Revenge of Eagles

CHAPTER 12

A fly landed on Fargo Ford’s face. Without waking, he brushed it off, but the second time it landed, it woke him up. He lay there for just a second to get his bearings; then he realized where he was.

Last night he had brought Carmelita to his room. He had kept the whore all to himself, telling the others to share Rosita. Turning his head, he saw her in bed beside him. The bedsheet came up only to her waist and she was naked above it. In the bright light of the morning sun, she didn’t look nearly as attractive to him as she had last night. The dissipation of her profession was beginning to show, and she looked older now than he had thought she was last night. There was a terrible scar on one of her breasts, ending with a split nipple.

“Damn, woman, someone cut you pretty good,” he said under his breath. He got out of bed, then walked over to the window and looked outside. The window opened onto the back of the cantina, so he raised it, then relieved himself over the windowsill, shooting a golden stream out to glisten in the morning sun.

“There is a chamber pot under the bed,” Carmelita said from behind him.

“This’ll do fine,” Fargo said, shaking himself off. He walked over to the chair and started pulling on his trousers. “How’d you get your titty all cut up like that?” he asked.

As if just now realizing that she was naked from the waist up, Carmelita jerked the sheet up to cover herself.

“A very bad hombre,” she said.

“Woman, you ain’t never seen an hombre as bad as I am,” he said.

“You ... you are going to hurt me, Señor?” Carmelita asked in quick fear.

“No, I ain’t goin’ to hurt you,” he said. He looked at her as he buttoned his shirt. “But if I had seen how ugly you was last night, I sure wouldn’t of give you as much money as I did.”

“I’m sorry I do not please you, Señor.”

Fargo laughed. “Oh, hell, I didn’t say you didn’t please me. You was good enough in bed last night. And like they say, in the dark all cats are gray.”

Fargo pulled on his boots, strapped on his gun, and picked up his saddlebags.

“Well, I guess I’ll be gettin’ my pards and movin’ on. We got a ways to ...” He paused in mid-sentence, then hefted the saddlebags again. His eyes narrowed, and quickly he opened the flap and looked inside. “Where’s my money?” he asked.

“Qué?”

“You heard me! My money, you ignorant bitch! Where’s my money?” Fargo pulled his pistol, cocked it, and shoved the barrel of it into her nostril, pushing so hard that her nose began to bleed. “You stole my money!”

“Señor. No entiendo! What are you talking about? I know nothing about your money!”

Fargo pulled the pistol back, then ripped the sheet off the bed. Seeing nothing, he pushed her onto the floor, then pushed the mattress off, so he could look under the bed.

The money wasn’t there.

“Where is the money?” Fargo demanded again, this time hitting her across the face with the flat of his pistol. Now, both her nostrils were bleeding, and he left a cut on her lip.

“Por favor ayúdeme. El gringo trata de matarme!” Carmelita screamed.

“Where is my money?” Fargo asked again, shouting at the top of his voice.

Suddenly the door to the room opened and, turning toward it, Fargo saw the bartender rushing in, holding a shotgun. Fargo shot first. The .44-caliber bullet punched through the bartender’s chest, then broke through his back, leaving a quarter-sized hole. The bartender fell back into the hall, firing his shotgun as he fell back. The charge from the shotgun tore a hole in the ceiling.

By now the others, except for Ponci, were out in the hallway, guns in hand. All were in their underwear.

Casey walked over to look down at the bartender. The bartender was on his back, lying in a pool of blood. His eyes were open, but unseeing.

“Fargo, what the hell happened?” Casey asked. “What’d you shoot him for?”

Fargo turned toward Carmelita. “This bitch stole our money,” he said. He nodded toward the bartender. “He must’a been in on it, ’cause he come runnin’ in with that scattergun.”

“The whore didn’t steal the money,” Monroe said. “Don’t you remember?”

Fargo looked at Monroe. “Don’t I remember what? What do you mean, the whore didn’t steal the money?”

“You put all the money in Ponci’s saddlebags last night. You said bein’ as how he was the only one who wouldn’t be with a woman, it would be safer there.”

“That’s right, Fargo, that’s what you done,” Dagen said.

