Revenge of Eagles

CHAPTER 10

Falcon rode one horse while leading another. The horse he was leading was dragging a travois, and on the travois was Cloud Dancer’s body, sewn into a canvas shroud. Falcon rode out in the open, making certain that he was in plain sight. He was doing that to send a clear message to the Indians: that his coming represented no danger to them.

He had gotten directions to the village from the sheriff, and was heading straight for it. He wondered how long it would be before someone spotted him, and he knew the moment it happened. He knew, not because he saw them, but because he felt them.

He rode on for another half hour, feeling the hair standing up on the back of his neck. The Indians trailing him were good, they knew how to use the lay of the land to keep themselves hidden, and if they had been trailing ninety-nine out of a hundred men, their presence would be unknown.

Finally, either because the Indians sensed that Falcon was aware of them, or because they no longer felt it necessary to keep their presence a secret, they grew bolder. Falcon saw them then, six or seven Indians on horseback, riding parallel but managing, always, to keep a ridge or an outcropping of rocks or a small hill between them, no longer to stay out of sight, but just to be able to control the situation.

The sheriff in Oro Blanco told Falcon that the village was on the banks of a small stream, a tributary from the Santa Cruz River, so when he reached the tributary, or what was left of it, he followed it until he saw the village itself. It was easy to see the source of some of the trouble between the Indians and the whites, because the stream banks showed that it was once a rather substantial flow of water several feet wide. Now it was a trickle, so narrow in places that a man could stand with a foot planted on either side of the water flow.

The village consisted of several wickiups, not scattered loosely alongside the bank of the stream, but carefully aligned with every structure in the same relative place it was at their last location, and would be at their next location. In this way, individual members of the village had an address, as certain as the address of residents in any town or city.

The wickiups were circular and dome-shaped, with conical tops. These dwellings, which Falcon knew were erected by the women, consisted of a framework of poles and limbs tied together, over which was placed a thatch of bear grass, brush, yucca leaves, and rushes. For those who had it, a canvas was stretched over the windward side, and the structure was open at the top to allow smoke to escape from a fire built in a pit near the center of the house. The doorway was a low opening on one side, over which a blanket was hung.

In addition to the houses, there were also several “coolers,” which consisted of posts in the ground that were covered by a roof of brush, thus providing shade from the hot sun. The squaws did their work under these covers. Falcon knew from his previous exposure to the Apache that they also suspended clay water pots from the edge of the coolers and, as the water evaporated, it had the effect of cooling the surrounding air.

As Falcon entered the village, the warriors who had been riding parallel suddenly galloped by him with whoops and shouts as they raced ahead of him.

Those who were in the village drifted forward to meet him, for a single white man, riding in as boldly as Falcon had just done, was a strange enough experience to create interest. The men and boys came from the outskirts of the village, where they had been tending to the animals; the women and girls came from the coolers; and the old men awoke from their naps and stepped out of their wickiups to see what was causing the excitement.

One of the old men recognized Falcon, for he had seen him in the days of the Geronimo and Naiche wars.

“Dlo Binanta,” he said, and the word spread so that, as Falcon rode deeper into the village, he heard his name spoken many times.

“Dlo Binanta.”

“Dlo Binanta.”

“Dlo Binanta.”

Men, women, and children repeated his name and drew close to him. When he reached the inner circle, he saw an impressive-looking Indian standing in front of him. The Indian, who was being deferred to by the others, held his arms folded across his chest. His dark eyes were questioning.

“Are you Dlo Binanta?” the Indian asked.

Falcon started to reply with his own name, but he recalled what Sheriff Corbin told him about Indians only giving names to those they respect.

“I am Dlo Binanta,” Falcon replied.

A ripple of exclamations passed through the gathering of Indians; some sounded angry, some sounded awestruck. Some were even frightened, and Falcon saw many of the children step behind their mothers in fear. He felt bad about that. He didn’t want his name used to frighten children.

“I am Keytano,” Keytano said.

Falcon nodded. “I have heard of the great Keytano.”

“What have you heard?”

“I have heard that the great chief Keytano is a brave and wise man,” Falcon said.

Keytano nodded. “This is true.”

Falcon fought the urge to smile at Keytano’s response, but under the circumstances, a smile would not be good at all.

“Why is he here?” Chetopa shouted.

“Yes. This man is the killer of our people!”

“Ask this man why he has come to our village now!” another shouted.

“We should kill him!” Chetopa said.

