Fargo 17, p.10
Fargo 17, page 10
“Mace,” he said. “Let the bastard come. I’ll kill him here.”
Fargo shook his head. He’d seen it in Cuba and the Philippines: Charlie had reached the end of his string. He was in emotional shock, and at the moment he didn’t care whether he lived or died. But Fargo did, and he swore under his breath. “Charlie, dammit, we need you to guide us out.”
“She’s dead,” Charlie mumbled. “Dead, and I never even seen her, the pore little gal. I don’t know ... I was a bastard to her mother and a bastard to her and never got the chance to make it up ... Fargo, leave me be.”
Fargo left him there, that way, the whole night long. He made his bed on one side of the pass, Amy on the other. When morning came, Charlie was exactly where Fargo had left him.
“Chloride—” Fargo began, but the old man only looked up at him with empty eyes.
Fargo cursed softly, lit a cigar. Charlie might snap out of it in the next fifteen minutes or not for days. Maybe not ever. It was not impossible that his mind was gone for good. Years of lonely living in the desert, then the loss of Pres Rogers, his partner and best friend; now guilt and regret about his daughter ... He had to figure that from now on, everything was up to him.
Smoking, he weighed alternatives. He’d hired out to bodyguard Charlie’s daughter and Charlie didn’t have a daughter. So, ten thousand dollars to the better, he could saddle up a mule and ride out now, easily dodging Mace, and call the whole thing quits. He would, even if Charlie came back to his senses, likely have hell’s own time collecting the other fifteen thousand anyhow, at the end of sixty days—and his chances of remaining alive until that term was up were damned slim right now. So the smart thing, the professional thing, was to haul tail now, cut his losses, and leave Charlie and the girl to Mace’s mercy.
Fargo spat. The smart thing, but he knew already that this time he was not going to play it smart. Mace—he had a score to settle with him, and damn it, he was going to see that Vance Mace paid it in full. More than that: he simply could not bring himself to ride away, leave Mace a clear track to finding Charlie’s fortune. There was too damned much money at stake—obviously millions, and the thought of that much falling into Mace’s hands, and Snell’s, stuck in his throat. If Charlie’s mind had gone, he was the one living person who had been closer to the source of Charlie’s ore than anybody else, the one with the best chance of finding it. And besides, if he threw up his hands and rode out, Mace would spread his brag all across the West: he had beaten the great Neal Fargo. Let word of that failure spread and Fargo’s price for future jobs would be driven down. No. No, he was not riding out; for better or for worse, he’d hang and rattle.
Which meant that somehow he had to get himself and Charlie—and the girl though she was not his chief consideration now—to safety somewhere. That could be done in only one of two ways: either head for one of the blocked passes and shoot their way out of Death Valley, then come back later with an army of their own—or somehow gain the only other place of safety, Charlie’s castle.
But Mace had that surrounded, had them screened off. They’d have to fight their way through half his army, maybe all of it, to get inside. Which, of course, Fargo thought, would be the last thing Mace would expect them to attempt.
Fargo stared at the high-sided wagon. That damn thing, twenty mules, and a load of what must be fantastically high-grade ore. Being stuck with it was like having your feet nailed to the floor. And yet ...
One war he’d missed had been the Boer War in South Africa. But he’d known men who’d fought in it, and something came back to him. More than once, the British had used an armored train to break through the Dutch lines—or try to. Soldiers forted up in steel-plated cars. Such a train, with plenty of firepower, could smash right through cavalry.
They had no armored train, Fargo thought, staring at the wagon, but they had the next best thing—a rolling fort. And ...
He spat out the stub of his cigar, his decision made. “Amy!” he snapped. “Gimme a hand with Charlie. And no tricks. You’re in bad trouble as it is, and any more double-dealin’ and I either throw you to Mace—who’ll never believe you’re not Charlie’s daughter—or you walk out of Death Valley ... by yourself.”
“I understand,” she whispered. “And ... I’m sorry.”
“Sorry don’t help none. Let’s get him on the wagon.”
“Yes.” She bent and took Charlie’s hands. “Come on, Papa—I mean, Mr. Raines. Come on. Up with you.”
Passively, he rose. “The Iron Man,” he said numbly. “The Iron Man has let me down. My luck’s done gone.”
