Later, Fargo went to a crowded restaurant. After a long wait, he got steak, eggs, and French fries for three times what they should have cost. He ate sparingly, stopping when he was moderately full, always careful never to cram himself until he was sluggish, his reflexes slowed. Whiskey, though, was different; he could put away a tremendous amount without being affected. Back at the Drillers’ Rest, he sat with his back to the wall, began to drink again, watching the crowd attracted by the girls. Then he stiffened, tilted back his hat, stared.
“Friday,” he called. “Hey, Ross Friday!” The man who had just come in had obviously been on the trail a long time. In Stetson, leather jacket, wool pants and short boots, he was travel-worn and muddy. Tall as Fargo, maybe a year or two younger, he was lean as a greyhound and had something of Fargo’s predatory look about him. He wore a Smith & Wesson .38 in a spring clip holster slung low on his right thigh. He saw Fargo, and his hard, big-nosed, tanned face broke into a faint grin. “Damn, Neal. When’d you blow in?” He came to the table.
“Today, same as you. Set.” Fargo pushed the bottle forward. Ross Friday took it and drank deeply, sighed, wiped his mouth, dropped into the chair across the table. He drank again, grinned. “Now I’m alive, I think.”
Fargo laughed. “I thought you were down in Nicaragua.”
“Was, until two weeks ago. Then there was a counter-revolution. First I was on the winning side, then on the losing. Got out just in time to save my skin. Used a lot of cartridges doing it.”
“How was it?”
“Hair side out. Made some money, though. Blew most of it in New Orleans. Needed another stake, heard about this place and drifted in. What’s the deal?”
Fargo shrugged. “It’s here, if you want it.”
“Anybody hiring?”
“Brasher, Tull Brasher.”
“The stud duck of this town? Yeah. I’ve heard of him. You hiring out to him?”
“He wanted a ramrod gun hand. Offered the job to me. Haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“If you don’t take it, let me know. Might be my sort of thing. Or I’ll work with you. We always did work good together.”
“Yep.” Fargo sipped his drink. He and Friday were cut from the same cloth, two of a kind. Next to Fargo, Friday was the best gunman, the best professional fighting man around. In fact, it was possible that he was as good as Fargo. They’d fought on the same side in at least two small and bloody Central American wars. Elite members of the same trade, they eyed each other with respect.
Now Friday took another slug from the bottle. “What’s the layout with Brasher?”
Fargo told him. When he finished, Friday whistled. “Might be the big one. A man could get set up for life.”
“Maybe.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“I don’t take orders good. Brasher likes to give ’em.”
Friday grinned. “I’m not as touchy as you. For that kind of money I can take a lot of orders.” Looking around the room, he frowned. “Somebody coming,” he said. “Fellow with a headful of bandages.”
Fargo followed his gaze and went taut. “Name’s Clay Samson. Had to pistol-whip him this afternoon.”
“Looks like,” Friday murmured, “He wants another round.” He shoved back his chair. “I’ll stand clear.”
“Yes,” Fargo said. He placed both hands on the table before him. Samson, head swathed in cloth, had obviously been drinking. His face was set, hard and ugly as he pushed through the crowd toward Fargo, right hand swinging close to the gun on his hip. He came up to the table and stared down at Fargo. “I been looking for you,” he said thinly.
“Well, you found me,” Fargo said.
Samson swayed slightly on his feet. “Nobody does to me what you did and gets away with it.”
“Let’s settle it another time,” Fargo said. “You’re drunk and the place is crowded. No point in hurtin’ innocent bystanders.”
“To hell with them. I’m gonna make you crawl, Fargo.”
“No,” Fargo said. “I won’t fight you in here. Let it drop, Clay, until you’re sober. I don’t want to have to kill you.”
Samson laughed, a curt, harsh sound. “You kill me? That’ll be the day. Come outside, Fargo.”
