by John Benteen
~*~
Their leader was a short, thick vaquero with a predominance of Indian blood. “Surrender, eh?” he growled.
“Surrender,” Fargo said. “Don’t shoot, amigo. We give up.”
Poker-faced, the Indio snapped orders. Cautiously, two men gathered up Fargo’s weapons. “All right,” the vaquero said. “Don’t move. We wait. For Morales.” _
~*~
That was all there was to that. He did not speak again. Covered by the muzzles of four men’s guns, Fargo and Sterling stood with lifted hands. The other two jaws of the pincers changed direction, riders galloping toward them from east and west simultaneously. The band from the east reached them first, half a dozen hard-looking vaqueros, draped with bandoliers, carrying rifles. None of them spoke. Some of them dismounted to rest their horses, as they waited for the group from the west to arrive.
They came charging in with a thunder of hooves, eight men, heavily armed. Its leader pulled his horse up charro style, so that it sat down on its haunches. Spurs jingling, he was on the ground at once, striding forward. He was tall, thick-chested, in charro garb, with golden tassels dangling from an enormous sombrero, dusty jacket and pants rich with braid. His face was handsome, his skin light; obviously he had a lot of Spanish blood, Hidalgo, in his veins. His eyes were black, keenly intelligent, raking quickly over Fargo, shuttling to Sterling, then coming back to the white-haired, ugly man in the cavalry hat.
“You’re Fargo,” he said in English.
“You know me?”
“I know you. I know everything about you. When you left Alamo Wells, why you are in Mexico. I know you killed six of my men this morning with that damned shotgun, too. And I know what you’ve got coming in return for that. What I don’t know is who the hell this is.” He gestured at Sterling. “What’s an American soldier doing on Mexican soil?”
“He’s on a special mission for General Pershing,” Fargo said.
The man stared at him, then spat contemptuously. “Fargo, allow me to introduce myself. I am Feliciano Morales, and I command the enterprises of Don Hernando Lopez Belmonte in this part of Chihuahua. I am not a child or a fool. The General commanding the United States Army in Texas has orders not to let a single American soldier touch Mexican soil. And if he should send one for purposes of his own, it would not be a new-hatched cockerel like this one. It would be a man more like yourself.” His spurs clanked as he whirled to face Sterling. “All right, soldado! Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Fargo tensed as Sterling opened his mouth as if to answer. Fargo looked into his eyes, and what Sterling saw in those lambent gray depths made him clamp his jaws shut.
“Answer me!” Morales snapped.
Sweat rolled down Sterling’s face, which had gone very pale, now. The sun blasted down furiously on the men standing there on the plain. All wore hats but Sterling, whose head was shielded only by Fargo’s bandana, which, blown partly off, hung down behind him.
“I said answer me!” Morales turned, snatched a heavy braided quirt from a man nearby. All in one smooth motion he swung it hard. Its thonged ends slashed Sterling’s face, drawing blood. “You’ll answer—!” Morales roared, “Or I’ll cut you to pieces!” He raised the quirt again.
Sterling whimpered incoherently. Then, quite suddenly, he pitched forward on his face and did not move.
Morales took a step backwards, staring down. “Joseph and Mary!” he snapped. “What a coward!”
“That’s not it,” Fargo said quickly. “The kid’s got sunstroke, Morales. And you’d better damned well do something for him in a hurry. You let an American soldier die, you’ll be responsible for the consequences. And the consequences will run straight from Pershing to Pancho Villa—and from Villa to Lopez Belmonte and from Lopez Belmonte to you! You get Villa involved in a war with the U.S. Army and I’d hate to see what Pancho will do to you!”
Morales stared at him a moment. Wordlessly, he spat again. Then he snapped orders. Two men, carrying canteens, came forward, rolled Sterling over, went to work on him, soaking his hair mopping down his face, loosening his clothing, pouring water on his chest. Sterling twitched, moaned.
