Revenge of Eagles

CHAPTER 6

Timmy’s mother’s name was Jane Stockdale. At Oro Blanco, she would be connecting with another stage going on to Providence Wells, where her husband owned a ranch.

“What is your name?” Timmy asked the Indian girl.

The Indian girl smiled. “My name is Yaakos Gan.”

“Yak ... ?” Timmy couldn’t repeat it.

“Ya-kos Gan,” the Indian girl said, pronouncing the word phonetically. “Yaakos Gan. That means ‘Cloud Dancer.’”

Timmy smiled. “Cloud Dancer. I like that. I can say that.”

“For our first year at school, we lived with a white family, and the white family gave us all white man’s names. I lived with the Walkers, so they gave me the name Nina Walker.”

Timmy shook his head. “No, I like ‘Cloud Dancer’ better. It’s prettier.”

Cloud Dancer laughed. “I like it better too, because it is my name. But when we go away to school, we are given white man’s names ... white man’s clothes”—she made a motion with her hand, taking in her yellow dress—“and we are told we can only speak the white man’s tongue. If they caught us speaking in our native language, they punished us.”

“But you can still speak Apache, can’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Say something in Apache for me,” Timmy asked.

Cloud Dancer pointed to Timmy’s mother. “That is your mother. Mother is shimaa.”

“Shimaa,” Timmy repeated.

Cloud Dancer pointed to her head. “Head is bitsitsin. Hair is bitsizil; eyes, bidaa; ears, bijaa; hand, bigan; feet, bikee. It’s easy. Just remember that each part of your body starts with the ‘bi’ sound, as in the word bit.”

Timmy repeated each word several times, until he was able to say them.

“Very good!” Cloud Dancer said, clapping her hands enthusiastically.

For the next few hours, Cloud Dancer taught Timmy her language while his mother looked on. Johnson stared out the window, his disapproval evident but not spoken.

Watching the interplay between Cloud Dancer and Timmy, Falcon MacCallister thought of his own wife, dead now for many years. Had she lived, it might be her sitting next to him now, and Timmy could be his own son, learning the language.

Marie Gentle Breeze, as she was called, had been captured by a band of Indians who tried to take her north with them as a slave. She fought them all the way, until they killed her. They crushed her head with a war ax, raped her many times, and threw her body in the river. Jamie MacCallister, Falcon’s father, rode and walked for many miles on either side of the river, searching for Marie. He finally found her body wedged between a large rock and a tree, a few feet away from the west bank of the river.

Falcon stared across the coach at the drummer. Johnson’s obvious Indian bias had triggered Falcon’s memories of his own wife, and what happened to her. It was the memory of his wife’s murder that had caused him to throw Johnson from the stage, and he had to fight against the urge to do it again.

Up on the driver’s seat, Gentry and his shotgun guard were talking.

“As many times as Johnson has made this trip with us, you’d think he’d have better sense than to fall out the door,” Kerry said.

Gentry chuckled. “He didn’t no more fall out that door than the man in the moon.”

“What do you mean? He got off the stage somehow. You seen him come runnin’ up alongside.”

“Well, think about it, Kerry. Has he ever fallen out the door before?”

“No.”

“No, and he didn’t this time neither. Come on, you know him. You know how he can get on a person’s nerves. If you ask me, that big fella MacCallister just threw Johnson’s ass out.”

Kerry laughed. “Damn me if I don’t think you’re probably right.”

In order to get to Pajarito from Calabasas, the stage had to follow the road south for a while, then cut back west through Cerro Pass.

By horseback there was no need to follow the road, so Fargo Ford and his band started straight across the Sonora for Cerro Pass.

When they reached the Santa Cruz River, they stopped to fill their canteens, and to let the horses drink. Ponci stood at the edge of the river and started relieving himself.

“Ponci, what the hell are you doing pissing in the river like that? Can’t you see we are filling our canteens, you stupid shit?” Monroe asked.

“I’m pissin’ downriver,” Ponci answered.

“Get away from the river or I’ll kick the shit out of you,” Monroe said menacingly.

“You want to try me?” Ponci replied, his hand hovering over his gun.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and a bullet hit the ground between the two men, then ricocheted off, the boom and whine bouncing back as echoes from the nearby mountains.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Fargo asked angrily. “Would you rather fight each other, or get your hands on that money?”

