by John Benteen
“I ain’t said I was a man of means. Oh, I saved me a little money, that’s why I didn’t re-enlist. Was plannin’ to purchase me a coconut plantation somewhere and a few brown girls to keep house and comfort me. Only—”
“Only you drank it up and wenched it away.”
“Something like that,” O’Bannon said, with a rueful grin.
“Four thousand dollars would set you up pretty good, wouldn’t it?”
O’Bannon’s blue eyes glittered. “Well, sure, now ye’re talkin’ more me language.”
“All right. We’ll make it four. But you’ll have to fight for every dollar of it.”
“And maybe ye’ve forgot that fightin’s been my trade for nigh on to twenty years?”
“I haven’t forgotten it,” Fargo said. “That’s why I want you. Besides, you know your way around here. Now, we’re going to need some things and you ought to know where to find ’em. First off, we want horses. Not these little native nags, but good ones, cavalry remounts.”
“That we can get. There’s a man that raises ’em down at Los Baños. Top stock.”
“Mules, too. Six of ’em, all well broke to packing.”
“Scarcer. This campaign is usin’ ’em up. But we’ll find ’em.” He stared at Fargo. “You still ain’t told me what we’ll be haulin’.”
“You’ll find that out when we leave and not before.”
“Aha. Ye don’t trust me?”
“Not with booze around.”
“Maybe ye’re right.” O’Bannon rubbed his jaw. “In me cups, I’m inclined to talk a wee bit. Very well, Neal, me boy. It’s a deal—for four thousand dollars, I’m your man. When do we git rollin’?”
“Right away.” Fargo shoved back his chair.
O’Bannon looked appalled. “Sure, and can’t I have a day to get over this bad case of the whips and jingles?”
Fargo’s grin was merciless. “Nothing like the noonday sun for curing a hangover.”
~*~
The next two days were a frenzy of activity. South of Manila, at Los Baños, not far from an old Spanish prison, they found fine horses and lucked into good mules, already contracted for by the army, but sold to them in violation of the contract because their owner could not resist the premium prices Fargo offered. Food and supplies were purchased, too, and ammunition—plenty of it. O’Bannon had his own .45 automatic and a Springfield rifle.
In Manila, O’Bannon, after some searching, ran down a lanky, hatchet-faced ex-corporal named Sam Weatherbee. Texas-born, a veteran of years in the cavalry, Weatherbee had, like the Irishman, left the army and was married to a Tagalog woman. He spoke Tagalog dialect fluently, and Fargo liked him at once, sensing integrity and reliability and courage in the slow-drawling, competent-looking man. O’Bannon’s recommendation was unreserved, and Weatherbee hired on as pack master and fighting man for two thousand dollars, a sum which would make him a rich man in the milieu in which he lived. It was through Weatherbee and his wife that they found the two Filipino packers, short, brown, tough men whom Weatherbee guaranteed to be utterly reliable, free of connections with either bandits or revolutionaries. Premium pay would, Fargo hoped, reinforce their loyalty. Both were veterans of the Philippine Scouts, and they could, he was sure, hold their own in a fight, too.
Then he went to see Jonathan Ching.
The Chinese merchant stared at Fargo, appalled, from across his desk. “No more than that? You expect me to entrust my daughter to such a small force? The first bandit attack, and you’ll all be lost.”
Fargo was calm. “The more people we hire, the more we have to worry about double-crossing us. The bigger the outfit, the slower we move and the more fuss we stir up. It’s my job to get your daughter and the money north. Either I do it my own way or I don’t do it at all.”
Ching was silent. Then he sighed. “Very well. Nevertheless, I reserve the right to send at least one of my own men along as my representative.”
“He’d better be a fighter.”
Ching’s eyes were hard. He struck the little gong. “I assure you that he is,” he said, as it reverberated. The servant came; Ching issued orders. Within a pair of minutes, another man came into the room. In Oriental garb, cap and robe, he bowed ceremoniously to Ching, then to Fargo. When he raised his head, Fargo saw a round, yellowish face, scarred by old knife wounds, a pair of cold, hard, black eyes, and a mouth like a slash. “Chuang Teh-Kong,” said Jonathan Ching. “My personal bodyguard. And, I might add, a very high ranking man in the Hip Sing tong. The tongs, as you might know, are very potent secret societies. There are other Hip Sings in the villages to the north—wherever there are Chinese. If you should need help, Chuang can see that you get it.”
