The gait of the long-legged stallion seemed to devour distance as they rode westward across the pampa, and Theo Braga’s pinto was hard put to keep up.
The big horse, Cimarron, was by no means tamed or wholly trained as yet, not even after two days of intensive work with him by Fargo and the gaucho; but he knew his master and was learning as he went. He was responsive to rein and learning leg signals, and the hot sun and hard traveling had taken enough edge off of him so Fargo could relax in the saddle, free of worry about treachery on the stallion’s part.
He was fully armed: the Winchester rode under his right knee in the saddle scabbard, the Fox shotgun was slung muzzles down behind his left shoulder, the .38 Colt holstered on his right hip. His bandoliers of rifle and shotgun ammo clicked as Cimarron loped on steadily; and Braga, who knew how to shoot, but owned no firearm, wore the Mauser in its wooden case and had familiarized himself with it. From time to time, he stroked it proudly, and his eyes glittered.
After a hasty burial of the man he had knifed, he and Fargo had drunk together in the pulperia, the store and bar. The raw cane alcohol had been potent, and Fargo had been sparing with it. Braga, however, tossed off glass after glass without showing any effect except perhaps a loosening of the tongue. “I say again,” he repeated firmly, “my life is at your service. If you are to cross the pampa, I must go with you. Believe me, I am a complete gaucho and an excellent baquiano and rastreador.”
“Guide and tracker,” Fargo murmured in English.
“Yes. I was born on the pampa; I know it like the breasts of my girlfriend—and, always, I pay my debts. I am indebted to you for my life.”
“You have given me the stallion.”
“A horse for a man? That is not enough. Whatever brings you to the pampa, you are not a native here, not a gaucho. And in times like these, a stranger on the pampa will not live long without a friend to side him. Where do you go, what is it you wish to do here?”
Fargo looked at him hard, appraisingly. Then he made his decision. Theo Braga was as tough as they came, but he was a man with his own fierce code of honor. He could be trusted. “I go to the estancia,” he said, “of Don Caesar Hierro.”
Braga stared at him and slowly set down his glass. “Hombre, no!”
Fargo grinned coldly. “Why not?”
Braga looked around to make sure no one was listening. For the moment, the bar was empty of other customers. He bent forward, lowering his voice. “Because the German will not allow it.”
“The German. Wilhelm von Stahl?”
“You know of him?”
“Yes,” Fargo said. “Is he at the Hierro estancia?”
“That is the word the wind carries. And for months, now, no one crosses the boundary of the ranch. The German has riders, many gauchos, always on patrol. Everyone who tries to enter Estancia Hierro is turned back by men with many guns. Or ...” Braga gulped the contents of his glass. “Killed.”
“Von Stahl has killed men recently?”
“There were two Mexicans … ” Braga broke off. “They were not the only ones. Don Caesar had other friends. Some of those, they say, refused to be turned away and insisted on being taken to him. And they have never, so the wind says, been seen again. You will never get into the ranch.”
“Maybe not,” Fargo said. “I intend to try.”
Braga sat up straight. “Why?”
“Because it is my job. I have taken money to find Don Caesar. And do certain other things. And when I take money to do a job, I do not let men with guns stop me. I have guns of my own and know how to use them.”
“Yes,” Theo said, still looking at him narrowly. “That I can believe.” Then he grinned, slowly. “Well, if you are determined ... All the more reason you need me.”
“If it is as dangerous as you say, I can’t ask you to risk your life.”
Braga laughed. “I risk my life every day. It is what a gaucho lives for: the risk.” Then he sobered. “How about it, man, shall I go with you to the Hierro place?”
“Yes, if you want to.”
Braga seemed to relax. Then he looked troubled. “I am an expert shot. Once I served with the army. But I own no gun, only my knife and bolas and lazo.”
“Don’t worry about the guns; I have plenty of guns.”
“Then it is agreed.” Braga put out his hand, clamped Fargo’s. “We make the journey to Estancia Hierro together?”
“If you will come.” Fargo lit a cigarette, passed one to Braga. “Guide me there; then, when the fighting begins, it is my affair.”
“Leave, when the fighting starts? Do you think I would make such a journey only to miss the best part?”
Fargo laughed at the man’s outraged face. “All right. If you want fighting, I guess there’ll be enough for both of us. But what about your horses?”
“I’ll sell them today. You’ll need an outfit and I will buy it for you to make sure you are not cheated. Tell me, do you have plenty of bullets?”
