There was a while—he could not tell how long—when he lingered in a kind of half-world. Strange dreams, part hallucination, part memory, came and went in tatters and fragments of delirium. He saw his father and his mother, faces he had hardly known, so young had he been when the Apaches killed them. He heard the sharp splat of the Mausers of the Spaniards on Kettle Hill, and the Colonel’s crowing voice: “On! On, men! Kill the bastards!” Then a woman said, “Neal. Oh, Neal!” He had loved her, but he could not remember which one she was. The crowd roared around the prize ring as he danced out to meet the tank town fighter who called himself Dempsey … Then the Mexicans came at him, the banditos who were trying to take over Rosarita. He pulled both triggers at once and saw them explode in a spray of blood and flesh as eighteen buckshot plowed home … “This is a very dangerous mission,” the Colonel said. He was not a Colonel any longer, but a President. “The whole future of our scheme for a canal across the Isthmus depends on it … ” And he lay spread-eagle in the desert, pegged down there by the Apaches who had killed his parents, and two vultures hovered over him, waiting to get to his eyes and genitals, and they had human faces, and one was Selman and the other had the face of Trent...
Nita’s face. It came and went, too, and another. A man’s. A tanned and weathered face, with humor wrinkles around the blue-gray eyes, the mouth with its white, even teeth smiling often, above the strong jaw. Hands touched him when that face was over him, hands that were sometimes gentle, hands that sometimes hurt. “Easy,” the face said. “Now, rest easy…”
Once Fargo remembered screaming. Vaguely he realized that was when the hands took out the bullet. After that it was better, a lot better.
Finally, one morning, his head cleared. The room was large, its walls painted white. There were two other beds in it, but they were empty. It was about the sort of hospital a town like Lincoln would have. There were clean sheets under and over him, and he could breathe without the splash of pain in his chest that had tormented him in the beginning. His hand went to the bandages swathing his torso. He had been hit hard, but in his time he’d taken worse. Another scar, a few days in bed, a few days more to regain strength and speed. He knew the toughness of his own body, how fast he could recover from such a wound. The trouble with most people was that they were full of self-pity and self-concern when they’d been hurt. Fargo was like an animal. He accepted the hurt, took care of himself until it healed, if he could, but he did not panic or worry or use the hurt as an excuse to coast...
A door opened somewhere. He turned his head. Nita Antrim, coming toward him, wore the white dress and striped apron of a nurse. The man with her had to be her father, the doctor. His face was the one that Fargo had seen in his delirium.
As Antrim halted beside the bed, it smiled down at him. “Morning,” the doctor said. “Looks like you’re coming out of it.” Before Fargo could speak, he added: “Take his temperature, honey,” and Nita rammed a thermometer in his mouth. As her eyes met his, red crept beneath the olive skin of her cheeks.
Fargo lay there for a moment, appraising the doctor with eyes that focused now, were clear and keen. Antrim was not tall, but he had a certain width of shoulder, depth of chest, although his belly was flat, his hips slim. His brown hair, frosted with gray, was cut short; his eyes were a brilliant, vital blue. He had excellent teeth, small and white and regular; and it was impossible not to like him and feel confidence in him when he smiled, which he did as he took the thermometer out and read it. “Temperature normal. Hungry?”
“Could eat a steer. How long will I be down?”
Antrim sobered. “You took a .44-40 slug near the heart. It missed the vital parts, but it tore up a lot of tissue, you lost a lot of blood. I figure two weeks will see you back on your feet, if you mind your manners.”
“Two weeks! Hell’s fire, I can’t stay down for—” Instinctively, Fargo tried to rise.
Antrim pushed him back, face suddenly stern, commanding. “Don’t be a fool, Fargo! You want to tear that wound loose again, spill more blood, be down an extra week or so? You lie still.” His mouth twisted. “I know you gunfighters. I’ve … patched up enough of you. Think you’re made out of iron. Well, you aren’t. You’re just flesh and blood like any other man. And,” he added harshly, “you’ll do what I say or I’ll fill you so full of morphine we won’t have to worry about you moving.”
Fargo stared up at him, recognized here a toughness equal to his own, but of a different quality. All at once he relaxed. “All right,” he said. “But get me on my feet quick as you can. I’ve got work to do.”
