and shining; we didn’t need your help!”

  “The first platoon was all screwed up and there was O’Bannon about to be beheaded by a Moro. Okay, so I shot him. Sorry.”

  O’Bannon reared himself to full height, maybe three, four inches shorter than Fargo. “And sure, you should be. Because, when I come in here and find ye sittin’ with me girl...”

  “Whose girl?” snorted Fargo.

  “Mine! Dorothy’s me girl. Ain’t you, mavourneen! Now, come away, me dear. Leave this evil and corrupt man named Neal Fargo and have a drink with your dear lover man, retired cavalry Sergeant Terence O’Bannon. Then we’ll go up the stairs and—”

  “No,” said Dorothy, the Australian whore.

  O’Bannon blinked. “No, ye say? No? To me? The O’Bannon?”

  Dorothy looked at Fargo “You don’t want me to leave, do you?” Her hand squeezed his knee.

  “Not with this carrot-topped knothead,” said Fargo, grinning.

  O’Bannon took two steps back from the table. “Oh, say, now, Fargo. You and I have fought each other before, more than once. And neither wins, ever, when we fight. Because we are both handy men with our fists. Now, pray, don’t give me a hard time. Because I am retired from the army. I am what they call now a sunshiner. And I wish no trouble, only you sit here with me darlin’ …”

  “Too bad,” Fargo said. “I intend to screw her.”

  O’Bannon hit him in the face without warning.

  The blow knocked Fargo over backward in his chair. He hit the floor hard and came up instantly, laughing, fists raised. Dorothy screamed. “Oh, no! Please!”

  Fargo moved around the table. “Goddamit, O’Bannon, you hit me at the wrong time. I’m in the mood to fight.”

  The Irishman’s blue eyes glittered. “Me, also, Fargo, me lad. Women is one thing, but a good fight’s another. Lay on.”

  “Yeah,” said Fargo, and he moved in.

  The red-headed Irishman danced aside, avoiding Fargo’s first blow. “Aye. You may have fought heavyweight, but I fought welterweight, and there’s not that much difference. I’ll chop ye into hamburger, me old friend.”

  “Do it,” said Fargo, and came in slugging.

  ~*~

  It was like old times. He and O’Bannon had fought the whole length of the Philippines, as rival platoon sergeants were won’t to do in the cavalry. Fargo knew just how dangerous O’Bannon could be, and the Irishman had the same knowledge of him.

  So they sparred for a moment, circling each other like fighting cocks. Meanwhile, the bar grew deathly silent. Almost instinctively, the soldiers and sailors from the American bases formed a ring around them.

  Then Fargo moved in with a quick left jab to the jaw. It sliced past O’Bannon’s guard, rocked the Irishman’s head back. Fargo hit O’Bannon in the belly while the Irishman was off balance.

  O’Bannon slammed back against the bar. “Now, b’jeesus,” he said, and, as Fargo charged in, he lashed out with a foot. It caught Fargo in the belly and sent him crashing back on a table, which collapsed under his weight. He landed on the floor in a welter of splintering wood, gasping for breath. But he knew he must not give O’Bannon a second’s edge, and he came up like a rubber ball. Before O’Bannon’s leg had dropped back to the floor, Fargo had surged in, slammed O’Bannon back against the bar with a rock-hard fist. O’Bannon’s eyes glazed; he slumped a little. Fargo hit him in the belly and O’Bannon’s breath went out in a whoosh.

  But an Irish fighting man was not to be bested that easily. As O’Bannon sagged, Fargo became unwary. In that instant, O’Bannon brought up his knee, hard. Fargo, aware of agonizing pain, toppled backward. Wrapped up in a cocoon of flesh, protecting the crucial area where O’Bannon had caught him, he would have been easy prey for O’Bannon’s deadly, hurtling, booted foot. But he had learned to live with pain and overcome it if it meant survival. When O’Bannon’s foot flashed toward him, he reached out instinctively and caught it. Twisting, jerking, he upset the Irishman, and the bar rocked with the impact as O’Bannon hit the floor.

  Fargo, though still hurting, was on him in an instant. The rule of barroom fighting was this—never give your opponent an instant’s advantage. And he had fought O’Bannon often enough to know that O’Bannon would take advantage of any leeway he could get. While Fargo had the Irishman pinned, he hit him twice on the jaw, once with a straight left, then with a straight right.

  Any normal human would have collapsed, then. Not O’Bannon. As if his head were made of rock, he arched his body, trying to unseat Fargo. At the same time, he brought his hands up, got his thumbs into Fargo’s eyes and, with no desire to be blinded, Fargo yielded. He rolled aside, to avoid the pressure of those hands, and then both of them were on their feet.

  O’Bannon’s tobacco-stained teeth showed in a snarl. “So help me,” he whispered, “I’ll tear ye bleedin’ head off.” Then he hit Fargo and sent Fargo slamming back across two more tables into the wall.

