by John Benteen
Chickens scattered as he backed between the houses of the village. The Moros stalked after him in a phalanx, bolos lifted. Fargo saw a kind of tremor go through their line. In a moment more, they would charge him, overwhelm him; then he was through. Well, he would go down fighting—
Then there was a piercing squeal. Something jumped up between his legs, throwing him off balance. The pig, a fat young shoat, had been drowsing in the sun. Fargo had stepped on it.
He fell to one knee, hand outstretched to regain his balance. In that instant, the Moros charged.
The pig, lame in the hind leg where Fargo’s boot had come down, turned at the sight of them, ran back toward Fargo. Almost instinctively, his outstretched hand caught that crippled leg. But the pig was his chance—
He sprang up, thirty-five pounds of dangling shoat in his right hand. The bolo in his left flickered, sliced the animal’s jugular. Its shrieking rose to crescendo as blood spurted. Then Fargo bellowed a war cry and charged, the sword in one hand, slinging the bleeding pig with the other, spraying blood over a wide circle.
The Moro charge stopped; the Mohammedans froze in their tracks. Then a cry of terror went up; they broke and ran, as if Fargo had been about to throw lighted dynamite.
To them, the bleeding pig was a far worse threat than dynamite. Explosive could only kill them; contamination by pig blood would bar them forever from Moslem Paradise, cost them their immortal souls. Even a drop would damn them eternally. Just in time, Fargo had remembered that, had remembered how Pershing had made temporary peace on Mindanao by threatening to douse the unruly Sultans with hog blood.
They retreated all the way across the compound, putting the artillery between Fargo and themselves. He halted, panting, wondering if he could make it up the hill before they regrouped and came after him when the pig had stopped bleeding, or when they got their hands on guns.
Then a voice behind him rasped: “You can drop it, Fargo. It was a good fight. That was a smart trick with the pig. But Borang was a valuable man. You shouldn’t have killed him. Now you’ve given me the excuse I needed to have you shot.”
Fargo turned. General Luna—Spott Carter—stood there backed by a group of Tagalogs. His Colt .45 was in his hand, cocked, and pointed at Fargo’s belly.
Chapter Nine
“Move,” Spott said. He gestured with the gun. “Up the hill to the house. That bitch Marcy can’t save you now. Borang was my old man’s link to the Moros down south. This time he’ll go along with me.”
Fargo said nothing. In the face of that pointed gun, he was helpless. He let the bolo drop from his left hand, the pig from his right. Then he turned and began to walk up the hill, with Carter and the riflemen right behind.
So it had all been useless. Spott wanted him dead and had whipsawed him—either Borang would kill him, or he would die for killing Borang; that had been Spott’s plan. And there was no chance to escape.
The walk to the house was a long one. He half-expected Carter to shoot him before they reached it; but he did not. They entered the cool dimness of the mansion; and Spott forced him to the dining room, where the old man sat over maps, lost in thought. He looked up as they entered, saw Spott’s gun. “What’s this?”
“You’ve just lost Borang. This son of a bitch killed him.”
The old eyes widened. “Killed him? How?”
“With a bolo. Cut off his head.”
“How’d he get the bolo?”
“Grabbed it, I reckon.”
The old man turned a parchment face to Fargo. “I warned you,” he quavered. “I warned you to stay outa trouble.”
“Borang crowded me. He challenged me to fight him with bolos. It was a fair fight.” He jerked his head toward Spott. “He saw it. He’s lying to you.”
“Lying, am I?” Spott looked at his father. “You think any white man could have chopped off Borang’s head in a fair fight with bolos?”
“No,” the old man said. “No—” his eyes narrowed. “All right. I’d hoped we could use him. But not half a day and—damn it, Borang was one of my most valuable men, the key to my coalition with the Moros. Have him shot, son.”
“No!” Marcy’s voice rang out across the room. She stood there, lovely in blue satin, her eyes vivid with anger. “Daddy, he is lying! I saw the whole thing from my window upstairs. Fargo fought Borang fair and square! And Spott rigged it all, I know he did!”
“Shut up!” Spott Carter roared at his sister in sudden fury. “You’re lying!”
“I am not!” she flared back. “You’re jealous of him— you know why—”
“Jealous?” Carter roared. “What you mean is, you can’t wait to crawl into bed with him! You can’t wait to—” he turned to his father. “I don’t give a damn how it happened. I want this man shot and he’s gonna be shot!”