Ponci and Monroe stared at each other for a long moment.

“Look, if you two sons of bitches want to kill each other, be my guest. But do it after we get the money, okay? Hell, I hope you do kill each other, then ... it’ll be more money for the rest of us.”

“We’ll finish this later,” Monroe said.

“I’ll be here,” Ponci said.

“Whichever one of you sons of bitches kills the other, you don’t get his whole share. We’ll split it up amongst us,” Fargo said.

Ponci and Monroe stared at each other for a moment longer. It was obvious by the expressions on their faces that they had no intention of letting the argument get that far.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think so,” Fargo said, reading their expressions. “Come on, get mounted,” he ordered. “If we want to get our hands on that money, we’ve got to get to the pass before the stage.”

The coach had been under way for about four hours when, from the driver’s seat, came the blare of a trumpet.

“We must be coming into Pajarito,” Falcon said. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. “And right on time, I see.”

There was no railroad in Pajarito, and no telegraph line. Therefore, the arrival of the stagecoach, once each day from Calabasas and once each day from Oro Blanco, provided the only connection the town had with the outside world. Because of that, the arrival was a major event, and men and women stepped out of their homes, stores, and businesses to watch the stage roll in each day. Children would sometimes run down the street alongside the coach, often accompanied by their dogs. Today was no exception, and nearly every citizen in Pajarito stood outside their homes and businesses, watching the arrival.

Just before entering the town, the driver stirred the team into a trot so as to make a more impressive entrance. Then, as they approached the depot, Gentry called out to the horses and started hauling back on the reins. At the same time he applied the brakes and the coach slowed to just above a walk. It finally rattled to a stop just in front of the depot, where the stage sat there for a second or two as the dust cloud it had generated came rolling by them.

The driver climbed down then and, after patting some of the dust off himself, reached up to open the door. As he opened it, some of the dust rolled inside.

“All right, folks, this here place is the Pajarito stage depot. Since all of you is goin’ on through, don’t none of you be wanderin’ off nowhere so’s that you miss the stage. We’ll be here for about an hour to change the team, take on fresh water, and let you folks grab somethin’ to eat. Mrs. Foster fixes a good ham and ’taters, and if we’re lucky, she’ll have some kind of pie,” Gentry said.

Johnson jumped down first and hurried toward the privies in back. Falcon was next, and he helped both Mrs. Stockdale and Cloud Dancer down.

The depot was one rather large room with a big table in the middle. A counter ran along one side of the room; a few bottles of whiskey sat on a shelf behind the counter.

On the other side of the room was a small store with a few items for sale, mostly handkerchiefs, soap, toothbrushes, things that travelers might need.

A door at the rear of the room opened onto the kitchen, from which rolled the enticing aroma of roast beef, hot bread, and a touch of cinnamon.

A rather stout woman, wearing a dark blue dress and a white apron, stepped out of the kitchen. Her mousy-brown hair was done up in a bun behind her head, though one tendril hung down alongside a face that was covered with sweat. Picking up the hem of her apron, she rubbed her hands.

“Hello, Mrs. Foster,” Johnson said, showing a feeling of proprietorship in that he had made this trip many times and knew her by name.

“Hello, Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Foster replied. She smiled at the others. “Well, you folks look like you could use a good meal,” she said. She pointed toward a door on the back wall. “They’s some washbasins out back. I reckon you’ll be wantin’ to wash off some of the dust. I know how dusty you folks get, ridin’ in a stage, with all the dirt and dust blowin’ in through the winders and all.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Foster,” Mrs. Stockdale said. “Come along, Timmy.”

The other passengers followed Mrs. Stockdale outside, and all made use of the water, soap, and clean towels. Falcon had to admit that he felt considerably more refreshed when he went back inside.

“Oh, that was good,” Mrs. Stockdale said.

“I’ll have your meal out directly,” Mrs. Foster offered.

“A meal does sound good, but something cool to drink sounds even better,” Mrs. Stockdale said.

“I made some tea, my dear,” Mrs. Foster said. “And I’ve kept it cool in the well house.”

“That sounds good.”

“The driver said you had pie,” Timmy said.