Fargo looked at them for a moment. Then he chuckled. “I’ll be damn,” he said. “You’re right. That is what I done.” He looked over at Carmelita, who was using the edge of the sheet to wipe the blood away from her face. She was weeping quietly, joined now by Rosita, who sat on the bed beside her, trying to comfort her.

“Look, I’m sorry about all this,” Fargo said to her. “I forgot I gave all the money to Ponci. I thought you stole it.”

“Usted bastardo. Usted es el hijo del Diablo,” the woman spat.

“Yeah, yeah, well, I guess you got a right to be mad,” Fargo said. He looked at the others. “Where is Ponci?”

“Well, since we was all goin’ to be busy, he got a room by hisself,” Dagen said. He pointed to a closed door. “He’s in that room there.”

Fargo walked over to the room Dagen indicated and tried to open the door. It was locked.

“Ponci,” Fargo called, knocking on the door. “Ponci, you still alive this morning?”

When he didn’t get an answer, he tried the door again. “Ponci?” He looked at the others and chuckled. “Well, what do you know? Ole Ponci must’ve died during the night.” He kicked the door open, then walked inside. “What the hell?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“Come look for yourself.”

The bed in the room was not only empty, it showed no signs of ever having been slept in.

“Son of a bitch,” Casey said. “Where’s Ponci? You think he wandered off somewhere and died?”

“No,” Fargo said. “I think the son of a bitch has skedaddled! The son of a bitch has run off and he took our money!”

“How the hell could he do that?” Dagen asked. “The bastard could hardly sit up on his own, let alone take our money and run.”

“Fargo, you ain’t behind this, are you?” Monroe asked.

Fargo looked shocked at the accusation. “What? Are you saying I took the money?”

“I’m just saying we’re wondering about it,” Monroe said.

“Yeah,” Casey added, and Monroe breathed a sign of relief that he wasn’t issuing the challenge alone. Though Dagen didn’t say anything, he stepped over to stand beside the others.

Fargo could handle any one of them by himself. That was why he was the leader. But even he couldn’t handle all three if they turned against him.

“Look, fellas,” he said, less belligerent now than he had been. “I don’t know how Ponci pulled this off. Maybe he wasn’t near as bad as he let on to be. Or maybe he was just soused down with that laudanum and figured to take his chance. But I didn’t have nothin’ to do with this.”

There was a long beat of silence before Dagen answered.

“I believe you,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” Monroe added.

“So, what do we do now?” Casey asked.

“Now? We run the son of a bitch down, kill him, and take the money. I mean, faking it or not, he’s more dead than alive. How damn hard can it be to find him?”

When Falcon rode into Oro Blanco that morning, his reception was exactly as it had been when he rode into the Indian camp. Because everyone had known of his mission, nearly everyone in the town came out of houses and stores to stand on the boardwalk and watch him. A few children even ran alongside, keeping pace as he headed for the sheriff’s office.

By the time he reached the sheriff’s office, Sheriff Corbin was standing out front to greet him. Falcon dismounted, and tied his horse off at the hitching rail. The townspeople who had followed him as he rode into town now gathered in the street around the sheriff’s office to find out what had happened.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sheriff Corbin said, pushing his hat back on his head with a bemused smile. “Here you are, back again, and all in one piece, I see.”

“Still alive,” Falcon said. “Although I’m sure there are more than a few people here and there who might be disappointed by that fact.”

“Did you ...” Corbin started to say, but Falcon answered before he could complete the sentence.

“I personally delivered the Indian girl to her parents,” he said. “If that is what you were about to ask,” he added.

“Yes, it was.”

“Did the Indians give you any trouble?” one of the men in the gathering crowd asked.

“Did you see ole Keytano hisself?” another asked.

“How did Keytano act when you brung his daughter back to him?” still another shouted.

“I had no trouble,” Falcon replied. “Yes, I did see Keytano, and he was like any other parent would be at having their daughter’s body delivered to them. He was grieved, and he was upset.”

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. MacCallister?” the sheriff said. “I’ve got some fresh made just inside. Come on in and have a cup.”

Falcon welcomed the sheriff’s offer of coffee for what it was, an invitation for them to talk more privately.