The shouting was in Apache, so Falcon didn’t understand it, though he could tell by the tone of the voices that it was challenging and unfriendly.

Keytano held up his hand to those who were gathered around him. He glared at Chetopa. “We will not kill this brave man,” he said. Then, he turned to one of the others. “I will ask the questions of this man,” he said authoritatively. Keytano turned his gaze back to Falcon, staring at him intently.

“You are the killer of many of our warriors.”

“Yes,” Falcon said. “I fought fiercely against brave men, and killed many of your warriors.”

“You made many women and children cry because you killed their husbands and fathers,” Keytano challenged.

“This is true,” Falcon answered without equivocating.

“Because of you, many wickiups were made empty.”

Falcon wondered for a moment as to how best to respond to Keytano. He couldn’t deny it, because everything Keytano said was true. He thought about saying he was sorry, but that wouldn’t be true. Everyone he killed needed killing. Besides, saying he was sorry might be misconstrued as a sign of weakness.

“We were at war,” Falcon said. “The Apache are brave and fierce warriors. I would not be showing my respect if I did not fight against my enemies with all my strength.”

Keytano took in Falcon’s response, not only this one, but his earlier responses. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “This is true. A good enemy is a valued and sacred thing.”

“We will not harm this man. He has shown courage by riding into our village to speak with us. And he knows the Apache way of speaking truthfully to a respected enemy,” Keytano said to the others in Apache.

It had the desired effect, for many of the warriors nodded and made positive-sounding grunts.

“Why have you come to our village?” Keytano asked.

This was the moment Falcon had been waiting for. It was also the moment he was dreading. But this was why he was here, and he couldn’t turn around now.

“Keytano, I come with very bad news for you.”

“Bad news?”

“Yes.”

“What is this bad news?”

“It is about Yaakos Gan.”

“Yaakos Gan? My daughter? What news do you have of my daughter?”

Falcon started to speak, but decided instead to just point to the canvas shroud that lay on the travois. “You will find the bad news there,” he said.

Keytano looked questioningly at Falcon. Then he said something to one of the warriors, pointing to the shroud. The warrior cut the shroud and spread it open, then jumped back in alarm.

“Uhnn!” the warrior gasped.

Noting the expression on the warrior’s face, Keytano hurried back to look at what was in the shroud. As soon as he saw it, his confusion gave way to shock ... then to grief.

“Aiyee!” he called, spinning away from Cloud Dancer’s body. He started hitting his fist to his forehead. An Indian woman, seeing his strange reaction, ran from the crowd and looked down at Cloud Dancer. Without having to be told, Falcon knew this must be Cloud Dancer’s mother, and she began weeping out loud. Within moments, everyone was gathering around to look at Cloud Dancer’s body and react to it.

For the next several moments there was a general outbreak of lamentations and weeping. During that time the Indians forgot all about Falcon, and he just stood there, allowing them to vent their grief.

“We will kill him!” two warriors shouted, and they started toward Falcon with their battle axes raised. Falcon drew both his pistols, cocked them, and pointed them at the two warriors.

“Wait!” Keytano shouted.

At Keytano’s shout, the two warriors stopped, and for a long moment they faced Falcon with their axes raised while Falcon faced them back, both his pistols aimed and cocked.

“Dlo Binanta, did you kill my daughter?” Keytano asked.

“If I had killed her, I would not have brought her to you,” Falcon said. “I would have run with fear from the rightful anger of Keytano, the great warrior and chief of the mighty Apache.”

“I think this is true. I think you did not kill her.” Again, Keytano spoke in his own language, and the two Apache lowered their war clubs.

Seeing his two would-be attackers backing off, Falcon put his guns away.

Cloud Dancer’s mother was sitting on the ground now, her head on Cloud Dancer’s chest. She was still weeping, though the loud wails had given way to a quiet sobbing.

“Why did you bring her to me?”

“I met Yaakos Gan on the stagecoach as she was returning from school in the East,” Falcon said. “She was a woman of much courage and much honor. When she was killed, I knew she would want to come back to her own people.”

Keytano pointed to Falcon. “You are a man of courage and honor. I thank you for bringing her here to me and to her mother who now weeps over her.”

Keytano said something in Apache to the weeping woman and she looked up at Falcon. Falcon nodded in sympathy, but said nothing.

“Do not leave,” Keytano said. “After we have seen to my daughter, we will talk.”

“I will stay to pay my respects to Yaakos Gan; then we will talk,” Falcon said.