The old man stared at him. “Are you trying to give me orders, sir? Do you forget who you are?” Spott’s face was red. “I know damned well who I am! I’m General Luna! And I command—”
“You command nothing except by my sufferance!” The old man’s rage was instantaneous. He came half out of his chair. “I am your father and I am General Will Carter, and I command! And don’t you ever forget it!” He gestured to the Tagalogs. “Take Fargo upstairs and lock him up by himself and stand guard. Then I—” He paused, suddenly, and his face twisted. All at once his breathing changed. “Then I ...” he whispered and he sat down hard, gasping for breath.
Marcy rushed to him. “Father!”
“I’m ... all right,” he whispered. “Only ... tired.”
“You’ve got to rest. You shouldn’t get so worked up.”
“Am all right...” he insisted breathily.
“You come on. Rest. Lie down.” Her voice was insistent. She helped him to his feet, glared at Spott. “See what you’ve done? Help me with him.”
Spott stood motionless. Then he whirled on the Tagalogs. “Take him upstairs like my father said. Lock him in and stand guard.” His eyes flicked to Fargo. “Don’t worry, I’ll tend to you in due time.” Then he got his father’s arm and his voice changed. “All right,” he said. “All right, come on. Let’s get you down on the bed.” And as Fargo was marched out of the room by the guards, Spott and Marcy were helping the old man through the other door.
~*~
Savagely, Fargo paced the cell in which they’d shut him. It was like the room in which he’d been locked with O’Bannon and Weatherbee last night—small, escape-proof. He’d tried it.
And yet, he had to get out. Somehow, he had to fight free. As mad as the Carter men obviously were, his life right now was measured in minutes, hours, not days. Spott was determined to have him killed, and would, before the day was over, father or no.
Fargo struck his thigh in rage and frustration and disgust. Madmen they might be, but they had taken him prisoner easily. He had failed, for the first time in his life, to carry out a mission—they had Jade Ching and they had Jonathan Ching’s money. And they were going to plunge the Islands into a bloody war which, although beyond their winning, would cost countless lives.
He felt like flinging himself at the door, battering it down. But it was of thick mahogany, far too strong for that. Besides, there were guards out there; they would blast him at the first effort to escape.
So, he thought angrily, biting the end off his last cigar, snapping his last match to light it, this was the end of the line. The great Fargo, the man whom nothing could stop, brought down by a couple of maniacs in Confederate gray! His thin lips twisted and he mouthed an oath.
He had been in this room now for an hour. Any minute, Spott would come for him and—
Then he froze. A key was twisting in the lock. Fargo spun around. The door swung open. And Spott was there.
Fargo stared at him. Carter, his slouch hat tipped back on his head, his gray blouse unbuttoned, was pale as snow beneath his tan. He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand, his Colt in the other. His lips peeled back from his teeth.
“He
’s dead,” he whispered.
Fargo blinked. “What?”
“My father. He’s dead. We put him down on the bed. His heart stopped.” Spott’s voice trembled. “Because of you, goddam you. You and that bitch Marcy. He’s dead, General Will Carter’s dead. And you’re going to pay for it, Fargo. Oh, how you’re going to pay for it.” The whiskey bottle was uncorked, a quarter empty. Now, without taking his eyes from Fargo, Spott drank from it. “Come on out.” He jerked the gun.
Fargo drew in a deep breath.
“Come on!” Spott snapped. “It’s not the firing squad for you. Don’t worry! I’m gonna turn you over to the Moros. You and all your men. The whole damn bunch except the Chink girl! The Moros got a score to settle with you. You know how the Indians used to take care of people? Well, the Moros know tricks the Indians never thought of! You and the others, they’re gonna be a long time dying! Move, Fargo, or I’ll start shooting pieces offa you right now!” There were tears running down his cheeks. “He’s dead. The old man’s dead … ”
Fargo moved, hands upraised. He stepped out into the hall, under the threat of Spott Carter’s gun, the rifles of the guards.
“Fargo!” somebody called. Fargo turned his head. Up the corridor, O’Bannon and Weatherbee were being marched out of their room, too. And another door opened. Two guards hustled Jade Ching out of yet another room. She was wide-eyed, her face contorted with fright. “Fargo!” she wailed. “Fargo—”
Spott Carter laughed; and there was insanity in the sound. “He can’t help you, yellow gal. Ain’t nobody can help you now. General Luna’s got you. That’s one thing, you see, Fargo? I do command, now. I command the whole goddam shootin’ match!”
