Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  “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 ca
n 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.

  CHAPTER 11

  The fire in the middle of the village, fed by mesquite wood, burned brightly. Escaping sparks rode the rising column of heat high into the night sky, mixing their golden glow with the soft blue wink of the stars.

  The mourning period was over, and true to Keytano’s referring to Falcon as a “guest,” he was invited into Keytano’s wickiup and treated well by Keytano’s wife, who provided him with food and drink. Even so, he still had the distinct impression that he would not be able to leave the village without Keytano’s approval.

  Falcon didn’t know how much longer he would be required to stay, but he decided that he would remain a while longer just to see what was going to happen. If things took a turn for the worse, he would leave, with or without Keytano’s permission.

  “Come,” Keytano said right after Falcon finished eating the rather large and surprisingly good meal he had been served. “The council meets now.”

  Falcon nodded, then stood up and followed Keytano from the wickiup.

  The warriors were sitting in concentric circles around the fire, with the oldest, and those who had established themselves as leaders, in the first circle. As the circles grew more distant from the fire, their occupants were younger and held positions of less importance in the social structure of the village. The women were in the outermost circles.