The Border Jumpers (A Fargo Western Book 16)

by John Benteen

  Fargo’s hand tightened on the butt of his Colt. “No,” Lopez said. “Not yet. But we will.”

  “You’d better, and in a hurry. I know that son of a bitch of old. He’s worth an army all by himself. And if you don’t watch out, he’ll bring you down. Damn it, I set him up for you one time and then you let him slip through your fingers—”

  “Morales did, but things will be different now that I am here. Back to the other business. You think, truly, it will work?”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong? Where the hell would you be if it wasn’t for me?”

  “Yes. And sometimes, I wonder very much what you get out of it? Why do you betray your own countrymen, those who trust you?”

  “Why I do what I do is my own affair. Now. Two thousand head, all prime, Lopez. Yes or no?” After a moment the big Spaniard shrugged.

  “Yes, of course. I have no choice. I need the cattle, must get them from somewhere, and there is nowhere else. So, then. Two nights from now at midnight. An hour and a half before, two dozen of my men will cross the Rio far upstream, engage the cavalry there, pin down one platoon until all the others come to the rescue ...”

  “Right. I’ll be with their captain at headquarters. As boss of the Association, I have his complete confidence—he leans on me. I’ll spook him into sending the last platoon out, too, and taking personal command.” He tossed off his drink. “Just, dammit, get Fargo. I’ve laid out fifteen thousand dollars to set him up for you. I want his head.”

  “You shall have it,” Lopez said. “Now that I am in personal command, he’ll find himself up against a very different man.” His mouth curled as he looked at Morales.

  Morales stood up. “Patron, may I speak?” He arose, came around the table. “I think we should think about this raid before we act. We’ve only taken small herds so far, killed a few gringos, caused some local trouble. But a raid of this size, so near a town ... It will arouse the Americanos like hornets. It could even cause them to go to war with Mexico ... We should consider ...”

  “I have considered,” Lopez said, facing him. “I have considered many things. You need have no concern about this raid. I shall lead it myself.” He raised the shotgun. “And leave this at the scene, to cause some confusion. Anyhow, you need not worry. You have no more responsibility. You have lost some of my best men to this Fargo and have failed to kill him even when you had him in your grasp. And I see, also, that you have lost your nerve.”

  Morales drew himself up. “I have not lost my nerve. I only speak for common sense and Mexico. War with America will be fatal.” He was pleading now. “Hermano mio—”

  “I told you not to call me that,” Lopez said, and he jerked up the shotgun. He fired its right barrel point blank at Morales. The roar was thunderous in the confines of the room. Smashed and ripped by the full impact of nine buckshot, what was left of Morales was slammed against the wall, clung there a long second as if held by nails, and then slid to the floor.

  That gunfire would bring men. Fargo crouched low, ran, zigzagging through the village. He had reached its outskirts before aroused vaqueros had awakened and piled into the plaza. On his belly, he crawled through darkness, past the guard. Then, as confusion boiled behind him in San Joaquin, he ran.

  As he neared Sterling’s hiding place, he called out softly: “Tom. Fargo! I’m comin’ in!”

  He almost ran into the muzzle of Sterling’s rifle. “Stand fast!” the lieutenant snapped. Fargo, gulping breath, saw that he had learned his lessons well. “You’re alone?”

  “Alone.”

  Only when Sterling was sure of that did he relax. “Okay.”

  Fargo did not answer. Panting, he slammed his fist against the dirt wall of the draw. “The bastard!” he rasped. “Oh, the damned bastard! I’d have killed him then and there if Lopez hadn’t fired that shotgun—!” He shook his head. “I’ve got to kill him!”

  “Who?”

  Fargo mastered the sick fury that racked him, forced himself to an icy coldness as he told Sterling what he had overheard. “And it was Varnell,” he ended bitterly. “All along, it was him that sold me out. One of the best friends I’ve ever had, a man I’ve shared canteens and blankets with, the only other man I ever trusted besides ...” He bit off the words. “It don’t make sense. I’ve got to find out why. That’s something I got to find out before I kill him.” Then he tightened his grip on himself. “All right, let’s mount up,” he finished quietly. “We’ve got a lot of riding. You’re going back to your outfit.”

