The sound was like the yowling of a lost soul in hell, and it went on and on. At first it seemed to come from a great distance; then, as Fargo’s head cleared a little, it was nearer, a terrible undulating wail beginning low, like a rumble, shrilling to a quavering scream, then dying away in deep, throaty sobs—the bellow of an enraged bull.
He lay listening to it for a long time, not daring to open his eyes, the pain in his head almost unbearable, made worse by that hideous sound. Each bellow seemed to shake his skull, send waves of agony lancing through his brain.
Then, a little, the pain abated. Gingerly, he peeled back his eyelids. The first touch of light hurt, and he closed them again. A moment later, he tried once more. This time, it was better. He found himself looking up at a ceiling beamed with thick wood, and it was mid-morning. He was on a bed. When he tried to move, he found that his hands were tied together, his feet bound.
Then a voice said, mockingly, “So, you’ve had your sleep out, eh?”
A face loomed over him, the badly chopped one of Jorge, with hatred glittering in its eyes. He held a pistol in his left hand, a Colt Peacemaker with its hammer cocked. He lowered the barrel slowly and with relish and pressed the muzzle squarely between Fargo’s eyes. “Do you know,” he asked in a soft, gloating voice, “how little pressure it would take to pull this trigger and send your skull flying into little pieces, plaster this room with your brain? Do you know that only a quarter of an ounce more, a second more, and there will be nothing left of you above the eyes?”
Fargo stared down the barrel of that Colt, saw the finger curled around the trigger, saw it tighten. He lay stiffly, stomach knotted. Then, just as he would have sworn the gun had to fire, it swung away from him. Jorge laughed and eased down the hammer.
“But that would be so quick and easy and so painless. And you are not to die like that, the jefe has promised me. When he’s through questioning you, you’re mine.” Jorge touched his swollen nose, his face crisscrossed with cuts. Then he looked away, toward a window, toward the source of that bellowing. “I have a much more interesting death in mind for you.”
He pouched the gun, whipped a knife from his belt. Fargo tensed, but the blade slashed the bindings of his ankles. Jorge stepped back, picked up Fargo’s own Fox with his left hand, and leveled it. “Up, hombre. Señor von Stahl wants to see you downstairs.”
Under the threat of the twin muzzles, Fargo raised himself to a sitting position. Waves of pain lanced through his head. “How long have I been out?”
“I struck you harder than I meant to. Von Stahl was angry with me for that. You’ve been out a full day—twenty-four hours.”
“Damn,” Fargo grunted. He got to his feet, stood there dizzily. Then the pain ebbed; his whipcord toughness conquered it and he was in possession of himself again. Not that, under those double muzzles, knowing all too well that there was no escape from them, that did him any good.
“Move,” Jorge said. Fargo went a little unsteadily out the door of the upstairs bedroom, down the hall to the stairs, with Jorge behind at exactly the right interval, close enough to shoot, not so close that Fargo could whirl and knock the gun away. Jorge knew his business all right, Fargo thought …
He made it down the stairs, and his legs were steadier by the time he reached the bottom. Jorge gestured to double doors leading off the main sala. They led into what must have been Hierro’s office and now was von Stahl’s. When they swung open, they revealed the German behind a huge desk, his feet, in polished riding boots, propped up. He was sipping mate, the spicy herbal tea of the Argentine, from a gourd with a metal straw in it.
When he saw Fargo, he swung down his feet, stood up. “Ah, good morning, Herr Fargo. I trust you had a pleasant rest?”
Fargo did not answer.
On the wall behind von Stahl was a pair of cavalry sabers, blades crossed. Without looking, the German reached up, took one down, whipped the air with it. Its sharply honed edge glittered as it slashed back and forth. Then von Stahl lowered it. “You may leave us, Jorge.”
“Patron, I should stay, with my gun—”
Von Stahl’s handsome face darkened. “You idiot. I have my Luger, I have this—” he whipped the saber again “—and his hands are tied. I said leave. I want to question him in private!”