“Can he ride and shoot?”
“Superbly. He is also expert with knife and hatchet.”
Then we’ll take him along.” Fargo stood up. “We’ll travel by rail from Manila to Dagupan, up on Lingay-en Gulf. I’ve made arrangements for special cars for the horses and mules and a private car for our own gear and party. The train pulls out at dawn tomorrow. Bring your daughter under escort and in riding clothes to the station. No more than two trunks of luggage, small enough to be packed on mules. We’ll see you then.”
Jonathan Ching’s hands clenched and unclenched nervously. “Almost,” he whispered, “I lose my courage. My daughter is so precious to me ... Mr. Fargo, please take care of her.”
“Don’t worry,” Fargo said. “I intend to.”
~*~
A light warm drizzle fell the next morning as they finished loading the horses and gear in darkness. O’Bannon slapped the rump of the last mule as he fastened it securely between the stanchions the packers had built to brace the animals on the seven- or eight-hour journey. “Faith,” he said, “and it’s been a long night’s work. What about a wee nip before we pull out, Fargo?”
“You can have all the coffee you want,” Fargo said. “Coffee.” O’Bannon looked at Weatherbee and spat disgustedly. “Hell, a man can’t travel and fight on coffee.”
“We’re going to,” Fargo said.
“Ye always was a hard man to git along with.” O’Bannon ran his eyes over Fargo. “And, faith, ye still look like a walkin’ arsenal.”
Fargo grinned. “In my business, O’Bannon, there’s only one deadly sin. That’s to run out of ammo at the wrong time.” He said it jokingly, but it was stern truth. Across his wide chest were crisscrossed two bandoliers of ammunition, one for the Winchester, the other for the ten-gauge Fox riot gun, which hung bores down from a sling behind his right shoulder. He wore his revolver holstered on his hip, now, the notched cartridges gleaming dully in their loops; the sheathed Batangas knife was on his belt. His face went hard as he added: “And I don’t want to see either one of you from now on without your guns in reach and plenty of rounds for ’em.”
“I don’t know what this cargo we’re transportin’ is,” O’Bannon grumbled. “But it must be something precious as hell.”
At that instant, there was the clop of hooves, the rumble of wheels on cobbled pavement. Fargo turned: two large carriages, landaus with covered tops, approached, lamps gleaming in the dawn mist “Here it comes now,” he said.
O’Bannon tipped back his campaign hat, stared, “Hell,” he said as the carriages stopped, a man got out. “That’s old Jon Ching! He’s the richest Chinaman in Manila.”
Ching strode toward them, followed by his bodyguard, Chuang. Clad in khakis, Chuang was bigger than he had looked in the robes, barrel-chested and with huge hands. He wore a pistol in a shoulder holster and a cartridge belt around his waist. But what riveted Fargo’s attention was the long-handled hatchets, one on each hip, suspended from his gun-belt by loops of rope. Their big blades glittered in the lamplight, their edges razor-keen.
Jonathan Ching’s face was grave. “Mr. Fargo. Is everything in readiness?”
Fargo nodded. He pointed to a coach ahead of the boxcars in which the animals had been loaded. “That’s our car.”
&
nbsp; Ching looked cautiously around the station; at this time of morning, it was virtually deserted. “Very well,” he said. He went back to the carriages. Then O’Bannon let out a breath as Jade Ching stepped out of one of the landaus. “Well, by the saints! A woman!” He whirled on Fargo. “That’s what we’re transportin’?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Oh, and lovely, too. Yes, lovely.” O’Bannon whispered that and licked his lips.
The bodyguard, Chuang, towered over the girl as she strode toward them, dressed as if for a foxhunt in the English countryside. She wore a black bowler, black coat, jodhpurs, high boots. They were all carefully tailored, and she was stunning in them. “Good morning, Mr. Fargo,” she said, in that soft, whispering voice. “I hope this is the way you wanted me to dress.”
