Fargo 18 by John Benteen

Author:John Benteen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: pancho villa, gunrunning, piccadilly publishing, john benteen, benjamin haas, western action adventure, fargo western series, historical adventure in mexico, neal fargo mercenary
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Six

The check cleared. Fargo added it to his poker winnings, depositing it all in the bank, thinking sardonically that he had made more in the past six weeks than many men saw in a lifetime of hard labor. A smart man would take that stake, buy himself a nice ranch or business somewhere, and be fixed for life—if the price of beef didn’t drop through the floor or another depression, manipulated by the financial barons in New York for their own gain, hit and wipe him out. No, thanks, he told himself.

With Lola in riding clothes astride a big gray gelding alongside him, they reached the Dane Ranch by three o’clock that afternoon. There were still a lot of questions in Fargo’s mind, but for the time being they could wait. She had given him a specific task, it met his requirements, and the price was right. Beyond that, it was not his business to inquire into her private life. Not unless she tried to double-cross him, and he would be constantly alert for that. He had met her kind before: if she’d been a man, as a gambler she would have cheated; as a gunman, she would have been a back-shooter. He meant to keep an eye on her, but one thing at a time.

The whole crew that he had seen on his first visit—minus Shannon, of course—was lolling around the place, a quartet of them holding a shooting contest behind the stables, more shooting craps on a blanket in the yard, the rest mostly drinking and telling tall tales while they roosted in the shade. Fargo’s lip curled as he and Lola rode into the yard. A man like Harrod could go through this gang like a hot knife through butter. Tinhorns, all of them, by their looks. “They’ve got to go,” he muttered to Lola as they swung down.

“You’ll need some of them, won’t you?” she asked apprehensively.

“No,” Fargo said. “I work better alone.” He looped reins around the hitch-rack, adjusted the sawed-off shotgun, which rode on its sling, muzzles down behind his left shoulder. It seemed an awkward way to carry the gun, as he walked across the yard, left thumb hooked beneath the sling.

His arrival seemed to charge the air with electricity. The men in the shade set aside their bottles, stood up. The others, around the blanket, let the dice fall. Then they got slowly to their feet. The quartet that had been shooting behind the barns came forward, one of them tucking his Colt into his waistband, the others with theirs holstered.

“All right,” Fargo called softly, but in a voice that carried. “My name’s Neal Fargo. You’ve seen me before. I want you all over here—now.”

They looked at one another, that hard-bitten, frowsy crew. Then one of them, mescal bottle in one hand, spat out a match he’d been chewing. “Where’s Luke Shannon?”

Fargo said, tonelessly, “He drew on me last night and I shot the hell out of him.”

Another one, with long black mustaches, stepped forward.

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