“Si,” Jorge nodded reluctantly, went out, closing the door behind him.
Von Stahl raised the saber again. “I meant it, Fargo. I am an expert with this; it is my favorite weapon. Years at Heidelberg, where I was always first with it; then more years in the Army, the Prussian cavalry. In that organization, a man truly learns to use this sword. One false move and I can slice your head from your neck so fast you’ll not even know it’s gone. Until—” he grinned “—you sneeze.”
Fargo, from years in the American cavalry, knew the saber, too; although not, perhaps, in the way von Stahl did. He recognized immediately that the German told the truth; here was a master swordsman. “I believe you,” he said.
“Very well.” Von Stahl dropped into a chair, gestured carelessly with the blade. “Sit down.”
Fargo did. “What happened to Theo Braga?”
“Braga? Oh, your gaucho freund. He’s safely locked away with the others of his kind—the vaqueros from Augustin’s ranch in Mexico. We’ve kept them alive to handle those magnificent bulls. Those great animals require special care.” He picked up the gourd, sipped from it. “We had quite a time rounding them up after you cut the fence. I had them all brought in here to the corrals for safe-keeping until the fence can be repaired—and until I’m sure nobody else follows you.”
He set down the gourd. “Anyhow, Braga’s safely put away. There’s a strong jail on this place, and that’s where the Hierro vaqueros spend most of their time.” His blue eyes, alert and keenly intelligent, ranged over Fargo. “You know what? You’re a hell of a man. I hope all American soldiers aren’t like you, or our Army will have a bad time now that America’s in the war.”
Fargo said nothing.
“You take Jorge, who is tough as leather, as if he were a baby. You have the guts, the gall, to come after me single-handed. Somewhere along the line, you pick up help—one man.” His mouth curled. “The two of you, apparently, from the word I have, wipe out a detail of ten I sent to intercept you. You turn loose the fighting bulls and give me all sorts of trouble with them. And have the audacity to invade my very house, hoping, I’m sure, to take me alive and hold me as hostage for safe conduct out of here with Carla and Caesar Hierro. And, by God, would very probably have succeeded if you had come a half hour earlier. I was asleep with Carla—she is a very entertaining bed-fellow once her initial reluctance is overcome—when the alarm was given. But I am no fool, either. I knew at once that the quickest way to neutralize you was to threaten to kill her. Still, if you had managed to gain entrance a little earlier, if the alarm had not been given—”
“I had bad luck,” Fargo said.
“Thus it goes with us, we professionals. We do well, so long as our luck is good; when it sours, we die. That is the destiny of the professional fighting man. So far, though, my own luck has been very good.”
“Luck can change,” said Fargo. “For everybody.”
“Of course. But I don’t think yours will be changing very soon. It went bad when you fell in with Pamela.”
“She’s one of your people, eh?” Fargo had figured that out by now.
“Of course. An elaborate cover story, a great hatred for me and Germany in general; a bar in the heart of Buenos Aires, and believe me, there is no better place to pick up information—And, of course, a liking for the pleasures of the bed which is quite genuine … ” As he talked, he waved the saber as if for emphasis. “She and I have made a good team for a long time, now, in the service of His Majesty, the Kaiser’s, government. She gathers the intelligence; I act on it.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered one to Fargo. Fargo leaned forward and von Stahl lit it for him, managing to keep the saber blade close to his throat at the same time. Then the German leaned back, lit a smoke of his own.
“Germany needs beef if she’s to win this war. And has known she would since the first plans were made, long before the war started. Thus, I was detached from my command, sent to Argentina, my task to acquire as much land and cattle as possible, to insure the supply is large and unbroken. At the same time, I am to acquire wealth and influence. Thus I can exert pressure on the Argentine government to keep it neutral, perhaps, with luck, even to persuade it eventually to join us, thus cutting off the English from pampas beef entirely. So I have been here for a long time, in pursuit of those ends.” He sat up straight. “Now, with America in the war, able to ship beef to England, I must dally no longer; all the niceties have to go by the board. From here on, when muscle is necessary, I use muscle. As I’ve used it against Caesar Hierro. Germany needs this ranch, its cattle ... And I shall get it for her anyway I can.”