Fargo looked at him. “Spott, you’re crazy.”
“Crazy, eh?” Spott swung the gun barrel; the sight laid open Fargo’s cheek and blood ran. “I’ll show you how crazy I am! You’ll be crazy, too, when the Moros get through with you ...” Then he snapped: “March! All of you downstairs!”
O’Bannon and Weatherbee were shoved up alongside of Fargo. “What’s goin on here?” O’Bannon asked. “We been waitin’, wonderin’, never knowin’ from one minute to the next—”
“Be quiet,” Spott said. “The next man who talks gets shot.”
He drank again. Then, suddenly, he wheeled, caught Jade Ching’s arm. “They’re all gonna die anyway, yella gal. All but you.” And before she could move, he rammed his mouth down on hers. “You’re too pretty to kill and you’re worth a hundred thousand dollars!”
Jade tried to fight him. “Let me go!”
“Sorry.” Spott held her in an iron grip. “You’re the closest thing to a white woman here except my sister. And that bitch—she hates me, you know? She don’t care anything about the Carter blood. She don’t care anything about keepin’ it pure, havin’ an heir to sit on the Carter throne when we rule these islands. There ain’t but one way in this place to keep the blood pure, you know. My daddy and I figured that out ... a Carter man and a Carter woman—”
And all at once Fargo understood.
“Your own sister!” he heard himself blurt.
“How else? There ain’t another fitting mate for a Carter anywhere in this Godforsaken wilderness. Plenty of nice little brown Flips, but there ain’t gonna be any brown blood in a Carter heir. So, if not her, who—? Only, she’s never liked the idea, for some reason. She fights me, you understand, Fargo? She fights me. But she can’t fight me any longer. Because I’m in command here, now. I’m General Luna! Now that she’s alone here with me, she’ll find out—” then he pawed at Jade’s shirt; buttons gave, fabric ripped. She screamed as he thrust a savage hand inside her blouse.
“Oh,” he snarled. “You don’t like that, eh? Well, I’ll show you! It ain’t gonna do you no good to fight, either!” Still holding her in an iron grip, he turned to the Filipino guards.
“Take ’em downstairs! Keep ’em there until I come down, you understand? I got business up here, but it won’t take me long.”
Jade stared at him, horrified. “Let me go.”
“No.” He kicked open a door with a booted foot. “In here. Marcy’s room. Nice and frilly. You’ll like it in Marcy’s room. You and me—we’ll use that bed like it’s supposed to be used, the way she never let me use it.”
Fargo tensed; but it was hopeless in the face of all those guns. O’Bannon growled, but Fargo snapped: “Stand fast.”
Then Spott dragged Jade into the room and slammed the door. As the guards forced them downstairs, Fargo tried not to hear her scream.
~*~
On the way down the stairs, they were joined by Chuang, Jade’s bodyguard, who was hauled out of another room by the soldiers of General Luna. Apparently he had put up quite a fight, for he had been beaten terribly, his round face bruised and crusted with dried blood. Nevertheless, his hands bound in front of him, he marched erectly and with pride at gunpoint to the lower floor.
They were taken into the same vast room where Fargo had confronted the old man for the first time. Now, as they entered, Fargo stared. In the throne like chair, the gray clad figure sat once again, head slumped down on its chest. And beside it, on the floor, two guards standing over her with guns, sat Marcy Carter.
She looked up as they entered. Her face was terrible. “Fargo,” she whispered. “My father’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“And Spott. It’s ... set him off. He’s gone jurimentado. He’s running amok, like a Moro.”
“Yes,” Fargo said. “I know about him and you. And your father.”
Her lips barely moved, her words hardly audible. “I loved my father. But he was crazy, drunken with a dream of restoring ... whatever it was he had before the War. Still... he was my father. But Spott...” she raised her head. “Now, do you see why I hate him?”
“Magandang dalaga,” said one of the guards. “Beautiful lady, be quiet.”
Slowly, almost majestically, Marcy got to her feet, looked at him. “Don’t give me orders. I am the daughter of General Carter.” Then she turned to the body in the chair. “My father ...” she went to the corpse, embraced it. Fargo thought sickly: “My God, she’s crazy, too.”