“I do indeed, young man,” Mrs. Foster said. “I just made a fresh apple pie this morning and you ...” Mrs. Foster stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Cloud Dancer. “Well, for heaven’s sake, I haven’t seen you in a long time,” she said. “You are Cloud Dancer, aren’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I thought so. Why, you’re a young woman now. Last time I saw you, you were just a girl. The school back East must have agreed with you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cloud Dancer said politely.

“Well, you folks go ahead and take your seats while I put some food on the table. I need to get you folks fed quick as I can, ’cause when it comes time for Mr. Gentry to leave, why, he just ups and do it, whether you’re finished eatin’ or not.”

Cloud Dancer waited until the others were seated before she took her seat. Falcon waited with her.

“Mr. MacCallister, I want to thank you for coming to my defense in the stage,” Cloud Dancer said quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

“But I am confused.”

“Confused? Why are you confused?”

“You are Dlo Binanta.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My people say that you call yourself a bird. You are that man, aren’t you?”

“Call myself a bird?” Falcon replied. Then he remembered. The last time he was down here, during his fight with Naiche, the Apache had referred to him as the man who calls himself a bird.

“Yes, I guess I am that man.”

“Your given name is Falcon. I have been to the white man’s school now, so I know what they mean when my people call you Dlo Binanta. That means the ‘Leader of the Birds.’”

Falcon smiled. “Yes,” he said. “My name is Falcon.”

“That is why I am confused. If you hate Indians, why did you come to my defense?”

“Yaakos Gan, I don’t hate Indians,” he said. “I was married to an Indian. Her name was Marie Gentle Breeze.”

“Where is your wife now?”

“She is dead,” Falcon said. “Killed by renegade Indians.”

“So that is why you killed so many of my people? To avenge the death of your wife?”

“I’ll admit that played a role in it,” Falcon said. “But only a role. The main reason I killed so many Apache was because they were renegades on a killing spree. And killing them was the only way to stop them.”

“Folks, the food is on the table,” Mrs. Foster called to them. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“After you,” Falcon said, holding out his arm in invitation.

“Thank you.”

Cloud Dancer sat at the table, directly across from Timmy and his mother. Falcon sat beside her and seeing her there, the drummer made a point of moving down to the farthest end of the table.

“Mr. Johnson, why are you sitting down there all alone?” Mrs. Foster asked.

“I prefer to sit here, thank you,” Johnson replied in clipped words.

“Well, suit yourself.”

Outside, Gentry was overseeing the changing of the team. Mr. Foster, the depot manager, was leaning back against the fence with him as they watched the hostlers go about their business.

“Hear anything new about Keytano and his bunch?” Gentry asked.

“No, nary a thing,” Foster answered. “As far as I know, there ain’t nothin’ happened since them three prospectors come up dead ’n scalped here couple weeks or so back.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think they’re likely to come down onto the road and attack a stagecoach,” Gentry said. “Still, I don’t mind tellin’ you, from here on to Oro Blanco, the hair will be standin’ up on the back of my neck.”

“The hair on the back of your neck, huh? Tell you what, Gentry. If it was me ’stead of you makin’ this trip, why, it sure wouldn’t be the hair on the back of my neck that I’d be a-worryin’ about,” Foster said, laughing and running his hand across the top of his head.

Gentry took his hat off, and ran his hand through his own hair. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I reckon I see what you mean.”

“Go on in and get yourself somethin’ to eat,” Foster said. “Don’t worry none about the team. I’ll see to it that all the connections is done right.”

“Thanks,” Gentry replied. “I’ll just do that. What do you say, Kerry?” he called to his shotgun guard. “Let’s me’n you go get us somethin’ to eat. I smelled apple pie and I aim to make sure I get me a piece.”

Nodding, Kerry picked up the canvas bag and followed Gentry toward the front of the depot.

When Gentry and Kerry came inside, Kerry was carrying his shotgun in one hand and the canvas bag in the other.

“Oh,” Timmy said. “Does that mean we have to go? Mama, I haven’t had my pie yet.”

“We haven’t either, young fella,” Gentry said. “And we don’t plan to leave until we do, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Timmy smiled. “Good,” he said.

Gentry and Kerry drew up a couple of chairs; then Kerry put the bag down in front of him.

“Eat up, folks,” Gentry said. “We’ll be pullin’ out of here in ...” He looked over at the clock that stood against the wall. “Thirty-two minutes.”