“Yeah. I’ve heard about your work.” Then Antrim shrugged. “Well, that’s no concern of mine. Nita, get some hot water. I’m going to change that dressing.”
She disappeared. Antrim bent over Fargo and, with small, incredibly strong and deft hands, having pulled open the hospital gown, he began to strip away the gauze and tape. Fargo, watching the movement of those hands, caught something familiar about the way Antrim used them. “Hey,” he murmured. “You’re ambidextrous.”
The doctor’s brows went up. “Yeah. Born that way, can use right or left, either one. It’s an advantage in surgery. How’d you know?”
“I’m the same way myself.”
Antrim hesitated. Then he said, “Uh-huh. I suppose it’s an advantage for a gunfighter, too.”
“Which reminds me, my gear, my weapons—”
“In the closet in my office. You can have ’em back when you’ve got strength enough to lug ’em.” Antrim straightened up, looked down at Fargo’s chest with satisfaction, “That’s closing nicely if I do say so myself. You must be almost as tough as you think you are. The shock alone would have finished off any ordinary man, a bullet hitting that close to the heart.” His voice softened. “I owe you a little special treatment. If you hadn’t pushed Nita down, that slug would have caught her instead. Well, you’re in a hell of a lot better shape than that joker who shot you.”
“Savitts. What about him?”
Antrim laughed shortly, without mirth. “He’s six feet under. A man with six buckshot in his head and chest ain’t fit for anything but burying.”
“Good,” Fargo said.
Nita had come with the basin of water now. Antrim sponged the wound, dried it. “I’m inclined to agree with you about that. I don’t like bushwhackers. And I hear he was a bounty hunter.” His eyes met Fargo’s. “I never have cared much for bounty hunters.” Then he jerked his head up as there was a clumping of boots beyond the door to the hospital room.
“Go see who that is, honey,” he commanded Nita.
She went to the door and disappeared through it. Then a familiar voice said, “If Fargo’s awake, I want to see him.”
“He’s awake,” Nita’s voice came, “but he can’t have visitors yet.”
“He’ll see us. Git outa my way, girl.”
“Now, listen, Trent—”
Antrim straightened up. “Excuse me,” he said very softly. He moved out of Fargo’s line of vision. Fargo could not see the door, but when Antrim reached it, the doctor said: “Trent. You heard Nita. Fargo needs quiet, rest. Come back in two days.”
“Don’t have two days to wait. Move, Antrim. Let us by.”
“No,” Antrim said, with an edge of iron in his soft voice.
“Doc, I don’t want to have to get rough with you.”
Antrim was silent for a moment. Then he said, as if the threat had intimidated him: “All right, But only for a minute.”
Trent laughed. “Didn’t I tell you, Cannon? Push him, he always backs down.”
“A hospital’s no place for rough stuff,” Antrim said thinly. “Go on in, Trent.”
Fargo heard their boots coming toward him. Then the two men stood over his bed. Beneath his slouch hat, Trent’s handsome, florid face was split in a mocking smile. “Well, big man, you didn’t get far working by yourself, did you?”
Fargo didn’t answer, eyes going to the man, Cannon, who stood by Trent. The name was vaguely familiar: there had been a gunfighter by that name in Nome and Skagway, one of Soapy Smith’s wild bunch. He was said to be good, damned good. And the man with Trent looked good.
Cannon was tall, maybe thirty-five, wide and rangy and long of arm, with black hair beneath his Stetson, eyes like close-set obsidian, a hawk’s nose and a wide, hard mouth. There was no particular animosity in his expression as he looked at Fargo; his face bore the neutrality of a man doing a job, no more, no less. He wore range clothes and a single Colt low on his right hip; and there was no doubt at all in Fargo’s mind that he knew how to use it, and fast. “So you’re Neal Fargo,” he said. “I’ve heard about you a long time. Never expected to see you down like this when we met. I’m Jess Cannon.”
“A long ways from Nome,” Fargo said.
“Things are quiet up there. A man goes where the money is.”
“Oh?” Fargo murmured.
Trent was still grinning. “That’s why we’re here, Fargo. I come to tell you that you’re fired. Jess is taking over your job, now you’re out of action.”
“I won’t be out of action long,” Fargo said.
