Revenge of Eagles

CHAPTER 18

The sun was high overhead, a brilliant white orb in a fixed blue sky. It beat down mercilessly on the four men who rode slowly across the desert floor.

“Hey, Fargo, are you sure you know where we are?” Casey asked.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You sure? ’Cause I don’t want to get lost out here, maybe have somebody find our bones about a hundred years from now.”

Dagen laughed.

“What you think’s so funny?” Casey asked.

“Somebody findin’ our bones a hunnert years from now,” Dagen said.

“I don’t think that’s funny. I don’t think that’s funny a’tall.”

“Will you three shut the hell up? It’s too damn hot to be listenin’ to the three of you palaverin’ all the damn time,” Fargo said.

“Well, I’d like to know just where the hell we are. I mean, we was headin’ north when we left town; next thing you know we started curvin’ aroun’, we was going west for a while; now damn me if it don’t seem we’re goin’ south. If you ask me, we’re just ridin’ in circles. And when a fella starts ridin’ in circles, that means we’re lost.”

“We ain’t lost,” Fargo said. “We’re doublin’ back is all.”

“Doublin’ back? Doublin’ back for what? If you hadn’t shot that son of a bitch back in Mesquite, we wouldn’t have to be out here and we wouldn’t be hot. We’d still be sittin’ in a nice, cool saloon,” Dagen said. “Drinkin’ beer and talkin’ with the women ...”

“And eating,” Monroe said, interrupting Dagen.

“Yeah,” Dagen agreed. “And eating.”

“What the hell did you shoot that son of a bitch for anyway?” Casey asked.

“I told you why I shot him. I thought it was Ponci,” Fargo said.

“What if it had been Ponci and he had hid the money somewhere?” Dagen asked. “Then he would be dead and we wouldn’t have no money, or no idea where it was. Did you think of that?”

“No, I reckon I didn’t,” Fargo admitted. “All I could think of was that the son of a bitch stole money from us and I wanted to kill him.” The four men rode on for a while longer before Dagen spoke again. “Hey, Casey, you got ’nything left to eat? Jerky or somethin’?”

“No.”

“How ’bout you, Monroe? You got ’ny jerky? Anything to eat?”

“I ain’t got nothin’ a’tall left,” Monroe said.

“Well, son of a bitch, I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, me too,” Casey said. “I could damn near eat this saddle.”

“Quit your bellyachin’, all of you,” Fargo said. “Do you think I ain’t hungry? But you don’t hear me bitchin’ about it, do you?”

“Well, what are you goin’ to do about it?” Dagen asked.

“What do you mean, what am I going to do about it? What am I supposed to do about it?”

“You’re the leader, ain’t you? Leastwise, you been claimin’ to be the leader. You the reason we had to hightail it out of Mesquite. So by my way of thinkin’, that means it’s up to you to find us somethin’ to eat,” Dagen said.

“Yeah,” Casey agreed. “You’re the leader. Do some leadin’. Get us somethin’ to eat.”

“All right, there’s a ranch up ahead,” Fargo said. “We’ll get somethin’ to eat there.”

“How? Are we just going to walk up to the door and say, ‘Excuse me, but we’re awful hungry, and we was won-derin’ iffen maybe you wouldn’t feed us’?” Dagen said.

“Something like that,” Fargo replied.

“Well, I ain’t one for beggin’,” Dagen said. “I like to earn my keep.”

“Earn it?” Casey said with a laugh. “Dagen, what the hell do you mean earn it? You’re a thief, for crying out loud. We’re all thieves.”

“Yeah, well, that’s earnin’ it,” Dagen said. “Sort of.”

The others laughed.

“Don’t make me laugh no more,” Monroe said. “I ain’t got enough spit left to laugh.”

“Where is this here ranch anyhow?” Casey asked. “’Cause, I sure don’t see nothin’ that looks like a ranch.”

“It’s just up ahead a little ways,” Fargo said. “Another couple of miles is all.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure about that. I told you, I used to live around here. Fact is, I worked on this ranch once. It’s the Double R Ranch.”

“Double R,” Dagen said.

“Double R for Raymond Reynolds,” Fargo said. He tore off a chew of tobacco, settled it in his jaw, then put his plug away.

“How come you quit ranchin’?” Monroe asked.

“’Cause the only thing dumber’n a cow on a cattle ranch is the men who are dumb enough to punch ’em,” Fargo said. “You are either too hot or too cold, too wet or too dry, and you ain’t never got two nickels to rub together in your pocket. I had me a bellyful of it, so I just up and quit.”

“I’ve always thought I’d kind of like to be a cowboy,” Monroe said.