“Get him on a horse,” Morales said. “One of you ride double with him and hold him in the saddle. Fargo, your hat.” Without ado, he took the battered cavalry lid from Fargo’s head, clamped it on Sterling’s as men helped the boy to his feet. “Now,” Morales said to Fargo, “mount your black. We’re going to San Joaquin. And there I will get all the information necessary from both of you for a complete report to my patron, Don Hernando Lopez Belmonte—and, for that matter, to Pancho Villa.”
~*~
Sterling was only barely conscious when they reached the town after a grueling eighteen-mile ride across the broiling desert. Morales rode at Fargo’s stirrup, high with triumph, talkative. “Yes, you see I know all about you, Fargo. You’ve got a big reputation down here. So you will be given no chance at all for escape. And you need expect no help from General Villa. My brother’s relations with him are very good and if he has to choose between Lopez Belmonte and you, he’ll surely not choose you.”
Fargo stared at Morales. “Your brother?”
Morales bit his lip, suddenly aware of the slip of his tongue. “We had the same father,” he said tersely, yet proudly. Fargo understood then. Hernando Lopez Belmonte’s father had used his vaqueros’ women, like many Hidalgos, for his own pleasure, as he chose. Morales was offspring of that kind of casual union—half-brother to a man of power, yet only a vaquero himself, despite these charro trimmings.
“That is none of your affair,” Morales continued. “All you need worry about is what Don Hernando will choose to do with you. That is, how he will choose for you to die. There are many ways, but none of them will be slow. He will make an example of you, Fargo. To show anyone else who dares to come after him or stand against him what to expect. And when we are through with you, I myself will drag your body across the Rio at night and arrange to have it delivered to the main street of Alamo Wells, where the gringos will find it some bright morning. A message I am sure they will understand.”
Fargo said nothing.
“As I said, we knew you crossed the river. We have a good man in Alamo Wells. A gringo, you may be interested to know.”
“I know,” Fargo said.
“You do? Perhaps, perhaps not. Anyhow, I will mention no names. As soon as we got the word, I had men scout the river to pick up your trail. I sent them out from both directions, San Joaquin and Palo Blanco. You killed the ones from San Joaquin, but the vultures led the ones from Palo Blanco to them right away. One of them rode to the nearest heliograph station—”
Fargo stared at him. Morales grinned. “I am efficient, Fargo. We have three heliograph devices, the same sort of mirror-signaling apparatus your army uses. Ideal for communicating between San Joaquin and Palo Blanco. The word was flashed immediately. Thus I had three contingents closing in on you without delay.”
“Efficient, all right,” Fargo said with grudging admiration.
The land rose in a gentle swell. At its crest, Morales gave the signal to halt. “San Joaquin,” he said, gesturing.
As Fargo had remembered, the town—only a clutter of adobe houses with a small church—lay in a kind of basin thirty miles south of the Rio. Here underground streams emerged, nourishing good grass, and below, on the range outside of town, grazed a herd of at least two hundred cattle, mostly prime white-faces. Armed riders guarded it. “Our holding grounds,” Morales said. “When we accumulate three hundred head at either San Joaquin or Palo Blanco, we drive them south.”
“A big operation,” Fargo said. “Takes a lot of men. Expensive. But profitable, I guess.”
“We make no peso of profit from any of it,” Morales said, with a touch of bitterness. “We pay all expense ourselves and give the cattle to the armies as they requisition them. But it allows Don Hernando to keep his holdings from being confiscated, and maybe, once there’s a government in Mexic
o again, we’ll make back what it’s cost. Anyhow, my friend, we keep forty of the best fighting men at each town all the time. And you—” His mouth curled. “You dared to come against us alone. One man against eighty. Such stupidity.” He lifted rein. “Let’s ride down.”
When they reached the dusty little town, Sterling was still only semi-conscious. “Put him where it’s cool,” Morales commanded. “The cellar beneath the church. When he has revived, then—” he smiled coldly “—I will get the truth from him as to why he’s in Mexico. Throw the big one in with him, too, and have one of your best men on guard at the cellar door every minute. At the first sign of trouble, he’s to shoot to cripple. But both men must be kept alive—the soldier so he can talk, the big one so Don Hernando can have the personal pleasure of dealing with him.” He touched his hat with a mocking gesture. “Adios, Fargo—until later.” He wheeled his horse, rode off through the dusty plaza.