“Too long for Selman. Besides, I reported to him on your stand-offish attitude. You won’t take orders, Cannon will. Nope, Selman’s taken you off the job. And you owe him the ten thousand dollars he paid you in advance. I’m here to collect it. Where is it?”
Fargo went rigid in the bed. “You tell Selman to go to hell,” he said quietly. “I’ve kept my part of the bargain so far and collected a slug in the process. I’ll keep the rest of it when I’m up. Selman gets no money back from me.”
Trent’s grin vanished. “Fargo, I want that cash.”
Fargo laughed, it was not a pleasant sound. “It’s in an El Paso bank. Nobody can draw it out but me. All right, then. I’m off the job. But the down payment I keep for expenses and the waste of my time.”
Trent said, angrily: “You think so? You don’t know Thad Selman. Nobody beats him out of ten thousand. He picked you because he thought you were tough, and a lousy loudmouthed footloose bounty hunter lays you low. So Selman made a mistake. He don’t like makin’ mistakes. He wants his money back, and he’ll get it. You give me a draft on that bank for his ten thousand, you’re in the clear. When you get well, you can ride outa Lincoln County and forget it all. But you try to hang on to that cash, you’ll have Selman against you with everything he’s got. And one of the things he’s got is Jess Cannon, here.”
Fargo looked at Cannon. His face still expressionless, the gunman nodded. “Part of my job, Fargo. To collect.”
“It ought not to be hard,” Trent said. “With him laid low like a pig ready for the slaughter. Wait a minute, Cannon.” He moved across the room. “Antrim!” he snapped. “We need a little privacy. You and your girl stay outa here for five minutes, you hear? We got important confidential business with Fargo.”
Antrim’s voice came back from somewhere beyond the door. “Trent, I can’t allow that.”
“You’ll allow what I tell you to allow.”
“Trent—” But Antrim’s voice faded off. Trent laughed and the door slammed. He came back into Fargo’s view. “No guts,” he said. “Everybody knows it. Antrim never had any guts and never will. Everybody in Lincoln’s walked all over him and he’s never fought back. Got to be a laughin’ stock. Hell, he don’t even know which end of a gun a bullet comes out of.” Then the laugh faded. “Cannon?”
Cannon said, “This goes against my grain, Trent. I’d rather wait until he’s on his feet and can use a gun.”
“We’re not waitin’ for anything. We’ve got plenty of other work to do and we’re settlin’ this matter right now.” Trent’s face twisted. “All right. You don’t want to do it, I’ll show you how it’s done. Watch the door; Antrim ain’t going to give us any trouble, but that bitch of a daughter of his might.”
Then he was standing over Fargo; taking pen and paper from his coat. “Well? You want to write, now? You got this one last chance.”
Despite himself, Fargo felt fear. It was one thing to confront a man like Trent when he was on his feet, armed or unarmed; another to lie here helpless as a hogtied calf. But something in him would not let him yield. “Go screw yourself,” he said tersely. He tried to rise, but pain lanced through his chest and his head swam and he fell back.
“Okay,” Trent said. “You’ve had your chance.” The old wound dressings were on the table. Suddenly he seized a handful of the gauze; before Fargo could resist, Trent’s fingers pried open his mouth; the cloth was rammed in, gagging him. Fargo raised his hands, but Trent knocked them away, easily. Then Trent was holding him down on the bed, and there was the click of a switchblade knife. The six inch blade moved back and forth before Fargo’s eyes, only an inch or two away.
“A gunfighter that’s blind ain’t worth much, is he?” Trent whispered. “Ten thousand dollars against your eyes, Fargo.”
Fargo stared back at him; now the fear was something like panic.
“Five thousand for each eye,” Trent went on, and the tip of the blade pressed against Fargo’s forehead, just above his nose. “It won’t take but two seconds, Fargo. Two quick jabs, that’s all. Then you’re through, finished, forever.”
And in that instant Fargo knew there was nothing for it. He had to give back the money. He fought to gather strength to mumble some kind of assent against the gag. The blade had moved, now, was poised just over his right eye. He shuddered, drenched in cold sweat. Death he could face, but to be blinded and left alive, helpless ...
“Now,” Trent said; and in that instant the door slammed open.
“Drop it, Trent!” Nita Antrim’s voice was strong, commanding, fearless.