“I don’t mind if I do,” Falcon answered, stepping up onto the boardwalk.

“How they goin’ to act now? They holdin’ the girl’s killin’ against all whites?” someone shouted from the crowd.

“Is there goin’ to be an Indian war?” another man called.

The sheriff stepped in front of the crowd and held up his hands as if pushing them back. “Now listen, you people, go on now,” the sheriff said. “Haven’t you got something else to do? Shoo, get away.”

“Sheriff, now by damn we got us a right to know if there’s goin’ to be an Indian war or not,” one of the men said challengingly. “And you ain’t got no right to keep us in the dark.”

“I have no intention of keeping you in the dark, but there ain’t no way Mr. MacCallister can get told what all has to be told with all of you standin’ around here shoutin’ at him. If there is somethin’ you need to know, I’ll tell you first thing,” Sheriff Corbin said. “But for now, there ain’t none of you goin’ to find out anythin’ unless I find it out first. Get on back to your business, all of you.”

“This ain’t right, Sheriff.”

“I tell you what, Chandler,” the sheriff said, growing impatient now. “You can come inside if you want to, and spend the next twenty-four hours in the cell.”

“On what charge?” the man named Chandler challenged angrily.

“On the charge of you’re too damn ugly to be standin’ out in public,” the sheriff replied, and it had the desired effect of causing everyone, including Chandler, to laugh.

“All right, all right,” Chandler said. “But don’t you forget to let us know what you find out.” Chandler walked away then, and his action led the others away as well.

“Come on inside,” the sheriff said, “and I’ll pour you that coffee.”

Falcon followed the sheriff inside, then sat down in a chair, removed his hat, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Thanks for getting me away from the mob,” he said.

“How is it?” the sheriff asked as he poured a cup of coffee.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The wound you have in your head. I see you’re runnin’ your hand across it. Is the wound botherin’ you any?”

“No, not really,” Falcon said. “It’s just a force of habit, I guess.” He put his hat back on.

The sheriff handed Falcon the cup of coffee. “So, are we? Going to have us an Indian war, I mean.”

“Not if I can help it,” Falcon replied. The coffee was hot, and he extended his lips and slurped it in order to cool it.

“Not if you can help it? Good Lord, man, you mean the issue is in doubt?”

“Yeah, you might say that.”

“How? Why?”

“I had to promise Keytano and the council that I would track down the men who killed his daughter.”

The sheriff looked relieved. “Well, that is understandable. And by the way, we have even more reasons to track them down now.”

“How is that?”

“It turns out that when they escaped from jail back in Calabasas, they killed the sheriff, both his deputies, and the kid who worked at the livery stable,” the sheriff said. “We just got word of it today.”

“So, counting the expressman back in Calabasas, the sheriff, his two deputies, the kid at the corral, the shotgun guard, and Cloud Dancer ... that makes seven people they’ve killed just in the last few days,” Falcon said. He sighed. “They have really been on a tear.”

“Seven that we know of,” Sheriff Corbin said. “There’s no telling what they have done since they left here.”

“If somebody gets in their way, they won’t hesitate to kill them, that’s for sure,” Falcon said.

Sheriff Corbin walked over to his desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a star.

“What’s that for?” Falcon asked.

“You may recollect that I offered this to you before, when you took the girl back to the Indian village. I reckon you were right to turn it down then. But I’m offerin’ it to you again.” He crossed over to where Falcon was sitting and held the star out toward him. “I wish you’d take it.”

Falcon held up his hand. “Sorry, Sheriff, but I’m goin’ to have to turn it down again.”

“Why? It might come in handy for you, havin’ the law on your side.”

Falcon shook his head. “What I have to do, the law would want no part of,” he said. “And I wouldn’t want to put the burden of my action on the law.”

Sheriff Corbin stared at Falcon. “What are you talking about? Huntin’ down those folks ... even huntin’ them down and killin’ them would be doin’ the work of the law.”

Falcon pointed to the star. “Sheriff, if I’m wearing that badge, I would be honor bound to try and bring them in alive for trial,” he said.

“Well, yes, I suppose you would, if you could. But the truth is, these are desperate and dangerous men, so I doubt that anyone would fault you if you don’t bring them in alive.”