The church was small and drab, long since looted of any valuable ornamentation by raiding armies. At one corner, a wooden door, set in the wall, was opened to reveal a flight of stone steps. Sterling was dragged down these, and Fargo followed, urged on by the muzzle of a rifle jabbing at his spine. Where the steps ended, there was another door, oak bound with iron, inches thick, a small, square peephole in its upper part. One of the border jumpers used a huge iron key and slowly the door creaked open. A spurred boot kicked Fargo inside. Staggering, he fell to hands and knees on a dirt floor. He heard a thud as Sterling was dropped beside him. Then the door slammed shut, the key turned in the lock.
This far beneath the earth, it was chill, and once the door was closed, dark as the inside of a covered grave. A voice said, through the peephole, “Big gringo, my name is Guiterrez. You killed my brother at the Rio this morning. I am watching you. If you so much as fart too loudly, I will blow pieces off of you with my rifle. Pieces that will hurt.”
“I get the message,” Fargo said. “What about some food and water?”
“Later, if the Patron orders it. For my part, you can starve to death.” All this in Spanish. Then the guard turned away and everything was silent.
Fargo turned to Sterling. The young man lay on his back, breathing hoarsely. Fargo had seen sunstroke often before. Sterling might die, or he might revive at any minute here in the coolness and be good as new. No way of telling. He reclaimed his hat from Sterling’s head, clamped it on his own, was pleased to find that they had left him his cigars and matches, and lit a cigar. In the flickering match flame, he looked around.
The priests of a village church like this had been accustomed to living very well indeed—much better than their parishioners. The cellar, about twelve by twelve, had obviously been designed for storage of their food and wine. Overhead, a vaulted ceiling supported the floor of the church above; the walls were lined with crumbling adobe brick; the floor was hard packed dirt. Fargo invested an other match. There was not a thing in here that could be used as a weapon; in fact there was nothing at all except himself and Sterling—not even a slop bucket. They’ve got us, Fargo thought bitterly as the match, burning his fingers, flickered out. They’ve got us good. They were at least twelve feet underground, no chance of digging out, the only exit through that guarded door. Fargo, savoring every puff of the cigar, settled down by Sterling, taking what rest he could. It had been a long, grueling day, and he was exhausted. Until his body restored itself, he could neither rest nor think. Presently, despite the cold, he slept.
~*~
A hand on his shoulder wakened him. Instantly he sat up, instinctively groping for a gun that was not there. Then he relaxed as Sterling’s voice said in his ear, “Fargo—”
“So you’re awake.” Fargo sat up, rubbed his eyes. “How you feel?”
“Cold. Shaky. Where are we?”
Fargo told him. Sterling moaned. “Oh, God, is there any way we can get out?”
“I don’t know,” Fargo said. “Haven’t thought of any so far.” He paused, found the cigar stub, thrust it in his mouth. Unwilling to waste another match, he chewed it. “The first step is for you to tell me who the hell you are and what you can do. I don’t know a damned thing about you, and we can’t do anything until I do. Account for yourself. But keep your voice down to a whisper.”
Sterling was silent for a moment. Then, haltingly, he recounted a tale of ambush in the dark along the Rio, a fire-fight with border jumpers, and—“They just hit me in the face.” His voice trembled. “Landrum’s ... brains. Oh, God, it was horrible, in my eyes, my nose, my mouth ... ” He paused. “Until then I was doing all right, but after that I don’t remember anything at all. They say I just screamed to retreat and took off on my own, fast as I could go. And Atkins was yelling for me to give him a stirrup up and I didn’t, and those Mexicans just ran the cattle right over him. I could have saved him, Fargo. But I didn’t. I just turned yellow and ran.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “So there it is. I’m a coward—deserted my men under fire to save myself. The captain ordered an investigation and stripped me of insignia and privilege of rank. Made me give my parole as officer and gentleman that I wouldn’t run away—”
“And you broke your word.”