  Sterling gaped. “Back to the troop? Neal, I can’t—”

  “You got to,” Fargo said. “There’s gonna be a lot of fightin’ goin’ on and they’ll need you. Besides, I got to have you to back up my story to your captain ...”

  “Neal, I’m a deserter! Nothing I can say will matter. He won’t believe me!”

  “You got to make him. Maybe just that you’ve come back will prove how important it is.”

  “And afterwards? The guardhouse? Federal prison?”

  “Maybe. That’s a chance you got to take. On the other hand, maybe this is a chance to win back your bars.”

  “And maybe I don’t want them.” Sterling’s whisper was low, intense. “I’ve been thinking. I don’t want to go back. The way I want to live is the way you live. I’ve tried it and ... and it’s got in my blood. I’ve got some experience now and I can get more, live free, be alive every minute. But if I go back, there may be no chance of that. Not if I wind up in Leavenworth—”

  Fargo was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I ain’t gonna tell you yes or no. Maybe you could do it, maybe not. You got the makings but you still got a lot to learn. I’m gonna tell you this, though. Unless you go back now and take your medicine, for better or for worse, you’ll never hit the big time—not my kind of big time. You can’t, because you’ll never dare show your face in the U.S. again, and that’s where the action is, where the money comes from. I’ll tell you something else, too. Unless you got the guts to face your C.O., you ain’t got the guts to make the big time. You’ll always be a penny ante driftin’ hardcase—the kind that come a dime a dozen and the wolves eat every day.” He took his horse’s reins. “Anyhow, I’m riding. It’s the last chance, while all of Lopez’s men are gathered at San Joaquin. Whether you come or not is up to you. But if you don’t, we’re finished: you’re on your own.” He touched the horse with spurs and rode off at a gallop into darkness.

  Behind him, Sterling called out: “Neal!”

  Fargo did not look back.

  A moment passed. Then hoofbeats drummed behind him. Sterling’s voice rang out, low, but clear: “Neal, wait for me!”

  Fargo reined in his mount. And a slow grin split his face as he sat there while Sterling pounded through the darkness, and when the younger man came up, they rode on together.

  Seven

  PUSHING HARD ALL NIGHT, they still had not quite made the brush along the Rio when sunup came. A hawk, circling overhead, would have seen them as two tiny antlike dots, racing for the shelter of the chaparral across a broad, open flat. Then it would have seen four more dots emerge from the brush, racing to cut them off.

  Fargo saw them, too, as riders coming hard and fast from the right—Lopez Belmonte’s men, back out on guard. He cursed, jerked his mount to a skidding stop. Sterling reined in so hard his own horse reared. “Take my reins!” Fargo yelled.

  Sterling held the horse as Fargo slid from the saddle, drawing the carbine from the scabbard. The riders were four hundred yards away, closing fast. One of them was throwing lead from a rifle as they galloped toward the two Americans; Fargo was not worried about that. Nobody could shoot accurately from a running horse.

  Which was why, dismounted, he was now in the kneeling position, fully exposed, lining the Winchester. A man on a galloping horse was a tricky target—but a horse was a better one. Fargo hated what he had to do, but there was no help for it.

  Carefully he drew his bead, tracked, holding his breath as he squee
zed off a round. The rifle cracked flatly in the desert morning. A horse screamed in the distance, somersaulted, its rider flying from the saddle. The other three men checked their mounts, spreading out. Fargo had already worked the lever, drawn a bead. The gun roared again and another horse pitched sideways, lay still, rider pinned beneath it. The remaining pair of men swung down, took shelter behind their animals. Fargo fired twice more. One horse bucked, broke loose, tore off, bucking and kicking, leaving its rider exposed. Instantly he threw himself flat on the ground. The last horse reared, fell over backwards, and Fargo fired again and the man sheltered behind it, left standing there exposed, clasped his shoulder, dropped to the ground. Fargo was back in the saddle in an instant. “Let’s go!” he yelled, and they pounded toward the chaparral.

  Riding close beside him, Sterling’s face was pale. “Neal, did you have to shoot the horses? God—”

  “They can’t catch us without ’em!” Fargo yelled back. “That’s part of the game, kid. You got to have the stomach for it.”