Fargo only looked at him. He could see that he would have to kill Clay Samson. But he didn’t want to do it tonight. He really didn’t want to do it at all if he could help it; killing went against his grain when there was no profit in it. And yet—
Then Friday spoke. Standing up, he had moved back a couple of feet. “Friend, why don’t you save your quarrel until another day? Neal and I were talking business.”
Samson turned. “Who cut you in?” He stared at Friday, full of mindless hostility; full of liquor. He had obviously been brooding all day over his public humiliation, and built up a head of steam that only gunplay would satisfy.
“I’m sorry,” Friday said easily. “You’re right. None of my affair.” He backed away. “I’ll leave it to you and Fargo.”
“No. I want to know who told you to butt in.” Samson’s lip curled. “Who are you, anyway? Another skunk out of the same den?”
A change came over Friday’s face. His eyes turned to steel. His hands dropped easily to his sides. “I’ll ignore that. It’s drunk talk.”
“I’m not afraid of you. I can handle both of you.”
“Friend,” Friday murmured, “you couldn’t even handle half of one of us. Now, go on, sleep it off, come back tomorrow when you’re sober. You got problems, we’ll talk about ’em then.”
Samson backed away a couple of paces. “We’ll talk about ’em now,” he rasped. “I’ll take on both of you. I’m not scared of either one of you dirty bastards.”
His voice was loud. It rang out across the room, and in that instant the steady din of talk and laughter withered like wheat before a storm. All at once the room was quiet, except for the shuffle of feet as men made their way out of the line of fire. Now there was a wide circle around Samson and Fargo and Friday.
Fargo still sat at the table. Friday said, wearily: “You want ’im, Neal?”
“No. I already had him.”
Gently, Friday said: “Boy, I don’t like people talking to me like that. But I’m gonna give you one more chance. Go to bed and sleep it off.”
Facing Friday, Samson s face was flushed. His eyes glittered. “Mister,” he said hoarsely, and then he drew.
It was impossible to see Friday’s hand move. All he had to do was twitch it. The holster was open-fronted and the gun popped loose from its spring clip. It came up thundering from the simple pressure of Friday’s finger. Clay screamed as a bullet smashed into his right shoulder and sent him spinning around before his Colt had even cleared leather. Still screaming, he dropped to his knees, right hand dangling. Friday stood over him with the Smith & Wesson ready, smoke curling from its barrel.
“Somebody git a doctor,” he said, without looking around. “I aimed to bust his shoulder joint and I think I did it.” Now Clay rolled over on his side, still howling with agony, blood trickling through the fingers of his left hand, with which he clutched the ruined shoulder. Fargo stood up, deftly removed the Colt from Samson’s holster. “Yeah,” he said, looking down at the man. “That arm’s finished. For good.”
“He asked for it, though,” another voice broke in. Tull Brasher pushed through the crowd, stood over Clay, looking down at him with disgust. “I saw it. He had it comin’.” His eyes went to Friday. “Who’re you?”
“Ross Friday.”
Something moved in Brasher’s eyes. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Likely,” Friday said.
“You can put that thing away,” said Brasher. “Nobody’s going to take up this quarrel, I’ll guarantee it.” He turned to a bystander. “Get this idiot to a doctor. I’ll stand his bill. But when he can travel, I want him out of town.” Then he faced Friday again. “What about you and me havin’ a drink?”
“Why not?”
“Come on over to my office. Fargo, you come, too.”
“No,” Fargo said. “Not now. We’ve already talked.”
Brasher hesitated. “Suit yourself. Come on, Friday.”
“See you, Neal.” Friday holstered the gun and alertly followed Brasher.
Fargo took another drink from his bottle and watched them go. Samson’s voice rose in agony as men got him to his feet, dragged him toward the door. A swamper came, pouring sawdust on the blood-pooled floor. Fargo drank again; that killed the bottle. Then he went outside, walked back to his hotel. Everywhere he looked the lights of oil derricks were bright against the sky; the business of getting rich went on twenty-four hours a day.