“You’d make a good cowboy,” Fargo said.

“I would?”

Fargo leaned over and spit. “Yep. You’re just exactly what all the ranchers is lookin’ for. Someone who is dumb enough to do it.”

“That ain’t right for you to say,” Monroe said. “I ain’t all that dumb.”

“You ain’t?”

“No.”

“You’re ridin’ with me, ain’t you?” Fargo asked. He spit again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anyone who would ride with me is dumber’n shit.”

“Hey,” Dagen said. “When you say that, you’re saying that about all of us.”

“Yep.”

“Includin’ yourself,” Casey pointed out.

Fargo spit the last of his chew. “I’m especially talkin’ about myself,” he said.

They rode on in silence for another few miles; then Fargo pointed toward a ranch house in the distance. “There it is,” he said. “Just like I told you.”

Dagen and the other two riders started sloping down a long hill toward the main house.

“Where you goin’?” Fargo asked.

“Toward the ranch house,” Dagen replied. “Didn’t you say we’d get something to eat here?”

“Yeah, but not there,” Fargo replied. “Come this way.” He cut his horse off to the left, at almost a right angle to the way they had been going.

“What are we goin’ that way for? That’s the house over there, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, but I told you, we’re not goin’ to the house,” Fargo said.

“Well, if we ain’t goin’ to the house, just where the hell are we goin’?”

“You’ll see.”

Fargo led them on for about two more miles, and though Dagen and the others were anxious to know what he had in mind, it seemed clear enough by his determination that he had something in mind. And at this point, there was nothing they could do but follow.

“There it is,” Fargo said after a while. “That’s where we’ll get our next meal.” He pointed to a small adobe cabin that rose, like a clump of dirt, from the desert floor.

“Yeah,” Dagen said, smiling broadly and nodding his head. “Yeah, I see what you’re up to now.”

“Wait a minute! That’s what we come all this way for? A little dirt hut like that? What the hell is it?” Monroe asked.

“Monroe, if you’d ever done one day’s work in your life, you would recognize it,” Dagen said. “It’s a line shack.”

“What’s a line shack?”

“It’s where the cowboys that watch over the herds in the field stay,” Dagen said. “It’s lonely work, but as I recall, most of the time the cowboys in the line shacks eat better’n the boys back in the bunkhouse.”

“I’ve heard that my ownself,” Casey said. “But I ain’t never spent no time in a line shack.”

“I have,” Dagen said. “And believe me, whoever is in there now will have food.”

“What if they do have food?” Monroe asked. “You don’t really think they’ll just share it with us, do you?”

“Oh, I don’t intend to ask them to share it,” Fargo said. “I intend to just take it. Dismount, pull your long guns, and follow me.”

“What do we want with our rifles?” Dagen asked.

“You’ll be needin’ them,” Fargo said without further explanation.

There were four cowboys inside the small adobe line shack. One was asleep on the bunk; the other three were sitting across a small table from each other, playing cards. They were playing for matches only, but that didn’t lessen the intensity of their game. When one of them took the pot with a pair of aces, another one complained.

“Sandy, you son of a bitch! Where’d you get that ace?” His oath, however, was softened by a burst of laughter.

“Don’t you know? I took it from Shorty’s boot while he was asleep.”

“Does Shorty keep an ace in his boot?”

“You think he don’t? I never know’d him to do anythin’ honest when he could cheat.”

“That’s the truth of it,” Shorty admitted from his bunk, proving that he wasn’t actually asleep. “Hell, it’s the only way I can be sure to win. But Arnie is just as bad.”

“I am not,” the dealer replied.

“And so is Curley,” Shorty added.

“Well, now you’re right there,” the third cardplayer said. “I will cheat if I think I can get away with it.”

The others laughed.

The cards were raked in, the deck shuffled, then dealt again.

“Hey, do either one of you know Jennie?” Arnie asked as he dealt the cards.

“Jennie? Jennie who?” Sandy asked as he began picking up cards.

“You know Jennie who,” Arnie insisted. “She’s one of the whores down at the Desert Flower.”

“Oh, yeah, that Jennie. What about her?”

“Well, here’s the thing. Do you fellas think she likes me?” Arnie asked.

The others laughed. “Do we think she likes you? Damn, Arnie, she likes anybody who has enough money to take her upstairs,” Sandy said.

“You’re just talkin’,” Arnie said. “She won’t go upstairs with just anybody.”

“You may be right about that,” Shorty said from the bunk. “She won’t go upstairs with Curley. I mean, he’s so damn ugly he can’t come up with enough money to make any woman go upstairs with him.”