“Yes, I did.” Sterling’s voice was bitter. “But ... I couldn’t bear it any longer. None of the officers or men would even speak to me, but one big sergeant named Brannigan. And he kept riding me, trying to make me fight him ...”
“Which you wouldn’t do. I saw him make you crawfish in The Home Corral the other day.”
“My God, what chance would I have against a man like him? Anyhow, I’ve disgraced my family, my troop, my regiment ... I had all I could take, and the other night I just rode out. Crossed the Rio without any trouble, but my horse fell and broke its leg in the dark and I didn’t even have a gun to shoot it with; the captain had confiscated all my weapons. So I had to leave it, struck out on foot. Drank all my water when it got hot, and I’d lost my hat in the brush and ... I don’t remember much until you were there. At first I thought I was imagining you. And maybe ... ” He broke off. “Maybe I’d be better off if you hadn’t come at all.”
“You’d be dead,” Fargo said.
“That’s what I mean.”
Fargo was silent for a while, considering all this. One thing was certain, in his present condition, Sterling would be a burden, not a help, in any escape attempt. The kid had lost all hope, and a man without hope was no man at all. The first thing was to see if he could pump some self-respect and courage into Sterling. Presently, he said, “You ever hear of Major Marcus Reno?”
“Wasn’t he Custer’s second in command at Little Big Horn?”
“Right,” said Fargo. “And an old soldier and a good one, tried under fire in the Civil War and fighting Indians.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe a lot. At Little Big Horn, Custer split his forces, went in from one direction against the Indian camp, sent Reno in from the other. Reno charged hell-a-mile, with one of the Seventh Cavalry’s Indian scouts riding at his stirrup. Then a bullet blew that scout’s head apart and plastered his brains all over Reno’s face. And Reno did the same thing you did. Hollered to retreat, turned and ran. He and his outfit holed up on the bluffs above the river, but Reno was so shook he couldn’t command any longer, Captain Benteen had to take over. Later, he was accused of cowardice before the enemy, but when they had a hearing, he was acquitted.”
“Acquitted ...”
“Sure. Any man that’s ever been in combat knows how a thing like that can shake the best of men. Reno was as tough as they come, but it made him lose his nerve. And you, that had never been in combat at all ... no wonder you went to pieces.”
Sterling was silent for a moment. Then, with a different tone in his voice, a kind of wonder: “You don’t think I’m a coward?”
“What happened in that fight doesn’t prove you are. How you handle yourself from now on is what tells the story.”
“I see.” Th
ere was a different ring in Sterling’s voice. “Then ... maybe I’ve got a chance after all.”
“The only time a man ain’t is when he’s dead.”
After a moment’s silence, Sterling said, “Who are you? What are you? Why do these men want to kill you?”
“I’m a man named Fargo and I’m trying to earn thirty thousand dollars and save my skin.” Fargo hesitated. But what the hell, everybody this side of the Rio knew it all, now. And Sterling had to know. He was entitled to. Briefly he told Sterling why he was in Mexico—and about the betrayal that had ruined his plans.
Sterling’s voice was awed. “You mean that’s how you make your living? Fighting? You’re a soldier of fortune?”
“I’ve been called that.”
“I thought they only existed in books. That writers made them up. Imaginary, romantic figures—”
“Yeah,” Fargo said. “This is just as romantic as all hell, ain’t it? Let’s get back to you. I need to know what you can do. You’re a horse soldier, so I reckon you can ride. How are you with weapons?”
“Qualified on the ’03 rifle and Colt automatic. But at targets, never in combat—until the other night.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you’ve already found out the targets shoot back. You ever lucky enough to get your hands on a gun again, remember—don’t aim for the head. The chest or gut, that’s what you shoot at. Now, you ever use a knife?”
“To ... kill with? God, no. I’ve had bayonet and saber drill, of course.”