~*~
Nor did the town ever sleep. There had been whooping, noise, traffic, and gunfire throughout the night. Maybe the West was settling down, tamed, but oil towns were in a class by themselves; no rules held. In Golconda, time could have been rolled back forty years. When Fargo awakened, it was still going strong.
He dressed, had breakfast, sipped his coffee with enjoyment. He was on his third cup when somebody pulled out the chair across from him. Fargo looked up and saw Ross Friday seated across the table. “Mornin’, Neal.”
“Mornin’.”
Friday took out his smoke pouch, rolled a cigarette, lit it. “Made a deal with Brasher last night. Thought I ought to tell you.”
“What deal?”
“Took the job he offered you. I’m going to ramrod his men. More money than I ever thought I’d get my hands on. But there’s room for both of us, Brasher says. Come on in with me.”
“I’ll think about it,” Fargo said. “Like I told you, it’s too early to make a decision right now.”
“Sure. But Brasher wants you to make one quick.”
“Brasher wants me—?” Fargo put down his cup, looked at Friday.
The other met his eyes through smoke. “Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s the way he put it. He told you about this feller Russell.”
“Yes,” Fargo said.
“Well, there’s two sides here—Brasher s and Russell’s. Brasher’s is the winner, Russell’s is the loser. And the way it works with Brasher, either you’re with him or you’re against him. No middle ground. So, since we’re old friends, he asked me to talk to you.” Friday broke off. His voice was soft when he continued. “Way he puts it, Neal, is go to work for him or get out of town.”
‘Well, now,” said Fargo. He took out a cigar, bit off its end. “Well, now.”
“I told him not to crowd you.” Friday looked down at the cup the waitress put in front of him. “He’ll give you a couple of days to make up your mind.”
“That’s damned big of him.” Fargo’s voice was edged.
“Well, you’ve got to look at it Brasher’s way. You’re not working for him, that means you’re working for Russell. Or will be.”
“Haven’t seen Russell, he’s made me no offer.”
“But he will. He’s bound to.” Friday sipped his coffee. “You don’t want to take it when he does, Neal.”
Fargo sighed. “Ross, I think that’s my affair.”
“No. No, it’s mine.” Friday put down the cup.
“I see. You re Brasher’s man, now.”
“I’m Brasher’s man. I want you on my side; so does Brasher. But we can’t have you on the other side, we can’t stand still for that. So that’s how it is, Neal; Brasher’s orders. Join or drift.”
“And what if I decide not to do either one …?”
“Then,” said Friday tonelessly, “I’ll have to take you.”
“Ross, you don’t want to try that,” said Fargo easily.
“Hell, no, I don’t want to try it. Last thing I want to try.” He laughed. “Might be the last thing I did try.”
“That’s right.” Fargo’s voice was even. “Might be.”
Friday was silent for a moment. Then he said, “On the other hand, Neal. It might fall the other way.”
“That’s true, too.”
“Let’s not fight each other. Come on in with Brasher.”
Fargo shoved away his cup. “I don’t want to fight you, Ross. I came to Golconda to make some money. Maybe I will make it with Brasher, maybe I won’t. But nobody’s going to tell me how I make it and how I don’t. And nobody’s going to tell me how long I can stay in town and when I’ve got to leave.”
“I know,” Friday said simply. “Fact remains, you got forty-eight hours, Neal.”
“And I’m telling you, Ross, neither you nor anybody else better try to take me.”
“If I take Brasher’s money and he tells me to roust you, I’ll roust you.”
“Somebody’ll get hurt.”
Friday shrugged. Then he got to his feet. “I expect. See you, Neal.” And he went out.
Fargo watched him go, his lips formed a soundless curse. He shoved aside his plate, got up, paid his bill, and went back to his room. There he took the sawed-off shotgun from its case and slung it over his shoulder. He did not put on the bandolier of ammo, but thumbed six rounds from it and distributed them in his pockets. Men looked curiously at him as he went down the street toward the livery stable, Winchester in hand.