Fargo nodded.
“There is no harm in telling a man whose luck has run out such things. Besides, you are the first American I have fought; and you interest me. You see, now, though, how useless it is. Germany shall deal with America just as I have dealt with you.” He laughed shortly. “The luck of the Allies has run out, too.”
Fargo said nothing.
Von Stahl arose, began to pace, whipping the cavalry saber unconsciously as he did so. “Thus, I knew what you were here for and intended as soon as Pamela could forward to me the information you gave her. The question now is, are you what you appear to be, or are you an American spy? Could you, perhaps, have been sent by the American government to come against me, neutralize me?” He went to the corner, and Fargo stiffened as he saw his weapons piled there. “You carry a great deal of hardware. On the shotgun Jorge appropriated, there is a legend: To Neal Fargo, gratefully, from T. Roosevelt.”
He stopped, fixed Fargo with cold blue eyes. “Theodore Roosevelt is the most warlike president the American government ever had. A man who could earn such an inscription on his gun, obviously a presentation weapon—” He strode forward, the saber up. He pressed its point against Fargo’s throat. “Who really sent you, Fargo?”
“Augustin Hierro,” Fargo said, feeling a thin trickle of blood run down his neck.
“The hell he did.” Von Stahl stepped back. Suddenly the saber lashed. The flat of its blade struck Fargo’s head, rocked it. Then it hit him from the other side. The room swam. “Talk!” Von Stahl rasped. “Tell me who really sent you?”
“I said, Hierro in Sonora. The girl’s father.” There was no point in not telling the truth. “To find out what happened to his cousin, his daughter, his bulls ...”
Von Stahl stared at him. For a moment, Fargo thought he would use the saber again, perhaps the edge of it this time.
Then von Stahl grinned. “Would you like to see what could happen to you if you refuse to talk? Perhaps you would like a glimpse of Caesar Hierro. I have used certain measures on him—”
“He’s still alive,” Fargo said.
“Somewhat,” said von Stahl cryptically. “I need clear title to this estancia. I cannot obtain it without certain ancient Spanish land grants which go with any transfer he might sign. He has signed the transfer, but refuses to tell me where the grants are hidden. I think, though, he is at the end of his rope; I think he will soon tell me where those documents are.” He strode to the door. “Jorge!” he snapped, never taking his eyes from Fargo.
“Si, Jefe!” came the voice from outside.
“Bring Caesar Hierro here. Carla, too. I am beginning to have the germ of an idea.”
“Si, Jefe.” Fargo heard departing footsteps.
Von Stahl went behind the desk again, sat down, propped up his booted feet. He ground out his cigarette in an ash tray. “I promised you to Jorge when I was through questioning you. He had worked out a rather original death for you. I think I see now, at last, how to make Don Caesar talk. Besides, I am through with the girl.” He chuckled softly. “Perhaps when you and she see what lies ahead of you, all will sing like little birds.”
Fargo made no answer.
Von Stahl lit another cigarette. “Yes,” he said. “That silly hat, the way you bear yourself. You have been a soldier.”
“Yeah,” Fargo said.
“An American soldier. Against the German soldier. Well, you see how it turns out. You are good. But we are great. The difference between being good and great is the difference between defeat and victory, death and life.”
Fargo’s lips curled in his wolf’s grin.
“You smile. But the proof of the pudding, as you Americans say, is in the eating. By the time this day is over, unless you are more cooperative, you shall be dead and I shall be still alive. And thus—” von Stahl gestured with the saber.
“Still,” he went on, blowing smoke, “it is a shame we could not work together, you and I. I think the two of us would make a tremendous team. If things had turned out differently—”
He broke off as the door opened. “Ah,” he said, springing up lithely. “Here they are.” He bowed mockingly. “Señor Fargo, may I introduce Don Caesar Hierro and his cousin, Señorita Carla Hierro? As you will see, both are somewhat the worse for stubbornness.”