After a moment, she turned away. Then there were footsteps on the stairs, the sound of a woman crying. Spott Carter entered the room, prodding Jade Ching before him with his gun. Her blouse was ripped to shreds, her naked breasts showing through; her hair was tousled and her eyes dull. There were bruises on her face and on her torso.
Spott pushed her aside, stood there rocking on his feet, drunk and quite insane. He waved the Colt. “All right,” he said to the guards. “Take them away. Give them to the Moros.”
“Wait.” Marcy came forward. She looked defiantly at Spott, then, with strange gaze, at Fargo. “I could have loved this man. I want to kiss him goodbye.”
Spott’s face darkened. Then he grinned, a terrible grin. “Yeah. Kiss him goodbye. That’s all you’ll ever get to do to him. The rest is reserved for me. I don’t have to be gentle with you anymore. Not now ...”
Fargo stood rigidly as Marcy came to him. She put one arm around his neck, ran her other hand voluptuously down his body. “Kiss me, Fargo.” She pulled down his head, moved against him with a rustle of skirts. In that instant, he was aware that she slipped her hand between their bodies and then two hard, cold metallic objects were in his shirt
Her mouth opened. Her lips met his. The kiss lasted only a moment. “Now,” she whispered, backing away, “you can do what you will with him.”
“Yeah,” said Spott. “We’ll be able to hear the screams all the way up here. So long, Fargo. Thanks for bringing me the Chink concubine to go with my wife.”
Chuang made a sound in his throat. Then Spott gestured. “Take ’em away.”
The guards marched them out, six men with Krag-Jorgensens. They all seemed to know how to use them. As they went out on the porch, Fargo touched the front of his shirt with his hand. He discerned the outlines of the two objects Marcy had thr
ust in there, and all at once he felt a flicker of hope.
One was a two-shot derringer pistol. The other was a huge key. And now he understood. As she had paid that last obeisance to her father, she had withdrawn those two things from the pocket of his uniform.
He knew how to use the derringer. What puzzled him was the huge key. It must have vast significance. But what?
~*~
They went down the hill, in the buttermilk light of the late tropic afternoon. It was very hot. Filipino soldiers were drawn up outside the compound, a vast number of them, marching and drilling; apparently they had not heard of the death of their leader as yet. Automatically, Fargo appraised the precision of their movements. A couple of hundred of them, they were well-trained. They would be the nucleus of a formidable force. Two hundred men like that and artillery might very well take Baguio, which would be the signal for combat all over the island.
He had to think what that damned key meant. What lock did it unfasten?
He tried to remember every detail of what he had seen in his brief stay here. Marcy knew that he must have noticed, somewhere, somehow, the lock to go with this key. And it was important, crucial—
Then his step faltered slightly. A guard prodded him with a rifle. “Move.”
“Sure,” Fargo said; and he had it now; and he grinned. Like a wolf.
They walked on. Across the compound, Fargo saw the Moros. There was no mistaking their assortment of turbans and fezzes, their bright boleros and tight-fitting, braided pants. They had a fire built. Fargo wondered if it were for cooking or for torture.
Six men. All armed. They were near the foot of the hill, now, about to enter the village. Six guards, and Fargo had to make his move. The two-shot derringer. He hoped both barrels were loaded. He slapped his face. “Goddamned mosquitoes,” he said. Then he slapped his stomach, as if scratching. His hand went inside the shirt. At the same moment, he appeared to stumble.
One of the men snapped something, lowered his rifle. But Fargo came around with the derringer in his hand. He flung himself to one side and the bullet from the Krag ripped by him as he fired. The .41 slug from the derringer caught the Filipino between the eyes, and even as he fell, Fargo grabbed the rifle from his hands and worked the bolt and rolled again and shot another man and worked the bolt, and before he could fire, O’Bannon, with hair-trigger reflexes had taken another guard and Weatherbee yet another, as they swung toward Fargo and stared, momentarily frozen with surprise. A man cried out as O’Bannon swung the body of his victim before him as a shield and the bullet caught it, and then Fargo had shot the man who pulled the trigger. That left one unengaged, and that one hesitated, trying to figure out whom to shoot first, and, in that fatal instant O’Bannon dropped the dead man and dived at him and knocked him to the ground. They wrestled and O’Bannon raised one huge fist, brought it down clubbed. The guard went limp and O’Bannon sprang to his feet holding the guard’s Krag. “Hot damn!” he bellowed exuberantly. “She wore a yaller ribbon!”