While the hostler saddled his mount Fargo asked him: “Curt Russell—where’ll I find him?”
The livery stable man turned, holding the latigo strap. He was old, wizened, and Fargo saw hesitation and fear in his eyes. “Russell” Fargo said again, harshly.
“I... I don t know.”
“He’s got a quarter-section under lease. Where is it?”
“Southwest of town. Three, four miles. The Erickson place. They say he stays there. I don’t know.”
“Road out take me to it?”
The man nodded. “It’s fenced. Watch for the gate. That’s where you turn off.”
“Obliged.” Fargo gave him a dollar, knotted the cinch himself, swung up lithely. Then he touched spurs to the sorrel and rode out of town.
~*~
Rested, the animal held a high lope willingly and easily. As always, Fargo kept his head up alertly, searching the terrain. The town fell behind; ahead stretched level country, treeless and dreary—for ranching or farming, the worst land in Oklahoma; but oil made it the richest. He saw two derricks under construction. Another was finished, the well just being spudded in. The drillers and roughnecks stared at the weapon-hung rider who loped by.
Fargo soon found the gate. It bore a sign: POSTED! KEEP OUT! C. RUSSELL. He opened it, let the sorrel through, closed it behind him with the instinctive care of the ranchman. He rode along a narrow track rutted by wagon wheels and the tires of a Model T. Ahead of him was a rickety, unpainted house. Not very large, it was surrounded by equally tumbled-down outbuildings. It was a poverty-stricken layout, he thought. Nothing stirred; it appeared lifeless except for a couple of horses in the small corral. A car was parked in the yard.
He rode into the dooryard and dismounted. He looped the reins around a hitch rack and went up the porch steps. He raised his hand to knock on the front door when it squeaked open. A woman stood in the doorway holding an old Ballard .45-70 rifle pointed at Fargo’s belly. “Don t move, stranger,” she said, her voice trembling.
Fargo lifted his hands. “You’re Mrs. Erickson?”
“That’s right. Who’re you?” She moved into the light. Fargo saw that she was young, not much over twenty-five, and she would have been pretty if she had not worn her coal-black hair pulled back so severely. Her figure was good, better than good, lush beneath her gingham dress, which was clean and patched.
“My name’s Neal Fargo. I’m looking for Curt Russell. Want to talk to him. To Mr. Erickson, too, if he’s home.”
“Mr. Erickson’s been dead for a year.”
“What about Russell?”
“I’m here, Fargo,” a voice said; and Fargo turned his head to see a man holding a pistol step around from behind the parked Ford. He held the gun as if he knew how to use it, its barrel steady on Fargo.
“You people are touchy,” Fargo said.
“It pays to be touchy when one of Brasher’s men comes calling.”
“I’m not one of Brasher’s men.”
“Gossip in town last night said you were.” Russell came up to the steps. Fargo liked the looks of him. He was tall, well built, not over thirty. His face was tanned, clean-shaven except for a small, blond mustache that matched his sun-bleached hair. He wore a battered Stetson, a flannel shirt, and blue jeans tucked into laced engineer’s boots.
“Sometimes gossip’s wrong,” said Fargo.
“We’ll see. Unload that hardware. Slow, easy, and careful. This was my daddy’s gun and he filed the sear on it. All I got to do is let the hammer drop.”
“All right.” Exactly as ordered, Fargo unslung the shotgun, put it carefully on the porch.
“The pistol in that shoulder holster, too,” Russell said. He had sharp eyes, Fargo thought, impressed. Carefully he pulled it back, drew the gun with only two fingers on the grip, laid it beside the shotgun.
“That’s better,” Russell said. “Now, Fargo, suppose you tell us what it is you want out here. Did Brasher send you?”
“I just told you. I’m not Tull Brasher’s man yet. Let’s go inside.”
Russell nodded. “Stand back, Lily, and let him through.”