Fargo stared. The man came through the door first.
Or, rather, what had once been a man of height and power. Now, though, it was a slump-shouldered, trembling hulk. Beneath a mane of iron-gray hair, the beaten swollen face was blank, the dark eyes dazed and vacuous. Hierro wore no clothes, only filthy rags that hung about an emaciated body in which every rib showed and every inch of skin was crisscrossed with deep cuts, some still raw and festering. Fargo’s eyes went from the cuts to von Stahl’s saber; then back to Hierro. Dropped to the man’s dangling hands. Fargo’s mouth tightened as he saw that the tips of Hierro’s fingers were only ugly, suppurating sores, where the nails had been pulled out.
“Good morning, Don Caesar,” the German said wryly. “Did you sleep well?”
Hierro only stared at him with uncomprehending eyes.
Von Stahl walked to him, hit him with the saber blade.
Hierro did not flinch or move; but Carla came quickly, full of rage, from behind him. “You devil!” she hissed. She wore a black dress, now, that hugged every rounded curve of a body lush and lovely. Her eyes flamed. “Don’t you see he’s had enough? His mind’s gone! He couldn’t tell you what you want to know now, even if he would!”
“Be quiet,” von Stahl said coldly. He glanced at Fargo. “They are both stubborn, you see? I had thought perhaps I could break Carla to my will; but she refuses to abandon herself to the pleasure I give her. Last night, for instance, when she should have been crying out with ecstasy, she only lay there, like something dead—”
“I wish I were,” Carla Hierro snapped.
“Then, perhaps, my dear, you will soon get your wish.” Von Stahl sat down behind the desk again, ran his hand through silky blond hair, propped the saber across his knees. Behind the girl and Hierro, Jorge kept Fargo’s shotgun trained. “My patience is rapidly running out. Some little china from the pampas would be more responsive than you; and while you are very beautiful, beauty is not everything. I tire of you; your resistance bores me; and now I have decided to put you to a different use.”
He sat up straight. “The one important thing is to learn the hiding place of the Spanish land grants. Hierro is a stubborn and courageous man. Hierro. It means iron. And surely both of you are made of it. But do you know what Stahl means? Steel! And steel is harder than iron, much harder, as you soon will see. And I think I can break the iron.” He laughed softly and looked at Jorge. “Jorge, I think today you organize a real corrida de tows, a fine bullfight.”
Jorge laughed. “Patron—”
“Not so fast. Let me explain to the others.” He turned to face Don Caesar. “Hierro, can you hear me?”
No hint of comprehension flickered in the old man’s eyes.
“Don’t try to fool me, Hierro, you can understand. If you can’t now, you soon will.” Von Stahl arose. “Jorge, here, came up with a rather pleasant idea. He owes Fargo a score, and he has decided how to pay it off. Already, he’s had the black devil, El Diablo Negro, herded into the toril chute of the tienta ring.”
Hierro’s eyes were still blank.
“Jorge thought it would be entertaining to put Fargo unarmed and without a cape or sword into the bull ring with the big black bull. El Diablo Negro, as you well know, Don Caesar, will make short and bloody work of him.”
Hierro’s dull eyes still did not flicker.
“And I think you and Carla should watch the entertainment. Because, when The Black Devil has killed Fargo, his blood lust will be at its height. Then … ” Von Stahl smiled faintly, “ … it will be the girl’s turn in the ring with him.”
“No!” Carla gasped.
Then the room was silent, von Stahl looked at the old hacendado, and the wreck of the man looked back at him with unchanging face and uncomprehending eyes, von Stahl’s mouth twisted. “You pretend to have lost your mind through pain. But I think you love your cousin’s daughter very much, and I think, also, before you see her put into the ring with the black bull, your mind will come back. Because if you tell me where the documents I need are, she will live. Not luxuriously; I intend to pass her on to Jorge. But she will at least remain alive.”