  Fargo came up, shaking his head, and charged forward. He hit O’Bannon, his fist picking up the Irishman, skidding him across the bar. Bottles crashed as O’Bannon hit on the other side. Then he surged up from behind the counter. Launching himself like a rocket across the mahogany, he ran full into Fargo’s fist.

  Its rock-hard array of knuckles caught O’Bannon on the chin. “Oh, jeesus,” he said aloud, as he hurtled backward, again crashing into a reeking mulch of broken whiskey bottles.

  Fargo was over the bar and on him in an instant. O’Bannon lay there blinking in the whiskey-smelling rubble. Fargo landed on top of him, clubbed a fist, drove it home. “Jeesus,” O’Bannon said again as Fargo hit him, and he began to pound Fargo on the back.

  It hurt. Having the upper hand, Fargo jumped up, backed away. Fists cocked, he stared down at O’Bannon. “Okay, goddam it, Terence, you think you got anything left in you, show it.”

  “Nothing,” O’Bannon croaked. “You have whipped me, Fargo.” His lips were pale. “Nothing.” Then, with utter treachery, his right foot whipped out. It hooked behind Fargo’s ankle, jerked, and Fargo went down, and the supposedly defeated O’Bannon was on him like a surging tide.

  Fists slammed into Fargo’s eyes, mouth, nose, and he realized that he’d been had. Just as O’Bannon’s thumbs were about to pop his eyes from their sockets, he clubbed both fists, hit O’Bannon on the back of the neck.

  The Irishman sighed, went dead, his weight pressing on Fargo. Fargo wriggled from under, hurting, breathing hard.

  He turned. Dorothy, from the other side of the bar, was staring at him with wide eyes. Her breasts rose and fell above the low neckline of her gown. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, God, Fargo, what a man.”

  Fargo, panting, leaned against the bar, from which even the Tagalog bartender had fled. His eyes shuttled to O’Bannon, snoring in the midst of broken glass. Then they went back to Dorothy.

  Fargo wiped blood from his broken lips. “Is Terence really your lover?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. He’s a dear. He was also the toughest man in Manila—until you came along.”

  Fargo looked into Dorothy’s green eyes. He said, deliberately, “But not any longer.”

  “No.” The flesh beneath her bodice rose and fell.

  “On the other hand,” said Fargo, “he’s an old friend. We’ve drunk out of the same canteen and shared the same rations. I’d hate to see our friendship break up over a woman.”

  She stared uncomprehendingly. “But you just fought each other.”

  “Sure. But that don’t have anything to do with friendship. That was just fun. Anyhow, I’ve got a use for him. So I’ll tell you what—I’m going to haul him up to your room and leave him there. He’s all yours.”

  Dorothy blinked. “Wait. You mean, after fighting over me, you aren’t—”

  “Nope. You’re all O’Bannon’s.”

  “Why, you big ape,” she said, “I had just promised to give it to you free when he walked in.”

&nbs
p; “But I don’t want it now, baby. It’s all good old Terence’s.” And Fargo went behind the bar, hoisted the unconscious Irishman to his shoulder like a sack of feed and walked toward the stairs. “Show me where to put him. Then I’ll pay for the breakage.”

  Dorothy gaped. “I never met a man like you before. I can’t figure you out.”

  Fargo gave her his wolf’s grin. “Not many can. Anyhow, women are a dime a dozen. But there’s only one Terence O’Bannon. And I’ve got a use for him.”

  Then he carried O’Bannon up the stairs.

  Chapter Four

  Sitting across from Fargo in the little panciteria, or restaurant, off Rizal Avenue, he rubbed watering eyes and a battered face. “The money,” he said. “Say how much money again.”

  “Three thousand dollars.”

  “It ain’t enough.”

  “The hell it ain’t. More than the first soldier of a cavalry troop makes in three years.”

  “Yeah. But you don’t know how terrible things are here. In the past year, they’ve gone from bad to worse. It’s rougher even than it was during the Insurrection. At least you knew then who the enemy was. Now there ain’t any way to tell. The feller who shakes your hand this mornin’s liable to cut your throat tonight. That whole country up yonder, from up around San Fernando on—it’s swarmin’ with bandits and outlaws. There ain’t enough army left up there to even patrol regularly and the Constabulary can’t keep order. And now you tell me there’s a new insurrection boiling up north on top of everything else. And then, even if we got through all that—headhunters.” O’Bannon shook his head, and the effort made him wince. “No, thankee. Not for Mrs. O’Bannon’s little boy Terence.”

  Fargo grinned and shrugged. “Okay. So you’ve gone soft. Well, I’ll find somebody else. I just figured you’d enjoy the fighting and needed the dough. But since you’re obviously a man of means now—”