The Border Jumpers (A Fargo Western Book 16)

by John Benteen

  Fargo looked down at her a moment. “All right.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Neal, don’t look at me that way. Listen—” Her hands caressed her breasts, proffering them. “Listen, I only thought I loved Jack, But when you and I were in bed together ... Neal, don’t turn me in because I knew about him killing Heinie, working with the Mexicans. Please ... They’ll put me in jail and I couldn’t stand it.” She licked her lips, pink tongue flickering. “Neal, you and I could—”

  “Get your clothes on,” Fargo said harshly.

  “Neal—”

  “Okay, I’ll take you into town buck naked. Makes no difference to me.”

  “Alamo Wells—?”

  “Uh-huh. You’re gonna sing your little story like a bird to the Army there. But first you’re gonna do somethin’ else. Can that old Mexican ride?”

  “Yes, of course...”

  “Good,” said Fargo. “Then you’re going to write a note to Jack Varnell—and he’s going to deliver it.”

  ~*~

  He had plenty of time. With Jane Osterman bound and gagged on the bed, the house was very quiet. It would take the old Mexican better than two hours to get to town and find Jack Varnell. Another two hours for Varnell to get back here, riding hard. Until almost sundown, Fargo figured. He had that long.

  First, he cleaned his weapons, oiled them, removing every speck of dust and grit, and dressed the leather of his holster. Then plenty of black scalding coffee and ham and eggs and bread, the first decent meal in days. He ate sparingly, not daring to make himself loggy, slow his reflexes. Whiskey he touched not at all, knowing that in his present state it would bring on instant fatigue. Occasionally he checked on Jane to make sure she was securely tied. Her eyes begged, seduced, and finally flared killing hatred. Fargo paid no attention.

  The shadows lengthened. It was getting close to time. Fargo made a few practice draws. He wished he had his own .38 Colt. Still, the .45 was a good weapon. It would do. Now, the sun edged the horizon. Damn it, Fargo thought, why don’t he come? He began to feel uncertain. Jack was smart. He might have smelled a trap, the way a wise old wolf could smell cold iron no matter how well the trapper had concealed it. Maybe he had already got word from Mexico that Fargo was across the river. Maybe ...

  Then he heard it, the hoofbeats of a running horse. Cautiously, Fargo peered out the glass panel of the front door. His pulses quickened, his mouth twisted in a wolfish snarl. There was no mistaking the tall, broad shouldered silhouette of the oncoming rider. Fargo lit the big oil lamp on the hall table. Then he stepped into the bedroom.

  As he waited, listening tensely, Jane Osterman, on the bed, made frantic, muffled sounds. Fargo only touched the hilt of the Batangas knife and she was still.

  The rider pulled up before the house. Fargo heard the creak of leather as he swung down. Varnell’s footsteps were heavy, confident, as he crossed the porch, shoved the front door open. Entering, he called: “Jane?”

  Fargo stepped into the corridor, right hand swinging near his gun. “Hello, Jack.”

  Varnell stopped short. In the lamplight, his eyes were suddenly opaque. Then he smiled, warmly. “Neal, you’re back from Mexico—” He took a step forward.

  “Stand fast,” Fargo said.

  Varnell halted, and the smile went away. “Oh,” he said quietly. “So that’s it. Where’s Jane?”

  “Tied up in yonder.” Fargo jerked his head, never taking eyes off Varnell.

  Jack sucked in a long breath. “So she’ll have talked.”

  “She talked some, yes. There’s a lot I still don’t know. I aim to find out, though. Jack, you hired me, then sold me out. God damn you, why?”

  Varnell stared at him a moment, standing loosely. Then his mouth quirked in a bitter smile. “That gravels you, don’t it? Well, you’ve graveled me a long time, a damned long time. Since Cuba. Hell, before Cuba—since Roswell, over in New Mexico.”

  “Roswell?”

  Varnell’s voice was hard and steady. “You don’t even remember a girl there named Peggy Dale, do you?”

  “No,” Fargo said.

  “You wouldn’t. You never looked crosswise at her. But I was in love with her and she turned me down—because she was in love with you. You didn’t want her and yet you ruined her for me.”

  “I never knew that,” Fargo said.