Keytano spoke again to his people and Falcon stepped back, then watched as the village began making preparations for Cloud Dancer’s funeral.

The first thing they did was take her out of the shroud and wrap her face in a piece of cloth. Next, they completely stripped her, apparently showing no concern for the fact that she was now naked. That situation changed quickly, however, when they clothed her in a dress that was more in keeping with her Indian tradition. After that, they folded her arms across her chest, though this was difficult, as rigor mortis had already set in. Her hair was parted and brushed smooth with a hairbrush. Her wrists were covered with bracelets and beads, and around her neck, her mother placed a squash-blossom necklace of silver and turquoise. Finally, they laid her on a litterlike bed of reeds, and a medicine man circled around her, scattering ashes and pollen to the four cardinal directions. Following the scattering of ashes and pollen, everyone in the village grew very quiet.

Nobody told Falcon that this was a part of the ceremony, but it was his way to watch and learn, so he found a place to sit and wait, watching as the Indians maintained their silence.

Then, after about an hour of silence, a gourd of tiswin was passed around and several took a drink. When the gourd was brought to Falcon, he drank as well. He had tasted tiswin before and knew that it was an alcoholic beverage made of fermented corn and fruit. In strength, it was equal to a rather weak beer, but it didn’t taste as good as beer. Like many things in the Apache culture, though, tiswin was more important for its ritual application than for its ability to bring on intoxication.

After all had a drink of tiswin, the wailing for the dead woman began in earnest, with every man, woman, and child in the village howling like a coyote. After a few minutes of this, the chief medicine man stepped into the center of the circle and held up his hands to call for quiet.

When the howling ceased, the medicine man prayed, and spoke words of condolence.

“Hio esken eskingo boyonsidda?” the medicine man asked. Then he glanced toward Falcon.

“So that Dlo Binanta will know the sorrow he has brought to our people, I will speak in English.

“Where is this woman now? We don’t know. Where will she be day after tomorrow? We don’t know. Where will she be ten years from now? We don’t know. It is not for us to say where she will be. It is for Usen, he who resides in the mountains, to receive into O’zho ... heaven ... the spirit of this woman.”

Two warriors lifted the reed bed upon which the body of Cloud Dancer lay. They started toward the nearby hills, with the entire village following. Falcon followed as well.

Once they reached the hills, they set her down, then looked about for a bit until someone shouted and pointed. Falcon saw that he was pointing toward a crevice between two layers of rock. The others hurried to him, and after some consultation, which at times grew into heated discussion, the village elders, and especially Keytano, decided that this crevice would do.

“This is where our sister will lie as she waits for Usen,” the medicine man said.

They rolled Cloud Dancer’s body off the litter—rather unceremoniously, Falcon thought. For a moment she lay at the lip of the crevice, but several of the villagers pushed and shoved her body until it was well down into the crevice. After that, they covered it with dirt and rocks until the crevice was so completely closed that to the casual passerby there was little evidence that it even existed.

After Cloud Dancer was interred, ashes and pollen were sprinkled in a circle around what was now her grave. They began at the southwest corner and laid the ashes and pollen down in a rather intricate pattern the meaning of which was lost on Falcon.

Seeing Falcon’s respectful interest, Keytano pointed to the elaborate design.

“This is the story of the life of Yaakos Gan,” Keytano said, pointing to one end of the design. “She was born at the time of the great burning of grass.” He continued through the pattern, showing other milestones in her life. “Here the elk ran, and here the father of her mother died.” He continued until he reached the part where she went East to go to the white man’s school. That was the end of the design because, as Keytano explained, they did not know what events occurred while she was away.

After the burial all returned to the village.

“Come,” Keytano said. “You are now my guest.”

Falcon knew that he was more than simply a guest. If he tried to leave now, he would be taking his life into his own hands. He nodded at Keytano.

“I will be pleased to stay with you and honor your daughter with my mourning.”

Fifty miles south of where Falcon was at this very moment was the small town of Sassabi Flat. Sassabi Flat was less than two miles from the Mexican border. The town, which had its beginnings in the days when Arizona was a part of Mexico, was considerably more Mexican than American.

Like many of its counterparts south of the border, Sassabi Flat consisted of two-dozen or more adobe buildings, perfectly laid out around a center square. One end of the square was anchored by a church, the other end by a livery stable.