“It’ll be fine. We may have hard riding.” Fargo introduced her to O’Bannon and Weatherbee. “Now. Let’s get you aboard the car right away.”
He led her to the coach, Chuang at her heels like an enormous dog. She climbed in, took a seat. Chuang sat behind her, drawing one of his hatchets and laying it on his lap. Fargo did not miss the way he ran his thumb over the keen blade, as if testing it. Jade took off her hat, touched her hair with her hands. It glimmered blue-black in the coach lamps. “My father tells me I am not to have a maid or an attendant.”
“I’m afraid not. On a trip like this, an extra woman would only get in the way.”
“My father feels that I lose face by traveling without a servant, but it pleases me. This is an adventure. I like adventures. If only—” she broke off.
“If only what?” Fargo asked.
“If only I were not going to be—” her voice was lost in the sound of footsteps. Four burly Chinese entered the car, each pair staggering under the weight of an ironbound chest. Jonathan Ching walked behind them. “Where do you want these?”
“Under those seats will be fine. Nobody will be in this car but us.”
Ching gave orders and the chests were stored. “You must be very alert, Mr. Fargo. Train robberies are not common, but they have happened. There will be guards on the train as is customary, members of the Constabulary. But they are not aware of what is being carried in this car. Its defense is in your hands.” He took out a watch, looked at it. At that moment, the locomotive somewhere ahead gave a shrill, piping whistle. “Only a few minutes until your departure.”
“Yes,” Fargo said, as the car shook with the impact of being coupled onto the train. He signaled to O’Bannon, Weatherbee and the packers. They swung aboard.
Ching turned to his daughter. His face was contorted with emotion. He began to talk rapidly, softly in Chinese. She listened intently, put a hand on his, replied in the same language. Fargo saw tears in the eyes of both of them; but they did not kiss. Jade Ching only bowed slightly to her father; he returned the bow, held her hand for a moment, and then turned to Fargo. “May your Christian gods bless your journey,” he said thickly; and then, as the train car trembled as if wanting to take flight, hurried off. He stood at the side of the track, looking up into the window. Ahead, people were piling into the other coaches of the train now, a motley crowd of Filipinos, Americans, and uniformed soldiers of the Constabulary, carrying rifles. He raised a hand, dropped it. The locomotive’s whistle blew again. Then the train lurched into motion and they were on their way north.
Chapter Five
Fargo sat beside Jade Ching at her request and looked out at the countryside flowing past. The little train was no cannonball; its average speed was less than twenty miles an hour, and it stopped at almost every village.
The landscape beyond the window could have come from one of the scroll paintings in Jonathan Ching’s office. In the misty rain, the green of rice paddies and the graceful outlines of bamboo groves were delicate and muted, this part of Luzon almost as level as a board. Straining farmers pushing crude plows wallowed in water up to their thighs behind great black water buffalo in the rice fields; naked children waved from little villages of nipa palm huts, small thatched structures on high bamboo stilts. It was hard to believe that such a peaceful scene could harbor potential violence, but Fargo was not deceived, and the ten-gauge was cradled in his lap. Across the aisle, with a good idea now of their mission and thorough realization of the stakes involved, Weatherbee and O’Bannon were equally alert, their guns ready. Behind Fargo and Jade, Chuang still toyed with his hatchet.
The girl had been silent for a long while. Now she spoke. “I suppose, really, I am very fortunate.”
“What do you mean?” Fargo was keenly aware of her beauty; her perfume, subtle, yet stirring, was in his nostrils.
“Chinese women are sheltered, you know. They have no rights, are only chattels. I’ve been lucky. At least I’ve had a few years of freedom.” She sighed, and her small, round breasts rose beneath her blouse; she had removed the jacket. “I have no cause to complain, I guess, because now it ends.”
“You’re not looking forward to getting married.”
“No. To be honest, I’m not. Not, anyhow, to Chea Swen-tai. Of course, I have never seen him ...”
“So I understand. I’m surprised a girl like you would submit to something like this.”
She shrugged, helplessly. “What can I do? I am my father’s daughter and this marriage is my father’s wish. My father has been very liberal with me. As the wife of Chea Swen-tai, I shall have to resume the traditional role of the Chinese woman. But it is inevitable … ” she smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose you could just ... lose me somewhere along the way, could you, Mr. Fargo?”