Lily Erickson moved aside, the gun still ready, and Fargo passed into a two-room house, shabby, but scrupulously clean. With the Colt, Curt Russell prodded him into the back room, the kitchen, and motioned him to a chair at an oilcloth-covered table. Russell sat down opposite Fargo and eased up on the hammer, still holding it in Fargo’s direction. “All right,” he said. ‘What do you want?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe just information. I understand you hold the lease on this quarter section. Mrs. Erickson owns it?”
“Everybody knows that. I got here about the same time Tull Brasher did. He and I both made Lily offers. She accepted mine.” His mouth twisted. “She might have been better off taking Brasher’s.”
“Don’t talk like that, Curt,” Lily said from the corner of the room, her voice intense.
“Well, I’ve done nothing with it! You should have been a rich woman by now. You would have been, if you’d dealt with Tull.”
Fargo said, “There is oil here, though?”
Russell laughed harshly. “Oil? Down there, Fargo—” he pointed “—it’s swimming in oil. This whole region used to be one big prehistoric sea. There are thousands, maybe millions, of barrels down there under Lily’s property.”
“Then why haven’t you drilled?” Fargo took out a cigar, bit off its end.
Again Russell gave that short, bitter laugh. “Why? Money, of course! It’ll take a rig, Fargo— preferably a rotary rig. And rotary rigs cost money. I’d need a rig and ten, maybe fifteen thousand to boot to get low enough to bring in a well.”
‘With a lease like this, you shouldn’t have much trouble getting it financed.”
“It’s not that simple. Brasher’s got me blocked off.” Caught up in the conversation, Russell laid the gun on the table, still keeping it in hand. “He don’t want me to drill here, and he draws enough water to keep me from getting the money I need. He’s bringing in a big field, and everybody wants a piece of it, wants to stay on the good side of him. The banks, the big combines, people like Rockefeller—until they see who he’s going to do business with, none of them will cross him. Besides, you’ve got to be careful who you take in as a partner in a deal like this. Brasher’s not the only bastard in this business. Take in the wrong man, the wrong interests, they’ll figure a way to freeze you out, eat you alive.”
“What about out-of-state? Back in Texas—”
“The Russell name is mud in Texas—not worth a plugged dime. Do you know about Brasher and my father?”
“Sort of.”
“They were partners in a leasing operation down there. They held damned good leases and borrowed a lot of money to drill. Brought in one dry hole, and Brasher lost his nerve. Instead of using the rest of the borrowed money to keep drilling, he cleaned out the company of all its cash and rigged things to make it look like my father did it. A lot of people got hurt, and Dad got the reputation of a deadbeat con man. That’s why... well, he killed himself. Anyhow, you mention the name Russell in Texas, oil people hold their nose. I’m tarred with the same brush, thanks to Brasher, and dead broke from trying to pay off Dad’s debts and reclaim his good name. That’s one reason why bringing in this field is so important to me; damned important. But I’ll get no money from Texas.”
“Then what do you plan to do?”
“Hang on,” Russell said with determination, “Just hang on, Lily and me. Sooner or later, I’ll find the partner I want. Somebody with a rig and some money, who won’t drive me against the wall when we make a deal and who ain’t afraid of Brasher.” Then he broke off, raised the gun slightly. “I’ve done a lot of talking to you, Fargo, Suppose you do some to me?”
“That’s fair enough.” Fargo paused, ordering his words. “I came to Golconda to make some money. Brasher propositioned me. It seems he’s building a private army of his own, a bunch of gun hands. He’s trying to get his paws on every lease around here he doesn’t already own— including yours.”
“I know about that. It’s the way he operates.” There was hatred in Russell’s voice.
“Okay. Well, he laid it on the line to me. Either I work for him or I get tossed out of Golconda.” Fargo grinned, and it was like a wolf’s snarl. “I don’t like people telling me what I got to do. Besides, I don’t work for wages. I work for a cut, a percentage. Maybe I could make a lot of money with Brasher. But maybe I could make a lot more with somebody else. Anyhow, that’s a decision I reserve for myself, and nobody makes it for me. So I thought I’d at least size up your layout here.”