  Then they hit the chaparral. It was like bursting through a succession of barbed wire fences. Thorns and branches raked and tore at them, slashed their own flesh and that of their mounts. Sterling cursed, cried out in pain. Fargo, grimly silent, shoved on. At last, blessedly, he struck a game and cattle trail leading toward the river, and then it was easier. Nevertheless, both men were bleeding as they reached the bank of the Rio.

  “Hell’s fire!” Sterling rasped. “We’ll never make it down there!”

  The bank was not quite sheer, but its slope was minimal—and the swirling water was forty feet below. “We’ll make it,” Fargo snapped, dismounted, took his horse’s reins. Sterling followed suit. The horse snorted, but it came along as Fargo slid over the edge, went hurtling downward, boot heels plowing in. Behind him came the horse, whinnying, squatting on its haunches, creating a minor landslide. Fargo hoped it kept its balance; if it fell and rolled, it would either crush him or flail him with its hooves. Then he was in the river, striking out wildly to the side to keep the horse from landing on him as it came in.

  Still gripping reins, he went under, came up, groped for the saddle horn. Behind him, he glimpsed Sterling sliding into the Rio, his own mount close behind. Fargo opened his mouth to yell, but it was too late. The young man disappeared beneath the surface, and the horse leaped in on top of him.

  Fargo cursed. Those desperate, flailing hooves could mean the end of Sterling. Even as his own mount was swimming strongly, he tried to look back over his shoulder. Sterling’s horse struck out and there was no sign of Sterling. Then Fargo grinned. The young man had bobbed up behind the animal, caught its tail, was being towed.

  With the current, they drifted downriver a half a thousand yards. Then Fargo’s mount snorted, was no longer swimming, but, having found footing on a sandbar, was plunging toward the bank. It was steep, but it could be climbed. Fargo clambered out, hands tight on the reins. He and the horse went up and Sterling’s mount followed. Then they were in the United States.

  Breathing hard, shaking a little with reaction, the men and animals rested almost ten minutes in the brush. Fargo and Sterling spent that time looking to their weapons, drying, cleaning them.

  When they were in order, Fargo said, “All right, Tom. This is where we split up.”

  Sterling gaped at him. “Aren’t you riding with me?”

  “No. I got other fish to fry. Now, you listen to me close. You keep the cover the way I’ve showed you. Don’t let any civilians see you come into Alamo Wells—especially not Jack Varnell. Report directly to your captain and tell him everything. But ... don’t mention Varnell’s name, you understand?” His gray eyes flared coldly. “Because he’s my meat.”

  Sterling swallowed. “All right. I’ll tell the captain. But he won’t believe me, not without some proof.”

  “I’ll have your proof, plenty of it,” Fargo said. “Now. You just do what I say.”

  Sterling hesitated, then grinned. “Okay. If it doesn’t work, I’ll send you a nasty letter from Federal prison.”

  “Stick with me, kid, you may win a medal.” From a saddle bag, Fargo withdrew the crumpled old cavalry hat, punched it into shape, clamped it on his head at a go-to-hell angle. “Now—ride, and I’ll see you later.” Then he spurred his own horse, turning west as Sterling galloped northward.

  He kept to cover, but he pushed his mount hard, which was all right, because he could get a fresh one at Jane Osterman’s ranch. He should have been exhausted, but he was not. What kept him alert, every nerve and muscle tuned, was the rage and grief burning within him.

  Jack Varnell ... Fargo’s face was like something chiseled from stone as the tired horse loped along. He was not a man who easily gave his trust to any human being; and when he did and that trust was broken, there was no forgiveness in him. Jack Varnell had betrayed him, tried to destroy him, so what he had to do was simple. He would destroy Jack Varnell.

  But not until he found the answer to the question, the inexplicable question, burning in his brain. Why? Why had a man he had admired, trusted, sided in so many tight places, turned against him? He had to know—and he would hear the answer from Varnell’s own mouth.

  He felt charred inside by that cold flame of hatred when, in the middle of the afternoon, he topped a rise and saw below the shabby buildings of the Owl’s Head ranch.