“If you start talking like that, I’ll have to guard you to keep you from running away. I contracted to deliver you to your new husband and ... well, I’m sorry about the way you feel, but I am to do it.”
“Yes. Of course. I was only joking.”
They had pulled into another station. As always, Fargo got up, checked the locks on the doors of the coach. He watched the colorful crowd swarm on and off, stood braced as the train moved forward again.
Rice fields, bamboo groves, villages, rivers in which carabao, the water buffalo, bathed up to their muzzles—these all flowed past. The train was rolling faster now. San Fernando, Angeles … the country became more rolling. Once they passed a cavalry patrol on the road that paralleled the track; it was a small one, going in the opposite direction. The rain began to fall harder.
Fargo puffed on a cigar. The girl sat pensively, staring out the window, occasionally trading a few Chinese words with Chuang. It was past noon, now, and the rain was pouring down. So far, Fargo thought, so good. Up ahead, the whistle blasted, then blasted again. Fargo tensed, though it was probably only a water buffalo on the track.
Then a bullet smashed the window.
~*~
Glass flew inward over a vacant seat. Lead whined through the car. At that instant, the train stopped with a jolt that almost knocked Fargo off his feet. A gun cracked somewhere, and another glass went.
Fargo flung himself down the aisle. “Take cover!” he bellowed, jerked the frozen Jade Ching from her seat, pushed her flat on the floor. O’Bannon was beside him in an instant. “What the divil?” the Irishman blurted. “Train robbers?” Then, as a hail of lead burst through the windows on the right side of the coach, he fell backward cursing savagely, blood welling from a bullet rip on his arm. “The scuts! I’ll show ’em!”
Fargo peered cautiously through one of the broken windows. Out there along the right-of-way, men swarmed in straw sombreros, ragged white clothes, Some wore bandoliers across their chests, all carried rifles and machetes. There must be, Fargo thought, at least thirty, and they were firing smartly at the train cars all up and down the line; and the Constabulary guards were returning the fire.
“Fargo!” O’Bannon yelled. “Look over here!”
Fargo swung to the other side of the car. A group of ten men made for it, guns ready, fanning out in loose formation under the direction of a bare-footed leader with a Springfield rifle. Farg
o cursed. Somehow word had leaked. No doubt that this coach was the main object of the attack.
The bandits fired as they came. Lead shrieked and whined through the car. Glass shattered; bullets splintered the coach’s wooden sides. Chuang, the tong man, was shooting through the window with his pistol. Fargo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Chuang!” He pointed at Jade Ching, lying prone in the aisle. “Cover her!” he bellowed.
Chuang’s round face stared at him blankly; then the man understood. He threw himself to the floor, shielding Jade’s body with his own. Fargo took his place at the shattered window. With the butt of the shotgun, he knocked out the rest of the glass. A bullet chunked into the side of the coach near his head.
The ten men were thirty, forty feet away now, their guns spitting flame as they came running, crouched, through a muddy field along the road, then up the slight embankment of the track. Fargo’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl. He thrust the shotgun through the window, lined it, pulled the right trigger, swung the gun, pulled the left.
Eighteen buckshot flailed out in a long, wide, deadly pattern. The double charge struck the line of oncoming men like two quick hammer blows. Fargo saw four of them go down, two others lurch to one side, dropping their weapons. His snarl widened. He thumbed two more rounds from his bandolier as the survivors poised, frozen. By the time he got them in the breech, O’Bannon and Weatherbee had each dropped another man.
The surviving two and the two wounded broke, then turned to run, the latter lurching awkwardly through the mud. Fargo fired again, a single barrel; one man almost dissolved in that spray of lead. He fired the second, and another went down. The two wounded threw themselves deep into the mud, burrowing like frogs.
That seemed to break the threat from that side. Fargo whirled to the other. He was just in time to see three men dodge between the front of their coach and the car ahead. Instantly, he understood. They were going to uncouple that end of the train from the rest. Ahead a whistle blew. The car shuddered. The train was about to pull out. If the bandits succeeded, they would be left behind, at the mercy of the attackers. Fargo dodged to the door of the coach.