Something flared in Russell’s eyes. “You mean you want in?”
“I might.”
“You got any money?”
Fargo shook his head. “Nope. But if I decided to come in, I could get some. I could lay my hands on a rotary rig and twenty thousand dollars.”
The flare in Russell’s eyes was a fire, now. “You line that up and you’ll be buying yourself a fortune.” Then his mouth quirked. “You’ll be buying yourself a mess of trouble, too. Brasher will come down on us like a ton of bricks the minute he sees we’re really gonna begin operations.”
Fargo’s evil grin never altered. “Trouble will be my department. That’s how I’ll earn my cut.”
“What kind of cut do you want?” Russell’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s the eventual value of this field?”
“Who knows? Millions.”
“I’d want the twenty thousand back, with six per cent. A flat ten per cent interest in everything that’s pumped out. And another five for the man who brings in the rig.”
“Fifteen per cent; those are hard terms.”
“Nothing like the big people would demand They’d take you for fifty, maybe more.”
Russell sat in silence for a moment. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You want letters of recommendation? I’ve saved a few.” Fargo fished his inside coat pocket, threw a couple of folded sheets across the table.
Cautiously, Russell opened them and read, his hand still on the gun. Fargo saw his face change; there was awe on it when he looked up. “These are real?”
Fargo nodded. “I served under him in the Rough Riders. We’ve been friends ever since. I’ve done a little work for him from time to time.”
Russell stared. “While he was President?”
“Then and since. Secret assignments, where a fighting man was needed. The Army or the Secret Service couldn’t do the trick.”
Russell slowly handed back the letters. “If Teddy Roosevelt trusts you ...” he whispered, “Is that where you’d get the money?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“No. What about the rig?”
Fargo put the letters in his coat. “You ever hear of Uncle John Morris?”
“Uncle John? Hell, yes; most famous high-rolling, hell-bending oil wildcatter in Texas. But ... I thought he’d gone to Mexico.”
“He did. Trying to get in on the development near Tampico. But the revolution down there ruined it for him, froze him out. He managed to get out with his rig just ahead of a firing squad. I saw him last week in San Antonio; he was trying to scrape up the money to get up here.”
“My God, if we could get Uncle John up here—” Then the young man frowned. “He wouldn’t work with me. Not with anybody named Russell.”
“Maybe not. He’ll work with a man named Fargo, though.”
“What about Brasher? Wouldn’t he be afraid of him?”
Fargo laughed. “Uncle John Morris is seventy years old. He’s driven trail herds, been a Texas Ranger, fought Comanches, and been an oil wildcatter for twenty-five years. He’s been scared by experts. It’ll take more than a Tull Brasher to bother Uncle John.”
Suddenly, decisively, Russell stood up and holstered his Colt. “Fargo, you don’t know me. I could be lying about the oil under here. Or mistaken. I’ve been in this business all my life. I cut my teeth on a string of tools, and I’m a graduate geologist to boot. I’d stake my skin on this being the richest quarter section in Oklahoma. But I could be wrong. You can never be sure about oil. Drill one hole, you got a gusher. Drill again right next to it, you got a duster. Nobody can guarantee, nobody can swear ...”
“I know all that,” said Fargo.
“You’d go on the hook for twenty thousand on that basis? And fight Brasher?”
“If I stay in Golconda, I’m gonna have to use my gun sometime. I’d rather use it on my own behalf than on Brasher’s.”
“Well, if you want a deal, you got one.” Russell’s eyes gleamed and he struck his thigh. “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” said Fargo, also standing.
“My hand on it!” Russell thrust it out.
Fargo took it.
Russell laughed jubilantly. “By God, we’re in business! Fargo, six months from now, well either be rich or dead!”
Fargo’s wolf-grin was cold.
“I aim to be rich,” he said.