  “A man’s got his pride. I never told you. And then, Cuba. And you were O’Neill’s pet, and the Colonel’s, too. Oh, I was good, but you were always a little better, you always had the edge. You could hold more booze, have more women, win more with cards ... A man gits tired suckin’ hind tit, Neal. Even for a friend.”

  “Christ, Jack, this is crazy. That was a long time ago and I never knew—”

  “A long time, yeah. But I got a long memory. I’m a good, quiet hater, like an Indian. And ... I was always a little afraid of you. Maybe I still am. Anyhow, I was hopin’ Morales would take care of you for me. And Lopez Belmonte.”

  “Jack, this isn’t making sense,” Fargo said.

  “Then I’ll give it to you short and sweet,” Varnell said. “First place, I lied to you. I spent time in Brownsville, yeah. But what I thought about in there wasn’t going straight. It was what a fool I was to play such penny-ante games when I could score big, the way you were scoring. So the first thing I did when I got out of there nine years ago was to rob a train.”

  He grinned slightly. “Never mind how I did it. I did it and I got away with it. Better than three hundred thousand, Neal. Ain’t that a whopper of a score? But I didn’t dare spend it too fast or all at once or they’da fingered me. So I used some of it to make a down-payment on my ranch, kept the rest stashed away. Then this rustlin’ started and I saw my chance. I made contact with Lopez and started workin’ with him. Not to make any money out of the cattle he lifted—but to try to break the other ranchers around here. Ruin ’em so they’d have to sell out cheap.”

  “I’m beginning to see,” Fargo said. “Then you killed Osterman and had Jane make up that story about his leaving money.”

  “That’s it. We’d get married, I’d use my train loot to buy up ranches, claimin’ that it was money Heinie left her. Get the rest of that three hundred thousand into circulation, put it to work. With the war comin’ on, holdin’ the best range here, I could get rich in no time.”

  “If Lopez Belmonte let you.”

  “I’m not worried about him. In due time he’ll overreach and the Army will take care of him—or Villa will. Then I’m in the clear.”

  He sucked in a long breath. “It wasn’t my idea to call you in, it was Gilliam and some of the others. But I saw how I could turn it to account, so I went along. First of all, it gave Jane a chance to bring the story out about Heinie’s money in a way that wouldn’t excite suspicion. Second, I hoped Trace would get mad and quit—or go up against you and you’d kill him. He was diggin’ too close to where my bodies were buried, he’s too smart an old he-coon. And last, but far from least, I figured if I could get you across the border and then sell you out—why, hell, not even you could beat everything Lopez Belmonte could throw against you. I figured he would kill you and save me the trouble. Now,” he said. “You understand?”

  “Yes,” said Fargo. But he was shaken in a way he had never been before. The realization that all that time, even when they had fought in Cuba together, Jack had hated him ... that he had never really known this man he called friend at all ... and that, maybe, without realizing it, he had even earned that hatred, given reason for it ... ” Jack,” he said, “if you had told me, trails would have taken different forks.”

  “Well, they didn’t,” Varnell said. “And so here we are. And I’ll warn you, Neal, this time I won’t be second best. I figured this might happen someday and I’ve got ready for it. I always was fast, wasn’t I, Neal?”

  “Besides me, the fastest man I ever met,” Fargo said.

  “Well, I’m faster, now. I’ve worked at it, worked hard. This is one time I won’t be second f
iddle. Look at my gun, Neal. You see anything familiar?”

  Fargo's eyes cautiously flicked downward. “A .38.”

  “Like the one you always carried. I figured if it was good enough for you, it was good enough for me. And the cartridges in this belt—hollow-points, Neal. Another Fargo trick, a nice, mean Fargo trick.”

  Fargo felt a chill walk down his spine. He raised his eyes.

  “Maybe you’ll kill me,” Varnell said. “But there’s no way you can do it fast enough to keep me from hittin’ you first, somewhere, and with a hollow-point, it don’t matter where. If it don’t finish you, it’ll cripple you for life. And then you’re as good as dead. So I don’t aim to let you—”

  Even as his voice went on smoothly, he drew.