“Iron Man?” Fargo snapped.
Charlie didn’t answer, only passively obeyed Amy’s request to climb up into the wagon. Iron Man ... Fargo frowned. It was almost as if the Iron Man were some private god that Charlie worshipped. Time to worry about that later. Now, he and Amy had the massive task of harnessing and hitching twenty mules, then getting the team and wagon turned in this narrow pass. Fargo could handle a six-horse hitch expertly, but this was a different case. He envisioned the resulting mess if the animals got hopelessly ensnarled in chains and harness.
Mounting the wheeler, he picked up the “telegraph line,” a quarter inch rope attached to the lead mule’s halter. He’d watched Charlie use it, knew a pull meant a right turn, a slap on the leader’s neck meant a left. He slapped the line with all his strength and yelled.
To his astonishment, the lead half of the team neatly stepped across its chains, pulling at right angles to the rest. Each animal knew exactly what to do, and the wagon jolted forward, swayed, and turned. Fargo grinned. At least these well-trained mules were on his side.
The heavy wagon rumbled through the mountains. Fargo searched his mind for every scrap of information about the Valley. They could not go back the way they’d come; when the Lopezes did not return, Mace would be following their old trail. But he could not cover the whole length and width of the Valley, a hundred miles in one direction, an average of twenty-five or thirty in width, hell’s own terrain, in blasting daytime heat, plus the rugged mountains surrounding it. Not do that and plug the passes and screen the castle. So there was a chance of getting into position without being spotted. It meant sticking to the roughest trails, staying away from water, and hoping for the best—in short, making a huge wagon and twenty mules vanish in Death Valley. Charlie probably could have done it easily, but Fargo was not Charlie. Fortunately, neither was Vance Mace—and, for that matter, Mace was not Fargo.
~*~
It went all right the first half day. With Raines dead weight in the wagon, Fargo occasionally scouting on ahead, they moved the huge vehicle through the mountains. The heat was terrible, draining the humans and mules alike of every drop of moisture. The going was abysmally rough, and once Amy became sick from the motion of the wagon and the sun combined; but they went on. When they briefly rested, Fargo took the time to pry open a few ten-gauge shells, spill out their buckshot, reload them with fine-grained sand. Carefully he slipped them in a pocket where he would not confuse them with lethal loads. The time might come when the mules needed more encouragement than the whip could supply.
Night came, and they were still in the mountains, having made reasonable progress northward in the direction of Charlie’s castle. They dry camped, watering the mules from the casks on the wagon. Water holes, unless Charlie recovered, were going to be a crucial problem. But the old man was still in a daze. Once Fargo even saw tears running down his leathery cheeks.
Another day, and another, and the mules, laboring against the weight of half a wagon load of gold ore and working up and down steep roadless grades, were beginning to show the effect of it all. Still Charlie was in a daze and Fargo wondered if he’d had a stroke. He did everything he could to bring the old man to, snarled at him, cursed him, seized him by the shirt front, backhanded him hard. But Charlie only took it without response. But now they were nearing the northern end of the valley—and the castle.
Dawn came, and the great wagon rumbled on. Fargo lashed the mules up a gravel rise, across a lava bed, then up an even steeper grade. Lot’s Wife brayed, kicked in harness, in protest. Fargo himself felt the effects of the brutal journey; ceaseless work, too little sleep, he stood guard most of the night, the exasperation of handling mules. It was all telling. But, he had to admit, Amy was pulling her weight. Sitting up on the swamper’s nest, she stoned the mules and helped him unhitch and hitch and feed them at night. And she could cuss! Fargo had grinned admiringly when, tired and exasperated one day, she had cut loose at the balky wheelers. Three years in a Wichita cat house had given her a vocabulary any mule could appreciate. And she had cooked for the camp and handled the brake on the huge wagon, a job that took all her strength.
Now, before they crested the hill, Fargo scouted ahead. Looking over the forward slope, he sucked in his breath. Beyond, he could see the shimmering flats and lava flows and drifted sand of the valley itself. And, in the farther distance, the sprawling blot that was Chloride Charlie’s castle. He used his field glasses. Out there before the castle, riders moved back and forth, on patrol. Mace’s army, all or part. Only part, he hoped. With any luck, the other half, with Vance Mace leading it, would be trailing the Lopez brothers, trying to find out why they had not returned and trying to pick up the trail of Charlie’s wagon before the elements wiped it out, in hope that it would lead them to his mine.