“Sure,” said Fargo.
“Good. The wind will already be carrying a message to the German that you are here. If not before, surely by the time we reach Rio Carmen, we shall need them.” He poured another glass of rum, tossed it off. “Very well. Then it is settled. Tomorrow, we ride.”
That had been forty-eight hours ago, and in the time since, Fargo had acquired a thorough respect for the pampa—and for Theo Braga.
Riding a horse across these plains was like being in a small boat in the middle of an ocean. This was the pampa de los pastos fuertes, the hard-grass pampa, wildest of them all. It teemed with cattle wild as deer, bands of wild ponies. Deer were common; armadillos scuttled away through the tall, sharp-edged grass; once Fargo caught a glimpse of the tan, slinking form of a puma. An occasional low shrub, a few ombu trees around the waterholes, were the only shade or cover. Cleverly as an Indian, Theo kept them off the skyline, following every draw and gulley, and Fargo did not miss the way his eyes traveled ceaselessly, always alert.
Toward twilight on the first day, when they had come upon a big post, set inexplicably in the middle of the open plains and worn slick and shiny, Theo reined in. He pointed at the post. “That is for cattle to scratch against. Out here where there are no trees, a scratching post draws them like a waterhole, and makes the round up easier. I think now we shall have a beef for supper.” He unloosened the bolas which had been wrapped around his saddle pommel, let the two weighted ropes drop down from their junction with the third weight, and hefted the rope contraption in his hand. With it at the ready, they rode on. In minutes, a cow stampeded out of a draw; Theo touched spurs to the pinto and went after her, whirling the bolas around his head. Drawing close, he threw it. The weighted ropes wound themselves tightly around her legs; she went down. Braga was out of the saddle in a flash, knife glinting in the dying sun. She did not even have time to bawl before he was on her and had cut her throat. When she was dead, he cut out the tongue and the loin. Wrapping these in a chunk of hide, he led Fargo another five miles, until they reached a waterhole. There they camped; and Braga roasted the meat over a small fire. Fargo hobbled and picketed the stallion, which only fought him a little while he did so; and while Theo cooked, took the man’s bolas. “Show me again how to use this.”
Braga grinned. “It takes much practice. But if you are good with the lazo...”
“I am,” said Fargo.
“Well, then ... hold it so. And turn it thus … ” Theo threw it; the ropes wrapped themselves with terrific force around and around the trunk of a small ombu tree. “It is done in that manner.”
Fargo unwrapped the tangled ropes; they would have held whatever they hit as tightly as any riata’s noose. He tried a throw, was a little off-center, did it again. This time, he hit the tree squarely, but the ropes did not hold tightly; he had not whirled them enough, not worked up enough speed. He went on practicing while Theo cooked; and by nightfall he had learned to bind a stationary target with the weapon.
“Very good.” Theo’s look was respectful. “Tomorrow, it shall be you who kills our supper.”
They ate, took turns at guard. The stallion, Cimarron, was like another guard; he knew, now, only two humans: Fargo and Theo Braga. The approach of any other would trigger him into a frenzy.
There was an alarm that night but it was not caused by humans. As Fargo lay on guard, the stallion snorted; then there was a scream like that of a woman in anguish, a mad whinny from the big horse, a thud of hooves. The scream came again, was choked off. Fargo ran to the horse, gun up and poised. It was not necessary; a snapped match showed him the panther on the ground, pounded to a pulp by Cimarron’s hobbled feet, mangled by the horse’s great teeth. Cimarron snorted, kept on pawing the puma’s remains, his jaws stained with cat’s blood. Fargo finally led him to a new grazing ground, or the big horse would have spent the night mangling the dead cat and Braga would have got no sleep. Lying there in the darkness, he felt a great respect for the stallion. Like himself, once challenged, it would kill the challenger or die in the attempt.
Overhead, the sky was vast, the stars incredibly numerous, dominated by the Southern Cross. Fargo lay quietly on the ground, rifle and shotgun cradled in his arms, and thought about what lay ahead. It was a job, but it was more than that. He had spent years of his life as an American soldier; now there was the biggest war his country had ever been in, and they would not take him. But that did not mean he could not strike a blow at von Stahl, who was shipping beef to Germany; beef was ammunition to an army. If von Stahl could be eliminated, Fargo would have accomplished more than he could ever do as a cavalry sergeant in France.