As Fargo Ford led his band of riders into the town, Father Rodriguez and a young altar boy were at the well in front of the church, drawing up a bucket of water. They looked up as the men rode by.

“Father,” the boy said. “Did you see those men as they rode by?”

“Sí,” Father Rodriguez said. “I saw them.”

“What sort of men are they?”

“Creo que ellos son malos. Ellos tienen sobre ellos el olor de azufre, ” Father Rodriguez said.

“Yes,” the boy said. “I too think they are evil and have about them the scent of sulfur.”

Father Rodriguez crossed himself as he watched the men ride toward the center of town, and seeing his priest make the sign of the cross, the altar boy did the same.

There was no saloon as such, but there was a cantina, and Fargo Ford led his band directly there.

All dismounted except for Ponci.

“Hey, Fargo, Ponci is still mounted,” Casey said as the others started toward the cantina.

“You goin’ to stay out here?” Fargo asked.

“What?” Ponci had been hitting the laudanum pretty hard, and he was having a hard time focusing on what was going on around him.

“Are you going to stay out here, or come inside and have a few drinks ... maybe get something to eat?” Fargo asked.

“Oh,” Ponci said. He took another drink of the laudanum. “I think I’ll come in,” he said. He made an effort to dismount, but couldn’t.

“Help his sorry ass down,” Fargo said with a dismissive wave of his hand. As Monroe and Casey went to Ponci’s aid, Fargo stepped up onto the low wooden porch. Dagen followed him as he pushed through the dangling strings of beads that hung across the door of the cantina.

Because it was so bright outside and darker inside, the cantina managed to give the illusion of being cooler. But that was an illusion only. It was out of the direct sunlight, but it was also without any flow of air, so it wasn’t any cooler, and might even have been a little warmer than outside.

Once the two men stepped through the door, they moved to one side for a second, keeping their backs to the wall as they looked around the room. This was always the most critical time because if there was anyone here who intended to harm them, that person would have the early advantage until their eyes adjusted to the darkened interior.

“Do you see anyone?” Fargo asked.

Fargo’s question didn’t have to be any more specific. Dagen knew that he was asking if there was anyone in here who posed a threat to them.

“No, it looks clear,” Dagen answered.

“There’s a table back there,” Fargo said, pointing to the far corner of the room.

The two men started toward the table Fargo had pointed out.

“Fargo, he’s going to die,” Dagen said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Fargo was quiet for a long moment before he answered. “Yeah, I know it,” he finally said.

“Well, what are we keeping him with us for?”

“What do you mean, what are we keeping him with us for?”

“I mean, look at him, Fargo. Right now he’s more dead than alive. If you ask me, all he’s doin’ is just slow-in’ us down.”

“Hell, Dagen, if you want to shoot the son of a bitch, go out there and shoot him,” Fargo said. “I ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ to stop you.”

Dagen shook his head. “It ain’t my place to shoot him. You’re the leader. It’s your place.”

“Now, what kind of leader would I look like if I went around killin’ my own men?” Fargo asked.

By now they had reached the table and, deferring to Fargo, Dagen let him be the first to choose where he wanted to sit. After Fargo was settled, Dagen sat down. Then he looked around the room again, this time making a more careful observation.

There were about a dozen people in the cantina—ten men, counting the bartender, and two women. Not one of the people in the place looked American.

“Damn,” Fargo said. “Are you sure we’re still in America?”

“Yes,” Dagen said. “That is, I think so.”

“You think so? Look around. Do you see one American in here?”

Dagen called over to the bar. “Señor, es esta Norteamérica o México?”

“Territorio de Arizona, Estados Unidos,” the bartender answered.

“Yeah, we’re still in America.”

“Ask the son of a bitch if anyone in here speaks English.”

“I speak English, Señor,” the bartender replied. “We all speak English.” With a wave of his arm, he took in everyone in the room. “We are Americans.”

“Americans, huh? Well, you sure as hell can’t prove it by me,” Fargo said.

Casey and Monroe came in then, half-dragging, half-supporting Ponci between them. Ponci’s arms were across their shoulders, and he was hopping on one leg, dragging his useless leg behind him.

“What happened to your friend?” the bartender asked.

“His horse fell on him,” Fargo said. “Bring us some whiskey and something to eat.”

“No whiskey. Tequila.”

“Tequila is fine,” Fargo said as he watched Casey and Monroe pull out a chair and very carefully help Ponci sit down. Then they sat as well.

A moment later the bartender brought a bottle and five glasses.