Trent froze. He looked up, the knife blade still poised just above Fargo’s eye socket. Fargo saw his face change, saw the flicker of fear that crossed it. Then it vanished; Trent smiled coolly.
“Put that thing down, Nita. You don’t know how to handle it.”
“You don’t have to handle a sawed-off shotgun,” the girl snapped. “I know that much. All you have to do is point it and pull the triggers.”
“Cannon,” Trent said. “Take that thing away from her.”
“You try,” Nita said, “and I’ll blow you apart.”
Cannon said, “Trent, I’m no fool. I can’t draw against a dead drop with a riot gun.”
“Why, you—” Trent broke off.
“Take that knife away from his face,” Nita said. “Now.”
“You shoot, you’ll blow him to hell, too.”
“Maybe he’d rather be dead than blind. The knife, Trent.”
Above Fargo, Trent stood poised for an interminable second. Then, slowly, the blade withdrew.
“All right, Nita. You hold the high cards now, but the hand don’t win the pot. Me, Cannon, and Thad Selman. Especially Selman. You and your daddy’ll be damned sorry if you draw down that kind of lightning on you.”
“You’ll be sorry if I pull this trigger.”
Trent backed away. Now the cold sweat was on his face. And Nita Antrim came into Fargo’s vision, the sawed-off Fox leveled, bores swinging to cover Cannon, who also moved backward, and Trent in turn.
“Out,” Nita snapped. “Now. Get out.”
Trent closed the blade, pocketed the knife. As he did so, Fargo reached up weakly, pulled the gag from his mouth. He hawked, moistening his tongue. “Don’t worry about me, Nita. If they break, blast ’em.”
“Nobody’s going to break,” Cannon said. “Come on, Trent.”
“Yeah.” Trent moved around the bed. “Okay. But you’ve torn it, woman. You’ve got Selman against you, and me—and the whole Dolan bunch, too. I warn you, from now on, this town’s gonna be too hot to hold you and that lily-livered dad of yours.”
“My father’s not lily-livered. He saves lives, he doesn’t take them.”
“Well, he’d better start figurin’ out how to save his own.” Evidently, then, Antrim had come into the room. “You hear me, Doc?”
“I hear you,” Antrim said. His voice was a trifle snaky.
“Any man that would hide behind his daughter’s skirts—” Trent paused. “All right, Cannon, let’s go.”
There was a taut silence then, and Nita turned, Fargo’s shotgun still leveled. She moved across the room, following them. Fargo heard doors close. Then Nita was back, the shotgun lowered. She and her father moved into Fargo’s view. As they did so, the girl shivered, then her knees buckled.
Antrim caught her, held her close, taking the shotgun from her hand. “All right, honey,” he whispered. “All right. You did fine. I’m sorry that—”
“No,” she said, her voice shaky. “Don’t be sorry. You made your promise. I’m glad for you to keep it.” Then she pulled away, steadier. “I’m all right now. Let’s see to Fargo.”
They came to him. He looked up at them, knowing that he was forever indebted to them. The girl was magnificent; his admiration for her boundless. She was a woman fit for a man like him...
Antrim’s face was pale. “I’m sorry, Fargo,” he said thinly. “I should have been the one to stand between you and them. But there are reasons. Let’s see what shape you’re in.”
“I’m all right,” Fargo said. The doctor’s small, deft hands probed expertly.
“Yeah. You are. No harm done.”
Fargo said, “But I want a pen and paper.”
Antrim’s brows went up. “What for?”
“I want to write a bank draft.”
“What?”
“For Selman’s ten thousand dollars. And I want it delivered to Trent.”
Antrim looked surprised. “They scared you that much? Well, I don’t blame—”
“They didn’t scare me that much. Or maybe they did, I don’t know. But that’s not the reason. If Selman doesn’t get his ten thousand, Trent and Cannon will be back, one way or the other. Next time, you won’t take them by surprise. I … owe Nita my eyes. They’re worth ten thousand to me, to keep Selman’s gunnies off your neck.”
“There is no need for that,” Antrim said. “Somehow, I can arrange protection ...”
“What protection I want is my Fox double-barrel in bed here with me. I can handle it, weak as I am. And as for the money, the hell with that.” He paused, and when he spoke again, he voice was stronger and cold as iron. “When I’m on my feet, I’ll take it out of Harry Trent’s hide.”