  “—put me down,” he said. But Fargo had watched his eyes and saw them change. He knew he dared not let Varnell get off a single shot, that this must be the fastest draw he’d ever made. He was not consciously aware that his own hand was moving, coming up with a gun and lining it, hammer eared back. He only saw Varnell’s gun come up, aiming to pump the hollow-point straight at him. No man alive knew better than Fargo what a hollow-point at this range could do. Then a gun roared. He was not even sure whose until he felt the Colt buck in his hand. Varnell fired, too, almost at the same instant.

  But, by a fraction of a second, Fargo’s slug drove home first. Varnell was whipped around; his bullet plowed into the wall. Then he fell backwards, clutching his chest. As he hit the floor, Fargo was there, booted foot coming down on the wrist of Varnell’s gun hand.

  Jack Varnell stared up at him, blood trickling from both nostrils and from his mouth. “Neal,” he said thickly. “Goddammit, I practiced ...”

  “I practice too,” Fargo said.

  “Yeah. Sure.” Varnell’s eyes closed a moment. He seemed to muster all his strength. “And I’m still ... suckin’ hind tit,” he whispered and he died.

  Fargo stood there over him. The hall reeked of powder smoke, the sweet sickly taint of blood, and the stench of excrement as Varnell, in death, voided his bowels. He stared down at Varnell’s face.

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” he whispered presently, and he swallowed hard. Then he came to life, scooping the .38 from Varnell’s lax grasp. It had a balance exactly like the one he had lost in Mexico. He unbuckled Varnell’s gun belt, dragged it free, cinched in on himself. Immediately he replaced the spent round in the cylinder of the .38. Then he stepped into the bedroom.

  The bound, gagged woman stared at him a moment, then closed her eyes.

  Fargo said nothing, only went to the corral to catch up two horses to take them into town.

  Eight

  SOMEWHERE NEARBY a lonesome cavalry soldier strummed a guitar, singing the old traditional song handed down from Indian fighting days: “Around her neck, she wore a yaller ribbon ...” Horses stamped and whickered at the horse lines. Inside the headquarters tent, it was hot, even with the sides rolled up to let the breeze pass through. For Fargo, it was almost like coming home.

  The captain’s name was Telford, and he was an Easterner from Philadelphia. Far from stupid, he was nevertheless inexperienced, still straining to come to terms with the way things were out here on the Rio—with a wildness and violence that strained his credulity.

  Now, sitting behind his table, he looked at the four men in chairs before him: Fargo, Tom Sterling, old Jud Gilliam, and the hard-faced, blocky George Trace. “All right,” the captain said. “We’ve heard the woman’s story and I have her sworn statement. I’ve wired General Pershing at Fort Bliss and he has answered that Neal Fargo is known to him personally and merits my full reliance. He also says he cannot send reinforcements in time—and that this whole matter is to be handled in such a way that it will not become an international incident. It’s to be kept out of the papers. As far as we’re concerned, it’s just another bandit raid. The rest of it’s totally up to me to handle.” He paused. “I’ve sent for all of you because I need information and advice. Let’s review the situation, so I can decide what tactics I’ll have to use. Mr. Fargo?”

  In clean clothes, fully restored after six hours’ sleep, Fargo lit a cigar. As Sterling had suspected, Captain Telford had not believed his story, had put the young deserter under guard. But when Fargo had brought in Jane Osterman and, crushed by her lover’s death, she had spilled all she knew, Telford’s disbelief had faded. He’d had the woman confined under armed guard, too, dispatched a wire to Pershing, sent riders to find Jud Gilliam and George Trace. Plainly, while Fargo had been enjoying the comparative luxury of a canvas army cot, the captain had spent a sleepless night.

  Now Fargo blew smoke. “Captain, there’s nothin’ to it. Lopez Belmonte doesn’t know Varnell’s dead. He thinks everything’s still set up. All right; he feints. Well, you feint, too. When he creates his diversion up the river, your platoons respond, just like he hopes. Then he’ll come, and we’ll be waiting for him.”

  “We,” Telford said.

  “Trace and Gilliam have already sent out messengers to all the ranchers. Come dark, there’ll be another fifteen or twenty good Texas fightin’ men here to reinforce the fifteen at the herd. And you’ve got twenty soldiers in your headquarters platoon. The set-up for a trap’s perfect.”

  “Go on,” Telford said.