“You can take one of the glasses back,” Fargo said. “Ole Ponci here isn’t going to be drinkin’ none. Are you, Ponci?”

“What?” Ponci asked.

“See what I mean?” Fargo said. “Hell, he’s been suckin’ down so much of that laudanum that right now he don’t know if it is daylight or dark outside.”

The other men around the table laughed as, nodding, the bartender took the extra glass back.

One of the women laughed out loud, her voice rather shrill over the subdued conversation, mostly in Spanish, of the other patrons.

Fargo took a drink, then looked over at the two women. The women, obviously bar girls and probably whores, appeared to be in their mid-to-late thirties. They were attractive in a garish sort of way. Both were wearing blouses that showed a lot of cleavage, and skirts split to show long, shapely legs. They had dark hair, black eyes, and olive complexions highlighted by bright red lipstick.

“What do you boys say that we get us a couple of women?” Fargo asked the others.

“Good idea, but they seem to be busy now,” Casey said.

“I’ll take care of that.” Fargo got up from the table and started toward the bar.

“You and you,” he said, pointing to the two women. “You see my friends over there at that table? We’d be much obliged if you’d come join us for a few drinks.”

The two women looked at him just for a second, then returned their attention to the men they were with.

“You,” Fargo said to the woman nearest him. “I asked you nice to join me’n my friends over at the table.

“The señorita is with me, Señor,” the man who was standing with her said.

“Yeah? Well, she is going to be with us now,” Fargo replied.

The Mexican’s hand moved toward his pistol. “No, Señor, I think she will stay with me,” he said, his eyes glaring menacingly.

Fargo found it amusing that the Mexican had threatened him by making a move toward his pistol. As he stared at the Mexican, a big smile spread across his face.

“Well now, mister, are you goin’ to pull that hog leg, or just hold your hand over it tryin’ to scare me?” Fargo asked.

The Mexican had not expected this kind of reaction to his threat, and the expressions on his face went the gamut, from menacing, to surprise, and then, as he realized that he had started down a path from which there was no return ... to fear.

Fargo read the range of emotions, and decided to push the man further.

“Go for it, Mex. That is, if you’ve got any cojones. Otherwise, crawl on out of here like a coward.”

The fear on the Mexican’s face now turned to anger and determination. He let out a yell of rage, and made a ragged attempt to draw his gun.

Fargo had his own gun out in the blink of an eye. The Mexican was surprised at how fast Fargo had drawn. It was almost as if the gun had just magically appeared in Fargo’s hand. Seeing that he was badly beaten, he interrupted his own draw, pausing, just as his gun cleared leather.

The Mexican held his hand out and tried to smile. Fargo smiled, as if greatly enjoying this moment. Then, while still smiling, he pulled the trigger.

The heavy .44-caliber bullet hit the Mexican just under his left eye, and blood and brain matter flew out of the exit wound in the back of his head, leaving a smear on the mirror behind the bar. The Mexican fell, dead before he hit the floor.

The drama had unfolded so quickly, and so unexpectedly, that everyone else in the cantina looked on in shock.

The woman who had been with the Mexican screamed, then looked down at him. She looked back at Fargo with a shocked look on her face.

“Usted mató Pablo!” she said in a quiet, choked voice.

“Hey, Dagen, what did this here whore just say?” Fargo asked, waving his gun. A little stream of smoke was still coming from the end of the barrel, and it drifted up to join the cloud of acrid-smelling smoke that was gathering over the barroom.

“She said you killed him,” Dagen replied.

“Ha!” Fargo said. “Yeah, I reckon I did kill the son of a bitch at that.” He looked at the woman. “This is all your fault, you know,” he said.

“Why is it my fault, Señor?” the woman asked, surprised by Fargo’s accusation.

“If you had done what I asked you to do, Pablo here would still be alive. But because you didn’t leave him and come join us for a little friendly get-together, he is dead.” He looked over at the other woman, who was standing halfway down the bar. She too was with someone, but the person she was standing with backed away from her very quickly when he saw Fargo looking toward him.

“You,” Fargo said to the other woman, “I want you too. I’m invitin’ both of you, real friendlylike, to come join my friends and me.”

Without further hesitation, the two women hurried over to the table to join Fargo Ford’s men. In the meantime, Fargo walked over to the bar and stared down at the body of the man he had just killed.

“Bartender,” he called. “Come here.”

“Sí?” the bartender answered. Like the others in the room, the bartender was still in a state of shock over what he had just witnessed. And now, added to that shock was fear. He hung back.