Besides, he thought regretfully, the cavalry was dead. The generals did not know that, yet, but he did; he had taught Villa’s machine-gunners the use of the automatic weapons they possessed: Lewis guns, Maxims, Colt machine guns, French chauchats. He knew what machine guns could do against charging horsemen; and the Germans had plenty of machine guns. They had airplanes, too; and once he had flown in one of Villa’s airplanes, a Curtiss-Wright, old and rickety, sailing low over Federal troops, the pilot intent on keeping the aircraft level while Fargo pulled pins and dropped hand grenades on the soldiers below. Cavalry could not stand that sort of overhead bombardment. No, the day of the horse soldier was about to end. Maybe that was why he was here; maybe some inscrutable fate had pushed him into a position where he could do something more useful than sacrificing himself leading a mounted charge into the deadly fire of Spandaus.
As for dying, he was not worried about that. Perhaps the bullet with his name on it had already been cast. That was all right. Better take a slug, go out that way, than live to grow old, no strength left, no masculinity, nothing left but memories in a body too frail to hold them. He figured on dying with his boots on and when he went out he would take as many with him as he could. Not like his old friend Wyatt Earp, a rickety travesty of a man now, rocking away his life on a front porch in Southern California...
His watch ended; he woke up Braga, rolled himself in blankets and slept dreamlessly.
The next day was another long, sun-blinding voyage across the sea of the pampa against a never-ceasing wind. That evening, Fargo took the bolas, pursued a two-year old bull and brought down the animal with the first throw. His Batangas knife slit its throat and again they feasted on beef. Braga was respectful. “Never have I seen a man learn to use the boleadores so swiftly.”
“In Sonora and Chihuahua, they use sixty-foot rawhide ropes,” Fargo told him. “I started on one of those. This isn’t all that different.”
Braga cut a slice of tongue with his knife. “I hope you can use all those guns of yours as well. Tomorrow we reach Rio Carmen. We have seen none of von Stahl’s gauchos so far; and the only reason I can think of is that they wait for us there. Perhaps we should go around that place.”
“No,” said Fargo. “I want to go to Rio Carmen. That’s where we learn the score.”
“What?”
“A saying in America. It comes from our baseball. Like your football.” Soccer was the national sport, the rage, in Argentina. “We learn how strong the other team is.”
Braga laughed without humor. “I think the other team is plenty strong. Still, if you want to go to Rio Carmen, I am for it. This Mauser is a very sweet gun.”
Fargo looked at him keenly. “You like to fight, don’t you?”
“It is what the gaucho lives for,” said Braga simply.
On the morning of the third day, Rio Carmen came in sight.
Braga signaled Fargo to rein in as they traveled up a draw that sliced a rising hump of ground. Fargo did so, dismounted, took a moment to hobble the increasingly docile stallion. Then they crawled to the ridge top. Theo pointed. “There,” he said. “The town.”
Town, thought Fargo, was a high-and-mighty name for the place. A short stretch of street, a pulperia, a scattering of houses. He took out field glasses, shielded their lenses against reflection and scanned the place. Then he went tense. There was a lot of activity in Rio Carmen today. At least ten saddle horses were tethered before the store and saloon; and four or five men lounged in the shade the building cast, eyes fastened on the road to the east. Fargo passed the glasses to Theo. “Take a look.”
Braga did. When he lowered the binoculars, he said: “Von Stahl’s gauchos, all right. Judging by the horses, half keeping watch on the road, the others in the pulperia. And, as you see, they all have rifles. Ten, I make it, against two. What shall we do? Bypass Rio Carmen?”
“No,” Fargo said. “I want information about what’s going on at Hierro’s ranch, and those buzzards can give it to us. They know we’re coming, but they’re expecting us from the east.” He took the glasses, scanned the terrain. Behind the miserable little settlement, baking in the ferocious heat, a long draw ran arrow straight from out on the pampa, ending almost behind the store. Fargo’s wolfish grin stretched his mouth. Because there was no shade, the gauchos had not posted a guard on that natural approach to town. It was a mistake they would regret. “We’ll have to circle to the west, come up through that hollow without being seen. If we can do that, we can handle ’em. If you’re game.” He looked narrowly at Braga.
Theo’s grin had a quality that matched Fargo’s own—like the snarl of some predatory beast. “My meat and drink,” he said happily and loosened the top of the Mauser’s wooden scabbard. “How many do you want taken alive?”
