Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 7

  No more than five miles away from where the stagecoach passengers were taking their meal, Fargo Ford and the four men with him waited at the top of Cerro Pass. Fargo walked over to the rock overhang and looked down into the valley, some 3500 feet below.

  “You think we got here afore the stage?” Ponci asked.

  “Yeah,” Fargo said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You see any tracks on the road?”

  “No.”

  “Then we beat the stage.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Now? We wait,” Fargo said. He walked back over to the shade of a rocky ledge, sat down, and pulled his hat over his eyes. “Wake me when you see it,” he said.

  “Fargo?” Dagen said.

  When the outlaw leader didn’t open his eyes, Dagen called him again. “Fargo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a-comin’.”

  Fargo got up, stretched, then walked back over to his earlier vantage point. Far below, just coming off the valley floor and starting up the winding mountain road, was the stage. From this distance it was so tiny that it looked like a toy stage and team he had once seen in a store window.

  “I told you we’d beat it here,” Fargo said. “Now all we have to do is wait for it to get to the turnout. The driver will have to stop there to give the horses a rest and check his brakes before he goes down the other side.”

  “If you ask me, we should’a just took the stage down there,” Dagen said. “’Stead of practically killin’ the horses bringin’ ’em up here. If we have to ride fast, the horses ain’t got nothin’ left in ’em.”

  “Do you see anyone up here that’s goin’ to come after us?” Fargo asked.

  “No.”

  “Then don’t be worryin’ none about havin’ to ride somewhere fast.”

  They waited behind some rocks for about half an hour. Then Ponci got up. “I gotta walk around a bit,” he said. “I’m gettin’ kinks just sittin’ there.”

  “Walk around, but stay back away from the road. Wouldn’t want them to see anyone up here and get spooked,” Fargo warned.

  “You know what I need right now?” Ponci said as he stretched his arms out.

  “What’s that?” Casey asked.

  “I need me a cold piece of pie and a hot piece of ass.”

  Casey laughed. “Well, you might get yourself a cold piece of pie somewhere,” he said. “But you ain’t goin’ to be gettin’ you no hot piece of ass. Leastwise, not soon.”

  “What do you mean, not soon?” Dagen asked, laughing. “What woman would have anything to do with Ponci?”

  “I’ve got me a woman,” Ponci said. “She’s a good woman too.”

  “Hell, the only kind of woman who would have anything to do with you would be a whore,” Casey said. “And anyone can get theirselves a whore if they have money.”

  “Yeah, well, they’s whores and they’s whores,” Ponci said. “And back when I was butcherin’, I had me a special whore.” He looked at Fargo. “She was a real special whore, wouldn’t you say so, Fargo?”

  “Enough talk about whorin’,” Fargo said, holding up his hand. “Quiet, here comes the stage.”

  The five men pulled their guns and waited behind the rocks for the stage to reach the turnout. They could hear the driver shouting to his team, the whip snapping, the harness clanging and creaking, and the stage squeaking as it worked its way laboriously up the hill.

  It arrived a few minutes later, the horses snorting tiredly, straining into the harness.

  “Whoa, hold it up there, team,” the driver shouted, pulling on the reins. The stage rumbled to a stop. “Folks,” he called down. “We gotta let these here animals blow for a bit before we start down the other side, so we goin’ to be here for the better part of an hour. But they’s a real purty view from up here, and they’s a private place over there behind them rocks for you ladies if you’re a’needin’ it. So why’n’t you take a break and stretch your legs a mite?”

  The outlaws, watching from behind a nearby rock outcropping, saw five passengers get out of the stage: two men, two women, and a young boy.

  “Hey, Fargo,” Dagen said, pointing. “Is that tall son of a bitch there who I think he is?”

  “Yeah,” Fargo answered. “That’s the one who killed Pete back in Calabasas.”

  The driver was not wearing a side arm, and was near the lead horses, adjusting a loose harness. The shotgun guard leaned his gun against the front wheel and took several steps away from it to stretch.<
br />
  “Damn, they are making it almost too easy for us,” Fargo said. He raised his pistol. “The rest of you, take out the shotgun guard.”

  “What about the son of a bitch who killed Pete? He’s wearin’ a gun, and we know he can shoot.”

  “He’s mine,” Fargo said, aiming. “Ready? Now!”

  All five men fired at about the same time. Fargo had the satisfaction of seeing a spray of blood come from the top of the head of the tall man standing by the back wheel of the stage.

  Kerry and Falcon went down.

  Hearing the gunshots, and seeing his guard and one of the passengers go down, Gentry ran back from the front of the team, heading for the shotgun that Kerry had leaned against the front wheel.

  “Hold it, driver!” Fargo called, stepping out into the open. “You pick up that scattergun and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  Gentry, realizing that he would never make it to the gun in time, stopped. As he looked toward the robbers, his face registered surprise when he recognized them. These were the same men who had attempted to rob the express office back in Calabasas.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you fellers was in jail back in Calabasas.”

  “They realized they made a mistake, and they let us out,” Fargo said.

  “Yeah, they let us out,” Dagen repeated, and he and the others laughed.

  “I doubt that. Not after you kilt Mr. Snyder like you done.”

  “How we got out don’t matter. What I want you to do is climb up there and throw down that money pouch,” Fargo said with a wave of his gun.

  “We ain’t carryin’ any money,” Gentry said.

  “What do you mean you ain’t carryin’ any money? What do you think all that ruckus was about back in Calabasas this mornin’? You think we was just shootin’ to hear the sound of our guns? We was tryin’ to steal the money shipment.”

  “That’s right, and you kilt the expressman, so they didn’t send the money. They won’t be able to send it till they get another expressman.”