But first, they had to get there. And below, the rocky hillside fell away for miles in a steep downward grade—too steep, Fargo thought, for the mules and wagon. The great vehicle would surely over-run the team if they tried to descend that way.
On the saddle mule, he searched for an alternate route, found none. They could turn back, but that would mean at least a day’s loss of time. And they might bump spang into Mace, who could be no more than a day behind them—if he had not already managed to find the mine. His face was grim when he rode back to the wagon and told Amy what they had to do—without the help of Charlie. ‘‘We’re going down,” Fargo said. “I’ll handle the team. You keep your weight on the brake, all the way. It’s gonna take the brake and a rough-lock both to hold this booger back. And if she starts to go over, you jump, the other way, and quick.”
“What about him?” Amy gestured toward the old man.
“He’ll hafta take his chances,” Fargo said, and he worked the team up to the ridge crest.
There he halted, going to work. Timber would have been better, but there was none available. From the tool box he took yards of heavy chain, worked it around the felloes and through the spokes of the huge rear wheels, anchored it to the running gear, locking the wheels so they would not turn.
“All right,” he said tautly, mounting a wheeler. “Here we go. Once we hit the downgrade, you keep leanin’ on that brake. Hiiii-yahhh!” And he whipped up the mules.
With the instinct of their kind, they sensed home’s nearness. They strained, surged up and over, twenty of the great muscular beasts, lunging into harness. The wagon crested, rocking, and then was on the downhill grade. The mules struck a trot, and the great wagon slid behind. Steel shrieked and sparks flew as Amy leaned against the brake lever and iron shoes clamped down on iron tires. Like a ship in a storm, the wagon rolled and lurched, picking up speed. The mules increased their gait, and they were running now. The front wheels threw up sprays of dirt and gravel, the back wheels roared as they slid immobile over rocks and washes.
And now they’d hit the steepest part, and the wagon rolled and bucked. “Hit that brake!” Fargo roared. The screech of steel rose to a crescendo as the wagon hurtled down toward the wheelers. Like a huge, playful bull, it slid to a few feet behind them, hung there ominously, Fargo acutely aware of it towering behind him. If the mules couldn’t stay out in front, it would overrun them, foul their harnesses, throw them, and the whole mess, wagon, fallen mules, would go rocketing down the hill in one great tangle, out of control. Fargo snapped the shorter whip, its pop like a rifle shot, swore ferociously and the team stretched itself, running hard.
Then Amy screamed. The screech of brake-iron ceased, leaving only the thud of hooves, the rumble of the wheels. Fargo’s wheeler stumbled as its harness jerked, and he whirled to see the wagon moving closer, ramming its great tongue forward like a spear. The brake lever flapped loosely, uselessly, in Amy’s hands; the brake had broken. Out of control, the wagon with its heavy load was surging forward. The wheelers snorted, ran even faster, but, the unaware leaders lagged.
Fargo cursed, unslung the shotgun. He aimed, fired, right barrel, then the left, crammed in fresh rounds, fired again.
The fine sand, even with reduced loads, plowed into the rumps of the forward mules with stinging, painful force. They brayed, hurled themselves against the harness, and now the team was racing down the slope as fast as it could go. If one of the twenty stumbled, or an axle broke or the running gear gave way ...
The wagon bucked, swayed and wallowed. A water barrel fell free, splintering on the rocks. Amy screamed again, clinging to the seat. Flying lather from twenty sweating mules pelted Fargo like warm rain. Then, ahead a narrow wash, running at right angles to their course. Only two feet deep, but at this speed—
The lead mules leaped it. The swing mules followed. One of the flankers stumbled, brayed, found his footing, raced on. Fargo felt his wheeler bunch, jump. The house-sized wagon slammed down with a crunch of running gear, lurched, swayed, rose—and then they were out of it. Fargo fired two more rounds, to keep them racing, lest the great wagon tongue spear into the ground. Then the wheelers were on the flat, and the wagon too. The grade was behind them, and now he had to stop the runaway mules. He yanked frantically on the line, fired a round of sand at the outside flank of the off leader. The mule pivoted in his harness and his team-mate stumbled, swung. The team followed, and the wagon turned. Two wheels left the ground, and for a sickening instant Fargo was sure it was going over. Then it righted itself, and the mules were running in heavy sand, up a gentle rise, and the wheels were digging in, under the massive weight of the load of ore, and slowly, surely, the wagon lurched to a halt behind the hump of a dune of sand.