“No more than we have to,” Fargo said. “Just enough to talk. Otherwise—let’s start cutting the odds against us now.”
“I think that is a good idea.” Braga drew the Mauser, unfastened the scabbard from his belt, clipped the pistol’s grip to the front of the wooden holster, snuggled the carbine thus made against his shoulder for the feel of it, stroked the spare clip to make sure it was in his belt. “Then let’s go.” They slid back down the hill, mounted, and Braga rode with the weapon across the front of the saddle.
It took them an hour of cautious maneuvering to reach the draw without exposing themselves. Once they were in it, they made their way up the narrow depression at a walk. Fargo had unslung the shotgun and carried it up and ready as their horses moved, his squinting eyes ceaselessly scanning either bank. But the noon heat was at its worst, and no guards appeared. Once an armadillo scuttled away before them; otherwise, nothing stirred.
Now they were only a couple of hundred yards behind the store. Here they would lose their cover, the draw tapering off, fanning out into level ground which they would have to cross. Fargo reined in, held the impatient, curveting stallion tightly. He looked at Braga. “You take the ones outside; I’ll handle the ones in the store. You may need an extra gun. Here.” He drew the .38 Colt, passed it to Theo, who nodded, put his pinto’s reins in his teeth, and prepared to ride in with a weapon in each hand.
“Now!” Fargo grated, and spurred the stallion.
Cimarron snorted. Then the two horses rocketed out of the draw, riders bent low over their necks, guns up, and pounded toward the drowsy, silent little town. They rushed past the store’s west side, a high, blank wall of mud bricks, and dust swirled as they skidded into the wide, deserted street and reined around. Fargo swung the stallion toward the pulperia’s door, and Braga raced past him, toward the building’s east side. Then Fargo was off the horse in a lithe, quick jump, shotgun leveled, plunging through the entrance, two spare rounds clasped in his left hand. “Nobody moves!” he roared, halting just inside. “Hands up, everybody!”
The place was dim; he blinked, taking advantage of the second or two of frozen surprise of the men in here while his vision cleared. Then he could see: gray eyes raking over the frightened storekeeper behind his counter, and the knot of gauchos, six, he counted quickly, lounging around two tables in the center, with bottles of carta before them. They stared, motionless in astonishment, for perhaps two seconds more.
Then chairs turned over as they sprang up.
“It’s the Americano!” somebody yelled. “Get him!” Men reached for their guns.
Fargo shifted instinctively to get his back away from the door. In the same instant, gunfire erupted outside. He thrust the sawed-off forward and pulled both triggers.
It kicked viciously, its roar thunderous in the enclosed space. Eighteen buckshot made a lethal spray, slamming into that startled, milling bunch of men, and four gauchos in front never had a chance to raise their guns. Under that brutal, scything blast, they screamed, went down as if smashed by a huge, invisible hand. But, shielded by their bodies, two in back had escaped. Even as Fargo’s thumb flicked open the Fox’s breech, one, in a bright red shirt, was leveling a Webley revolver.
Fargo’s motions were fluid, dazzling. He threw himself aside, landing hard on the dirt floor, even as his left hand crammed in two more rounds and the scattergun snapped shut. There was no time to aim and no need to—the beauty of the weapon. He poked it toward Redshirt and pulled the right trigger, and at that range, it was impossible to miss. Rolling like a cat, Fargo did not wait to see the round’s effect; he bounced to his feet as a rifle slug whined past him, plucking at his shirtsleeve, and turned to face the last man, who was working the bolt on a long-barreled Krag, its muzzle trained on Fargo’s belly. Fargo swung the shotgun and pulled the other trigger; he heard one pellet whine off the Krag’s barrel. Four more caught the rifleman in the chest and threw him back against the wall. He hung there a moment as if his shoulder blades were fastened to it, staring at Fargo with glazing eyes, even as Fargo thumbed more rounds from his bandolier and crammed them in the chambers. Two seconds, three, the gaucho stood there, red spreading all across his shirtfront, the muzzle of the Krag tipping downward slowly. Then his eyes went cold and sightless and the rifle dropped, and the man’s corpse slid down the wall and dropped into a sitting position on the floor, head tilted to one side drunkenly.
Fargo whirled, the reloaded shotgun up, made for the door. Braga might need help with the four outside. In the street, he halted, blinking. Theo sat his pinto calmly, the Mauser pistol-carbine trained on two gauchos with faces full of shock and hands held high. The booted foot of a dead man stuck out from behind the corner of the building.