Still Hierro’s face did not change; it was the vacuous, blank countenance of a man whose reason had fled him.
“So you give me the stupid look. After you see what the bull does to Fargo, I think you will not look so stupid. You will tell me what I want to know to save Carla from his horns.”
Suddenly Carla ran across the room, clasped von Stahl’s hand. “Leave him alone!” she cried. “Don’t you see? You’ve ruined his mind already. He can’t tell you anything! You’ve tortured him until he doesn’t know who or where he is!”
Von Stahl hit her then and sent her reeling back across the room. He looked not at her, but at Hierro, closely. Still the ranchero did not seem to know what was going on around him.
Von Stahl turned away. Carla huddled against the wall, rubbing her cheek, crying softly. The German looked at Fargo. “And you. If you have anything to tell me, now is the time. You might, perhaps, earn an easier death.”
Fargo’s eyes met those of the German. “Go to hell,” he said quietly. “Kraut.”
Von Stahl smiled. Fargo had seen skulls with more engaging grins. “You first,” he murmured. Then, to Jorge: “See that everything is ready.”
“I have already seen to it,” Jorge replied.
Von Stahl nodded. “Then I see no need of wasting time. Let’s go.”
A half dozen armed gauchos waited outside the office door. When von Stahl prodded Fargo and the Hierros out with the saber, Jorge barked orders to the men, and they fell in step around the captives. “It is perhaps two hundred yards to the bull ring,” von Stahl said, walking alongside Fargo. “A distance to be covered in five minutes. You have that long to reconsider, to decide to talk freely.”
Fargo said nothing. Every sense, every nerve, was taut, alert, focused on the situation he was in, probing for any possibility of escape. And yet there was none; von Stahl and Jorge had him hemmed in tightly, for they were professionals, too.
“It is as well that you do not talk,” the German went on. “I need you for an object lesson. When Hierro sees what the bull does to you, I think he will tell me what he wants to know before he witnesses his cousin’s daughter dying in the same fashion. When she sees this spectacle, she will plead with him, which she has never done before. Probably you will be more useful on the Black Devil’s horns than if you gave me some wild story anyhow.”
Fargo spat into the dust. At that instant, something like a trumpet blast rang across the valley, a high, defiant bugling.
The whole cavalcade halted, turned. Far away, silhouetted on the crest of the rise behind the village, the stallion, El Cimarron, tossed his head, pawed the earth, shook his mane, and trumpeted again.
Jorge swore, raised the shotgun, lowered it. One of the gauchos lifted a rifle, von Stahl struck it down. “Wait, you idiot! I’ll not have that horse killed. Once he’s taken, he’s mine!”
Jorge’s face was pale beneath its crisscross of wounds. “Jefe, that animal’s a demon! When they were rounding up the bulls, he attacked everyone in sight. We almost killed him then! He has a charmed life—”
On the ridge crest, Cimarron raised his head high, nostrils flaring, whinnied once more. Then he whirled, kicked up with hind feet, disappeared behind the ridge. “Ja,” von Stahl said, softly, as if to himself. “A charmed life. A lucky horse. For me, not for Fargo. I shall take pleasure in taming the gray devil.”
Carla Hierro gave a brittle laugh. “If you can’t tame a woman, do you think you can tame a horse?”
Von Stahl turned on her with flaming eyes. “Be still!” he snapped. Then he slapped her again, backhanded. She staggered against Hierro, who went on dully, as if not aware what was happening, whose face did not change expression, who did not even seem aware that Carla had lurched against him and recovered.
“Move them on to the ring,” von Stahl ordered.
Fargo’s eyes swept the area as they were marched toward the circle of mud wall six feet high. They passed a squat building with walls of the same construction, its windows high and small and barred with iron, its thick door padlocked. This, he supposed, was the carcel, the estancia jail; and Theo Braga was in there somewhere, along with Don Augustin Hierro’s herders. Not that any of that did him any good; he was, he understood now, as close to doom as he had ever come.