Falcon shook his head. “Still, if I was wearing the star, I would be honor bound to try to bring them in. But I’m going to be truthful with you, Sheriff. I don’t have any intention of bringing them back alive. I plan to track them down, then kill them. And I mean every last one of them.”

“There are five of them. There is one of you,” Sheriff Corbin said.

“By now there’s probably only four of them,” Falcon said. “And even if Ponci is still alive, I expect he is pretty much out of it.”

Sheriff Corbin stood there for a moment, rolling the star over in his hand. Then he nodded and put the star back in the drawer.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said. “You don’t need a star for that. I suppose that was part of your deal with the Indians?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if it prevents war ... then I say kill the bastards. They’re worthless murderers anyway. Better them dead than some of the good citizens of Pima County, and that’s what would happen if the Indians go on the warpath.”

“I thought you might see it that way.”

“The only problem is, if you don’t let me deputize you, I can’t send a posse. Pin on this badge and I guarantee that half the able-bodied men in town would go with you.”

“I don’t want a posse.”

“With odds of five to one ... or even if it is only four to one, a posse might come in handy,” the sheriff suggested.

“I told you what I was going to have to do, Sheriff,” Falcon said. He shook his head. “I see no need in getting good citizens mixed up in this.”

“Listen, Mr. MacCallister, I don’t think you have to be worryin’ about getting any of our good citizens mixed up in this,” Sheriff Corbin said. “Don’t you believe for one moment that I wouldn’t be able to find people in this town who would be willing to turn a blind eye if these outlaws didn’t make it back alive.”

Falcon paused for a second before he spoke again. “Yes, well, that’s not all there is to the promise,” he said quietly.

Sheriff Corbin picked up the coffeepot to pour himself a cup. “What do you mean that isn’t all there is to the promise? You’re going to track them down and you’re going to kill them. Seems to me like that’s about all there is. What else would ole Keytano be wantin’ you to do?”

“I’m going to scalp them,” Falcon said flatly.

Sheriff Corbin put the pot back down in surprise, and he turned to look at Falcon.

“What did you say?”

“I said I was going to scalp them.”

“You are planning to scalp white men? God in heaven, man, why would you do such a thing?” the sheriff blurted.

“I told you. It is part of the promise I made to Keytano.”

“Well, to hell with Keytano,” Sheriff Corbin said. “Killin’ them murderin’ bastards is one thing, but killin’ ’em and then scalpin’ ’em ... that’s something else again. That ain’t somethin’ white men do to one another. It ain’t civilized.”

“No, it isn’t civilized,” Falcon agreed. “But if you think about it, after I kill them, they’ll be dead. So it won’t make any difference to Fargo Ford and his bunch whether I scalp them or not. And it might prevent an Indian war.”

“Might? You mean there is a chance that, even if you kill these bastards, and then ...” Sheriff Corbin paused for a moment, as if struggling to say the word. “And then ... scalp them ... we still might have a war?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Turns out Keytano isn’t the only one we have to worry about,” Falcon said. “He’s got a young buck in his band named Chetopa.”

“Chetopa, yes, it would be him,” Sheriff Corbin said.

“You know him?”

Sheriff Corbin nodded. “I’ve never had any real run-ins with him ... but he’s come off the reservation a few times to harass some freight wagons, frighten the passengers in the stagecoaches. As far as I know, that’s all he’s ever done. Unless he’s the one who killed those three prospectors.”

Falcon nodded. “I’m sure he is the one. Chetopa has a wild hair up his ass, and I don’t think anything is going to calm him down.”

“So what you are telling me is that, even if you track down and kill Fargo Ford and his gang, the Indians, or at least Chetopa, might still go on the warpath?”

“Yes.”

“Well if that’s the case, why are you willing to do this?”

“Because if I don’t do this, it won’t only be Chetopa on the warpath, it will be Keytano too. And I have a feeling that if Keytano ever went bad, it would be Geronimo all over again.”

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” Sheriff Corbin said.

“Besides,” Falcon added, “Fargo Ford and those sons of bitches with him need killing.”

“You’ve got a point there too,” Sheriff Corbin said again.