“Theo!” Fargo rapped. “All right?”
“Perfect,” said Theo. “The lazy bastards were half asleep. I got two of them before they knew what had come upon them. These had less guts for fighting; I think their tongues will wag.” He grinned, white teeth flashing in a terrible smile. “What about it, little birds? Will you sing?”
Fargo’s eyes raked cautiously up and down the street. Curious, frightened faces peered out of windows, doors, as the inhabitants of the miserable little mud huts, aroused from siesta, tried to make sense of what was happening. But there was no other sign of danger.
Fargo grinned. “Watch ’em,” he said. Carefully, he went up behind the two men, frisked them thoroughly. They had thrown down their guns, but their knives were still in their belts. He tossed them out of reach, to fall beside the two dead men in the narrow pool of shadow next to the east wall—the shade that had cost them their lives. Then he stepped well aside, for the first time with a chance to think about Cimarron. He’d not had time to tie the stallion, and the animal was nowhere in sight. Half wild as it was, likely it had been frightened by the gunfire, was somewhere miles away, on the pampa, and he would never see it again. He felt regret, but that was part of the price to pay for killing eight men before they could kill him. There were plenty of horses here, and he’d have to make do with the best of those.
“In the pulperia,” he said, gesturing with the shotgun.
“Señor, for the sake of God—” one blurted in a trembling voice.
“Shut up, you old woman,” the other said tersely. He had hard black eyes, and a jagged knife-scar twisted his weathered face. Fargo nodded with satisfaction. Now he knew which one would talk. He made the motion with the shotgun barrel again, and the two men turned and entered the pulperia. Just inside the door, they stopped involuntarily, awed by the scene of slaughter, but Fargo prodded them on.
The storekeeper had fled out the back door. The place was deserted, save for Fargo, Braga and the two captives, unless one counted the sprawled corpses littering the floor. The room reeked of gun smoke, spilled rum, and the curious characteristic smell of death, blood and excrement. Fargo went to a coil of rope, cut lengths with the Batangas knife. The men made no resistance as he bound their hands.
Then he shoved them into chairs. “Theo,” he said, “keep watch. I’ll ask the questions.”
“Si.” Braga took up station in the door.
Fargo sat down across the table from the men, the shotgun covering them. “All right, you men,” he said. “You people were from the Estancia Hierro, right?”
Knife-scar sat impassively, lips clamped, but the other nodded. “Yes, Señor.” His fellow looked at him with hatred and contempt.
“Who sent you? The German, von Stahl?”
“I do not know, Señor. All I know is that Mario here came to our camp and got me for a job. Mario is our leader. He brought us to Estancia Hierro and talked to the people there and hired us out to fight, to guard the ranch and to kill anyone who tried to enter it. With whom he talked or what the situation at headquarters is, I don’t know.”
“I see.” Fargo looked at Knife-scar. “So you’re the one we have to make sing.”
Mario stared back. Then he turned his head and spat on the dirt floor.
Fargo’s mouth twisted. “I don’t have a lot of time, and there’s plenty I need to know.” He thumbed his watch from its pocket, laid it on the table. “You have one minute, hombre, to start talking—the easy way. Otherwise, we’ll have to get the information out of you the hard way.”
Mario did not move.
Fargo watched the second hand tick around the circle. The room was very silent. The hand completed perhaps three-quarters of its journey when, in the doorway, Braga swore softly. At the same instant, there was a loud, familiar trumpeting from the street. Fargo shoved back his chair, picked up the watch. “Theo. El Cimarron?” His heart beat faster.
“Yes, Neal! By God, he’s come back!”
“Watch these men.” Fargo waited until Braga had turned, gun pointed. Then he went to the door. Reins trailing, the huge stallion pranced up and down the street, wild-eyed, nostrils flaring, steel-colored flanks lathered. He saw Fargo, threw up his head, bared his teeth. Fargo halted. It was not love of him that had brought the frightened horse back; it was the band of animals belonging to the gauchos and tethered before the store. His eyes raked over them; most of them were geldings, but two were mares.
He lowered the shotgun, perfectly aware that, in Cimarron’s wild state, he might still have to use it to save himself.
Then he put out one hand and began to walk toward the horse.
“Cimarron,” he said quietly. “Hello, Cim. Hello, nino. Come here, horse; come here, fellow.” His voice droned on, soft and crooning, as he advanced step by step toward the stallion.