Sandy added, teasing Curley, “How’d you get to be so ugly, Curley?”

Curley was short, round, freckled, and without a hair on his head.

“My mama says she was scairt by a bear when she was carryin’ me, and some of that bear’s ugly wore off,” Curley replied.

The others laughed.

“But speakin’ of Jennie,” Curley continued, “better not nobody be messin’ around with her unless they’re wantin’ to tangle with Tucker.”

“Tangle with who?”

“Tucker Godfrey,” Curley said. “You know, that bandy-legged little shit from the Flying J Spread? He’s got his cap set for Jennie and he sees anyone sniffin’ around her, why, he runs ’em off.”

“Ha! You think I’m scared of Tucker? I could break that little pipsqueak over my knees like a piece of kindlin’ wood,” Arnie said.

“Hell, any of us could, if we could ever catch the little son of a bitch without his gun. But he’s damn good with that gun, and he has it with ’im all the time. Folks say he even has it with him when he goes to take a shit.”

The others laughed again.

At that moment, four riders stopped on a little hill overlooking the line shack. They ground-tied their mounts about thirty yards behind them, then moved to the edge of the hill at a crouch and looked down toward the little building.

“Can you see anybody inside the shack?” Fargo asked.

“Yeah, I can see three men sittin’ at a table, just inside the window,” Casey said.

“When I give the word, everyone start shooting at the same time,” Fargo said, raising his rifle to his shoulder. The others raised their rifles as well, and waited for Fargo.

“Now! Shoot!” Fargo shouted, squeezing the trigger that sent out the first bullet.

Arnie died instantly, a bullet coming through the window to crash into the back of his head. Sandy and Curley heard the little tinkle of glass as the window broke; then they watched in surprise and shocked horror as blood and gore exploded out of the top of Arnie’s head. By the time the sound of the shot reached them, other bullets were flying through the little cabin.

As Arnie flopped forward across the table, Curley felt a blow to his chest, as if he had just been kicked by a mule. His chair went over backward, and he fell to the floor.

Sandy went next, a bullet in his neck.

By now Shorty, who had remained on the bunk, had rolled onto the floor.

“Jesus!” he said. “What is it? What’s happening?” Shorty called.

“Shorty!” the wounded man on the floor called. “Shorty, I’m hit bad!”

Shorty crawled over to Curley, then saw the blood on his chest. The wound was sucking air and Shorty knew it would soon be over for his friend. He put his hand on the wounded man’s forehead. That gesture of comfort was Shorty’s last mortal act because the next bullet hit him right between the eyes.

Less than a moment later, all four men were dead.

“Hold your fire,” Fargo said, holding up his hand to stop the others.

The men quit firing.

“See any movement?”

“No,” Casey said.

“Casey, how about you go up and see if anyone is still alive?” Fargo said.

“What do you mean go up and see if anyone is still alive?” Casey replied. “Hell, you go up.”

Fargo glared at Casey, then got up and, upright and without caution, walked straight toward the shack.

“What’s that dumb son of a bitch trying to do? Show off?” Casey asked with a growl.

Casey, Dagen, and Monroe watched as Fargo kicked the door open and went inside. They waited to hear some sign of a struggle or, barring that, for him to come out and tell them it was all right to come in.

A long minute went by.

“What do you think happened?” Casey asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You think Fargo’s dead?”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No.”

“Then he probably ain’t dead.”

“How come he hasn’t come out and told us anything?”

“’Cause the son of a bitch has found the food and he’s eatin’ it all himself,” Dagen said in a sudden realization.

Dagen started toward the line shack and after only a moment’s hesitation, the others went with him. When they got to the shack they saw Fargo inside, eating beans straight from the pot. He was sitting at the table, totally oblivious of the dead man whose head was leaking blood and brains right beside the pot of beans.

There were three other men in the room and they lay dead on the floor.

“What the hell has been keeping you?” Fargo asked around a mouthful of beans. “Hurry up and eat. We’re goin’ back after our money.”

“Going back? To Mesquite?” Casey asked. “You think that’s the smart thing to do? I mean, seein’ as you kilt that man an’ all.”

“Hell,” Dagen said as he opened a biscuit and filled it with beans. “What are you worried about, Casey? You didn’t kill that fella. Neither did Monroe or me. If the sheriff is goin’ to be after somebody’s ass, it’s goin’ to be Fargo’s, right, Fargo?”

Fargo glared at Dagen across the top of the bean pot. “So I figure,” Dagen said, taking a bite of his biscuit and letting beans and juice dribble down either side of his mouth, “if there’s a chance of getting the money back by goin’ back to Mesquite, then let’s go.”