“I said come here,” Fargo repeated, more authoritatively this time.

Hesitantly, and visibly shaking, the bartender closed the distance while keeping the bar between them.

“The whore said this man’s name was Pablo?” Fargo asked.

“Sí, Pablo Bustamante.”

“Tell me, did Pablo Bustamante have a wife? Did he have any kids?”

“No, Señor, he was not married. He lived with his mother on the edge of town.”

Fargo pulled one hundred dollars from his pocket and handed it to the bartender. “Give this money to his mother. Tell her I’m sorry that her son was so foolish as to draw on me.”

The bartender made no effort to take the money from Fargo.

“Do you want Pablo’s poor mama to do without this money?” he asked.

The bartender hesitated a second, then reached for the money.

“Gracias.”

Fargo pulled it back slightly. “Now, what are you going to tell her?”

“I will tell her that you are sorry her son was so foolish as to draw on you.”

“That’s a good man,” Fargo said. He looked at the others in the room. “And as for the rest of you. If there is anyone in here who does not think this was a fair fight, then step up and let me hear from you. We may as well settle this now,” he called out loudly.

There were several men in the cantina staring at him, and they had been staring at him from the moment his confrontation with Pablo began. But now, at his challenge, they all looked away. It was as if they had suddenly found their drinks much more interesting.

“I didn’t think anyone would disagree with me. Bartender, how about getting some food over to the table now? And be quick about it, I don’t want to wait for it all day.”

“Sí, muy rápido, Señor,” the bartender replied nervously.

When Fargo returned to the table to rejoin the others, the two women were already there, though the expressions on their faces showed that they were frightened.

“Can you imagine that dumb shit pulling his gun on me just to keep a whore to himself?” Fargo asked. “What the hell was he thinkin’?”

Monroe chuckled. “Well, there’s one thing for sure, Fargo. Ole Pablo won’t be pullin’ his gun on you no more. I’d say he’s learned his lesson.”

“Learned his lesson,” Casey repeated, laughing out loud. The others, except for Ponci, joined him in the laughter.

“How do you know he’s learned his lesson?” Dagen asked. “He might be down in hell right now trying to bluff the devil.”

“He don’t have to bluff the devil; hell is full of whores,” Monroe said, and everyone laughed again.

“Incluso las putas en el infierno no tendrían nada que ver con este hombre,” one of the women said in biting tones. This was the woman who had been standing next to Pablo when Fargo shot him.

Dagen laughed.

“What the hell did she say?” Fargo demanded.

“She said even the whores in hell would want nothing to do with you.”

Fargo glared at the woman, and she shook with fear at what he might do. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, Fargo laughed out loud.

“You got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said. “But we ain’t in hell right now, so I’m more worried about the whores up here.” Fargo put his hand on her cheek and she shrank back from him. “Don’t be scared. You can’t have no fun if you are scared. Are you scared of me?”

“Sí, Señor,” the woman said.

“What is your name?”

“Carmelita.”

Fargo looked at the other one.

“Rosita.”

“Well, Carmelita, Rosita, will this make you less scared?” Fargo asked. He handed each of them a twenty-dollar bill.

“Señor! So much money? Why?” Carmelita asked.

“Don’t you want it?”

“Sí, but what must we do?” Carmelita asked.

“You got a room here?”

“Sí.”

Fargo smiled broadly. “Well, when we get to your room, I’m sure we can figure out something to do. I figure between the two of you, you can make me’n my friends just real happy.”

“This one too?” Rosita asked, looking at Ponci. The expression on Ponci’s face was devoid of any interest, or even awareness of what was going on around him. “I do not think he looks like a man who wants a woman.”

“I think you are right,” Fargo said as he stared at Ponci. Even though they were now talking about him by name, Ponci continued to stare straight ahead, obviously not following the conversation. “Nah, don’t worry about him. You don’t have to mess with him,” Fargo said.

“Jesus, Fargo, look at ole Ponci,” Casey said. “The son of a bitch looks like hell.”

“What is wrong with your friend?” Carmelita asked. “Why does he look so?”

“Oh, never mind him. He is dying,” Fargo said flatly.

“Madre de Dios,” Carmelita said, and she and Rosita crossed themselves.

The food was brought to the table then, and all conversation halted as the men dug into the beans and tortillas.

Ponci did not eat; nor did he give any indication that he even knew there was food on the table.