  Carefully, he looked it over before riding down. A faint curl of smoke rose from the chimney: there were a few horses in the corral, but no sign of any cowhands. All of Jane’s riders would either be holding cattle at Alamo Wells or watching the rest of her stock on the northern pastures well away from the Rio. The only human being visible was a withered Mexican hoeing in a kitchen garden near the house. He was, Fargo knew from his previous stay, a mute. He did not even seem aware of Fargo as the big man rode up to the barn, unsaddled, put his horse in an empty stall. Then Fargo quickly crossed the back yard to the house. Soundless as a cat, he went up the back steps, entered the corridor. After Mexico, it seemed strange to smell the fragrance of a woman’s perfume, but the house was sweet with it. Then Fargo halted, as down the hall a door opened.

  Jane Osterman stepped into the corridor, naked except for a towel around her hair, a few droplets of water glistening on ivory skin fresh from a bath. She was humming to herself. Then, as she started for her bedroom, she turned and saw the big, dusty, travel-stained figure standing there. Giving a little scream, she raised her hands instinctively to shield her breasts. Then, recognizing him, the hands dropped away, and her eyes lit, her full mouth smiled. “Neal!” she cried delightedly and ran to him, arms outstretched. “You’ve come back!”

  “I said I would.” She came into his embrace, molding her clean soft nakedness against the hard, dusty length of his body. Her mouth on his was open, hungry. Her nails dug through his shirt. He returned the kiss, hands stroking the satiny skin of her back, moving up ... Then, fiercely, he closed his fingers around her throat.

  “Neal! You’re hurting—” Her voice trailed off in an ugly squawk as his hand clamped tight, cutting off her breath.

  “Yeah,” he said, pushing her away from him. “And I’ll hurt you worse if you try to scream. Into the bedroom.” He shoved her toward the open door. She stared at him with wide, terrified, uncomprehending eyes.

  In there he gave her a hard shove. She fell sprawling on the bed, making a whimpering sound in her throat. “Neal, what’s wrong? What—?”

  Standing over her, he said coldly: “All right, Jane. Now you’re gonna tell me all about you and Jack Varnell.”

  “Neal, I don’t know what you mean! Have you gone mad?”

  “Maybe,” Fargo said, and his hand moved slightly and then it held the open Batangas knife. Jane stared up at the glittering ten-inch blade, mouth dropping open in horror.

  “I don’t want to have to cut you,” Fargo said, voice toneless. “But if I have to, I will. Not to kill you, but every time for the rest of your life that you look into a mirror, you’ll
wish I had.”

  “Neal, you wouldn’t—”

  “Yes, I would.” And, like a snake’s head, the glittering point weaved back and forth before her face. She edged back on the bed.

  “Don’t. Please don’t. I’ll tell you anything. I ... ” Her voice broke with horror as she looked into her face. “What do you want to know?”

  “Start with that fifteen thousand you put up to hire me. It was Varnell’s money, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I lied. Heinz Osterman died flat broke, like everybody thought.”

  “Where did the money come from?”

  “I don’t know. He had an awful lot of it, but he never would tell me. Maybe it came from the Mexicans across the river. I know that he was dealing with them, using his position as chairman of the Association to pinpoint herds for them ... Whether they paid him or not, I don’t know. All I know is that he gave me that money and said I was to say Heinz had saved a lot that nobody knew about and it was to be used to hire you.”

  “You and he’ve been lovers for a long time, eh?”

  “Ever since I married Heinie, almost. I was stranded in El Paso and old Osterman came along and gave me a song and dance about being a rich rancher. It was either marry him to bail me out or go back into a ... a house ...” She broke off suddenly.

  Fargo grinned without humor. “I figured you used to work the houses. You knew a lot of tricks ordinary women don’t. Go on.”

  “But Heinie lied to me. I married him and the old fool brought me here to this ... this dump. He lied about everything.”

  “And you didn’t lie to him at all, I reckon.”

  She didn’t answer that. “Jack kept me from going crazy. Yes, we were lovers behind Heinie’s back. Then he needed Heinie out of the way, so he killed him and three of his cowboys and blamed it on the Mexicans. Afterwards, he said I was to pretend that Heinie had left a lot of money—an awful lot. And when he’d carried out all his plans, we’d be rich, big rich, and we could marry ... But he didn’t tell me how or why. Neal, please. I don’t know any more. I swear to you, I don’t know a bit more.”