It was strange, he thought, as they marched on to the ring. He had always figured on dying by a bullet. Now it appeared that he would die on the horns of a bull. Well, it made no difference how you died; the important thing was to do it bravely. He remembered Lisandro Santana, the drunken matador he had worked for so briefly in Juarez, while he was still a youth. Lisandro had been a skinflint and a thorough-going bastard and a sloppy alcoholic. None of that made any difference; Lisandro had also been a man of courage. Even when he knew his reflexes were too slow, that he was too old and bloated, he had kept on going into the ring, and working close to the horns, and ... He had, Fargo thought, remembering the bloody, terrible death of the torero, known how to die. That was what Fargo had learned from him; that and a certain knowledge of the bulls, a certain dexterity with the cape, and banderillas, the mulela and the sword. But now he would have no cape, no barbed darts, no muleta or espada. None of that knowledge would do him any good; the only thing that he had learned from Lisandro that would help him now was the training, the example, of how to die bravely.
And yet, Fargo would not give up. While his heart beat, while life coursed through his veins, there was always hope. Only the dead were without hope ... Sometimes, for the living, miracles happened. It was the dead who were past the benefit of miracles. And he would, of course, stay alive as long as possible, cherish every second of life remaining, and never cease to seek a way out.
Then the high wooden gates of the tienta ring loomed before him. Beyond it was a huge corral, in which the black fighting cattle, brought in from the range, were unhappily penned, slamming against the tough quebracho poles, which would not give, almost as hard as iron themselves. Their bellowing and lowing filled the air, but above it rose a deeper, more spine-chilling sound from directly behind the ring: a deeper bellow that had in it something like the clang of a great, bronze cathedral bell. It came, Fargo knew, from the throat of El Diablo Negro. And it chilled his blood, sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.
At the sound, von Stahl laughed. “Your nemesis. And Carla’s, if Don Caesar does not speak in time. Put him in the ring, Jorge. We’ll watch from the seats above.” And he pointed to the row of seats built atop the wall, near the gate.
Jorge opened the great wooden doors. “In with you,” he said, prodding Fargo with the shotgun.
The others went around to climb up to the seats. Fargo moved through the gate, found himself in a ring, not much smaller than a real plaza de toros, floored with sand, encircled by a barrera, a low wooden wall set off from the mud one, behind which men could find shelter, the entrances into the ring from it shielded by the burladeros, barricades of wood before the gaps in the barrera.
Beyond, on the opposite side, was the toril gate through which the bull would come. It shook and trembled with the weight the enraged animal threw against it.
Behind Fargo, the entrance gates swung shut, and he heard a bar clicking into place. Protected by the barrera, von Stahl and Carla and Don Caesar and the gauchos had seated themselves in a kind of bleacher section. The girl’s face was a white blot of fear; Don Caesar’s countenance was a senseless blob, eyes dull and dead, von Stahl’s handsome face was split with a cruel, anticipatory grin.
“Hombre,” Jorge said, smiling coldly, terribly, and pointing the shotgun at Fargo, “now you will see what it means to gunwhip a compadrito.”
He backed away, keeping the shotgun leveled. Fargo was alone in the ring. Jorge eased toward the toril gate. “If you try to hide behind the barrera or the burladero,” Jorge called, “I’ll flush you out with buckshot.” Now he was very near the gate, which shuddered and trembled as the Black Devil threw his weight against it.
Fargo’s hands had been unloosed; now he began to unbutton his shirt. He stripped it off, shook it out, and wished that it were four times as large and more brightly colored; but it was khaki. A poor substitute for a capote, but it was the only cape he had. His mind went back to Juarez, nearly twenty years ago, remembering a paunchy, slow, and yet very brave matador, and something stiffened within him. He knew the passes; he knew the science; if he died on the bull’s horns, it would not be because he lacked courage.
Then Jorge was at the gate. He looked up at von Stahl, and the German raised his cavalry saber in a gesture. Jorge unbarred the gate, sprang back behind a burladero. And the bull they called the Black Devil charged into the ring.