The blown mules stood with heads down, bodies drenched with lather. Shakily, Fargo stepped off the wheeler onto the tongue, climbed up the wagon. “Neal.” Amy’s face was paper colored, her hair a windblown tangle, her tanned face blistered by sun and wind. “Neal, oh, God ... ” She began to cry, and he held her in his arms. After what she’d been through, she was entitled to it.
He was still holding her when a voice behind him whispered, “Fargo. By God, Fargo, that was drivin’!”
He and Amy broke apart, turned. Chloride Charlie was on his hands and knees on the load, blinking like a man just roused from a long, deep sleep. “That was drivin’,” he repeated, voice shaky, but as sane now as his eyes, which had lost their staring blankness.
“Papa!” Amy cried. “I mean, Mr. Raines! You’re all right again!”
Charlie rubbed his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I reckon. Seems like somethin’ just snapped in me—the way that brake went. Too old, been used too much. But that ride down that grade—All of a sudden I come back to life again. It shook me up, shook me out.” He looked around. “Hell, we’re damned near home.” Then he was climbing down the wagon.
“Come on, Fargo. While the mules are restin’, we’ll get that rough lock off. Then we got to powwow. You got to bring me up to date and fill me in.”
~*~
With the wagon and team hidden between high-piled dunes, they removed the rough lock. Charlie, gaining strength and clarity with every moment, jerry-rigged a brake. “Fargo, I’m sorry,” he said. “I let you down at a bad time.”
“Don’t let it bother you,” Fargo said. “A man takes a wound sometimes. Not all of ’em are where they show. What we got to do now is figure out our next move. How well did you hide your trail to the mine?”
Charlie looked at him strangely. “I’ll tell you now, Mace’ll never find that mine.”
“Then he’ll swing back, on our wagon tracks. We’ll have half his men behind us, the rest out there in front of the fort, save what he’s got at the passes. We don’t wanta be caught in a nutcracker, we got to git into position tonight, make a run for the fort, blast our way through. Think your Indians will cover us, let us in okay?”
“Don’t worry. The minute they spot this wagon rollin’ toward the gates, we’re in business.”
“All right,” Fargo said. “You know the country. Can you get us in position to make the last run? Then it’ll be like it was before—me and Amy in the wagon, you drivin’—and I’ll lay down a coverin’ fire. Amy can use a pistol, too, or a rifle. Whether she hits anything or not, she’ll help make ’em keep their heads down.”
“No problem.” Charlie stared at Amy, resting in the shade of the wagon, and somehow he seemed taller, younger. “Them Missouri nightingales are rested now. Let’s git this outfit rollin’. We’ll circle the base of the hills, and then, when it gits good dark, we’ll make our run.”
~*~
It was a relief to turn the mules over to Raines again. Fargo, on a saddle animal, was outrider, scouting, as Charlie led them into the rough, lava-strewn foothills, circling toward the castle. It was only three in the afternoon when he stopped the wagon. “Here we are. Got good cover, and we come hell-a-mile outa this canyon, headin’ for the fort, anytime the mules are rested and you give the word, Neal.”
“After midnight,” Fargo said. He looked down the canyon, toward the desert, shimmering in the noonday heat.
Just then, Amy let out a startled cry. “Neal! Look there!”
Fargo changed position to follow her pointing arm, and then he saw it, too. Out there, miles across the desert, a shimmering fantasy blocked the skyline. Like something in a dream, a Mexican village, titanic in its dimensions, adobe huts, village well, hung suspended in the air, upside down. And even as they watched, also upside down, the giant, vaporous image of a caballero on a horse pranced through it. The whole thing hung there for minutes, and then slowly dissolved.