  “When the shootin’ starts up river, your three platoons respond—just enough to make sure Lopez believes his feint’s effective. Then, after a few minutes, they break off and they ride hell for leather back here. By then, Lopez will have struck, we’ll have him engaged, and they can hit him from the flank and rear. That way, he doesn’t have a chance.”

  Telford stared at him. “In theory, that sounds good. In practice, it’s not so hot. Fargo, my men and officers are green. You’re asking them to move miles through rough country, first to engage in a fight, then to break it off and rush back here in the darkness. I simply don’t have anyone experienced enough to bring that off.”

  “Sure you do,” Fargo said.

  “Who?”

  “Him,” Fargo said and jerked a thumb at Sterling.

  “What?” Then Telford shook his head. “Oh, no. Sterling takes no part in this. I appreciate his efforts and the fact that he came back voluntarily, but he’s still under charges for cowardice under fire and desertion. Until those are settled, he has no rank, no duties, and he stays in his tent under guard.” His voice was firm. “I will not trust the lives of my men to him.”

  Fargo leaned forward, picked up the telegram from Pershing. “This says you will.”

  “What?”

  “Pershing says you’re to rely on me. All right. I say Sterling is a different man from the one who went to Mexico a week ago. I know, I’ve seen him in action—and I’ve trained him. He can do what has to be done. And he’s the only one who can. Take my advice or ... if this fouls up, you explain to Black Jack Pershing why you didn’t.”

  “Fargo—”

  “We served together on Mindanao, Pershing and me. You give Sterling back his bars and send him out. You don’t, and we miss our chance, I’ll see that Black Jack looks straight down your throat.”

  Telford said quietly, “Don’t threaten me. Wire or no wire, I make my own decisions.” He stared down at his hands, then raised his head and looked at Sterling. “Do you yourself think you can do it?”

  Sterling swallowed, face pale. He looked at Fargo, then back at the captain. “If Neal Fargo says I can, I can.”

  “Hmpf.” For a full two minutes, the tent was silent. Then Telford opened a cigar box on his desk and brought out a pair of gold bars. “Very well. Pin these on. You are restored to duty. And if you let me down, hell won’t be hot enough to hold you.”

  Sterling looked at the bars in his palm. Then, slowly, his face broke into a grin. “Yes, sir!” His heels clicked as his hand swooped up in a salute.

  “All right,” Telford said. “Fargo, I presume you’ll be commanding the civilian component—the Texans.”

  “No, sir,”
Fargo said. “George Trace will.” He turned to the range detective, who had been grimly silent through all this, his pride still rankled by Fargo’s accomplishments. “George, you’re an old hand at this sort of thing. You can do it better than I could. Besides, I’m gonna be busy.”

  “Busy?” Trace’s eyes narrowed.

  “When the action starts, I’ll be lookin’ for just one man—Lopez Belmonte. He’s the one I’ve been hired to get. And besides—he’s got something that belongs to me, and I aim to get it back. So if you would lead the cowboys—”

  “Lead ’em? Hell, yes, I’ll lead ’em. And, by damn, Fargo, I’ll show you somethin’ about fightin’!”

  “That you will, I’m sure,” Fargo said. “That you will. Now, gentlemen, let’s get the rest of our ducks in a row ...”

  The remainder of the planning took an hour. When it was over, Sterling and Fargo left the tent together. “Neal ...” Sterling’s voice was shaky. “I don’t know how to thank you ...”

  “Just remember everything I’ve taught you. And do what you have to. You don’t, we’ll both be accountable to Pershing—and you’ll wish you were still back in that prison in San Joaquin. You—” He broke off as a thick Irish voice drifted through the lazy afternoon.

  “Sure, Delaney,” it said. “And there’s the yeller-bellied kid lieutenant that got pore Kelly Atkins scragged. Ain’t he a pitiful sight—?”

  Sterling halted, and both men turned. Brannigan, a few yards away, looked at Sterling mockingly, his face flushed with whiskey. “Hello, yellow-stripe,” he said. “Most horse soldiers are called yellow-legs. You wear your yellow in a different place ...”

  Sterling sucked in breath, took a step toward Brannigan. Fargo caught his arm. “Not now,” he rasped. “Later.”