Cimarron pinned back his ears and walled his eyes and sidled away. His loud snort was a blast of warning. But his head was still high. When a stallion charged, he lowered his head, stretched his neck full-length, bared his teeth.
“Cimarron. Cimarron.” Fargo kept saying the name over and over. He had worked hard with this horse the whole length of the journey, trying to win its trust, its affection. Inasmuch as he loved anything other than money, he loved horses, but that was not the main reason for trying to bind to him every mount he rode with a mixture of discipline and kindness. In his business, the loyalty of a horse could be as vital as a bullet for a gun. It could make the difference between life and death.
But Cimarron was a special case. Whether he had made any progress in so short a time was a question to be answered now. Forty feet separated him from the stallion. In a moment or two, he would know. Fargo moved on slowly, inch by inch, one hand out in friendship, the other ready to use the shotgun if the stallion charged him.
The horse kept backing. Ears still laid flat, it lowered its head, stretched its neck. Then it halted, forefeet planted wide. Fargo was very close, now, so close that there might not even be time to use the shotgun.
But he kept on moving, kept up that soft talking. Fifteen feet, ten ... In a moment more, he could reach the reins. Now Cimarron was planted like a rock, motionless save for a strange trembling. He was like a coiled spring ready to explode in action.
Fargo was only five feet now from those bared teeth, that snorting muzzle. If he had allowed himself to, he might have felt some fear. But he let himself feel nothing; a horse could scent fear, and the smell of it would be all needed to trigger Cimarron into attacking.
One yard, now, and Cimarron stepped back a pace. Fargo came on smoothly, murmuring as a father might to a frightened child. A couple of feet, one foot; his hand was close to the stallion’s muzzle. A lunge of those mighty jaws could snap it off ... Then his fingers wrapped around the trailing reins.
Cimarron reared high, pawing; Fargo stepped aside. The big horse came down hard. Then stood there, shivering. Fargo smiled at it, hands still tight on the reins. “Okay, boy,” he said in English. “That’s a good boy, easy … ” And the stallion shuddered once more, then relaxed, as Fargo came up beside it and stroked its head, scratched between its ears, patted its neck. Then Cimarron snorted softly and wiped sweat against Fargo’s arm, and once more he was Fargo’s horse.
He came with what was almost docility as Fargo led him toward the pulperia. “Braga,” Fargo called. “Bring those two men out here.”
A second more and they were in the doorway, Braga behind them with his gun. Fargo saw their eyes widen at the sight of the stallion; obviously they recognized him. Mario’s composure broke a little. “Hell and devils! El Cimarron!”
Fargo grinned coldly.
“You know him, eh, Mario?”
“I know him,” Mario said. “He killed my brother, the bastard.” His gaze raked over the stallion with a mixture of fear and hatred. “We were hunting horses south of Dos Caminos. This devil charged without warning out of a draw, knocked over my brother’s horse, bit and trampled him to death.”
“Sad,” said Fargo. “You know what it’s like, then, to die that way.”
Mario’s eyes shuttled toward him.
“I see a corral down the street,” Fargo said. “It’s not big, but it doesn’t have to be. We won’t need much room with just you and Cimarron inside it.” His lips were thin, his mocking grin cold as death. “You smell like fear, Mario. That’s all it takes to get a horse like this to charge, and once he’s after you, there’s no escape.”
Mario drew himself up. But his face was pale beneath its weather burn.
“The choice is yours,” Fargo said. “Talk—or into the corral with the stallion. He’s only been under saddle three or four days, so he hasn’t forgotten how to kill.”
“No man would do a thing like that to another,” Mario said, but for the first time, his voice faltered.
“You think not? All right, Braga. Let’s move him down to the corral.” There was no doubt that he meant exactly what he said.
Theo prodded Mario with the gun. “Move, hombre.”
Mario only stood there, staring at the horse. Cimarron caught the smell of fear, threw his head high, trumpeted a blast that jarred the silence, and one flinty hoof pawed dust.
Then Mario began to shiver. Suddenly he clasped his bound hands over his face. It was as if the sight of the stallion were more than he could bear. “No,” he muttered thickly. “No, I still remember how my brother died. What is it you want to know? I will tell you what you want to know.”
“That’s more like it,” Fargo said. “I’ll tie the stallion. Then we’ll go back inside.”