Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. Too bad things like this get talked about,” Sheriff Ferrell said. He pointed to the dead man and the weeping woman. By now a few others had come up to aid and comfort Mrs. Snyder. “If I had my way, nobody but the express company would have even known when money was being shipped.”

  “Is that his wife?” Falcon asked. He pointed to an attractive woman who was on her knees beside the body.

  “Yes. Her name is Emma Snyder. You say you met George last night?”

  “I did. He was down at the saloon, and I got into a friendly game of cards with him and some of the other fellas from town.”

  “Well, it’s too bad you just met him. You never got to know what a good man he is, or was,” Sheriff Ferrell said. He sighed. “I guess Fargo Ford thought that by hitting the express office early in the morning, nobody would be around. And ordinarily, he would’ve been right, but it just so happened that George had invited me ’n my deputies over for breakfast this mornin’, so we just happened to be here when Fargo and his gang showed up. The Snyders live there in the back, you see.”

  “You called the leader of the outlaws Fargo?”

  “Yes, Fargo Ford,” Sheriff Ferrell said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  Falcon shook his head. “’Fraid not.”

  “Oh. Well, let me tell you, he’s a real bad one all right. He’s been nothing but trouble ever since he come to this part of the country.”

  A short, balding man with a long beard came walking over from the stage depot, which was right next door.

  “Sheriff, if all the excitement is over, I’d like to bring the team around now’n get ’em hitched up,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” Sheriff Ferrell replied. “There’s no shootin’ now.”

  As the short man returned to the depot, the sheriff resumed his conversation with Falcon.

  “That was John Scanton. He’s the stage depot manager, about to hook up the team for the seven o’clock stage. Could I buy you a cup of coffee, Mr. MacCallister?”

  “Thank you, no,” Falcon replied. He nodded back toward the Railroad Hotel. “I just had breakfast. And as a matter of fact”—he pointed toward the stage, which sat, without a team, in front of the depot—“I’m planning on taking that very stage out of here.”

  “Oh, well, then, don’t let me hold you up.” Sheriff Ferrell said. Again, he stuck out his hand. “Thanks a lot for the help this morning. And if you’re ever back in town, I’d like to buy you a drink. Hell, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  Falcon chuckled. “I’ll take you up on that, Sheriff,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I should be back through here in a few days. I’m just heading over to Oro Blanco to check on a mine I recently bought.”

  “You just bought a mine over at Oro Blanco? Wait a minute, the Rey de Plata mine?”

  “Yes, the Silver King. You know it?”

  Sheriff Ferrell nodded. “I know it, all right. It belongs to Doc Holliday, or belonged, I guess I should say, seeing as you bought it.”

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Ferrell snapped his fingers. “Son of a bitch, I know who you are now. You were friends with Doc Holliday and the Earps, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You also ran with Mickey Free and cleaned up some of the renegade Indians who were raising hell around here a while back.”

  “I did.”

  Sheriff Ferrell stuck out his hand. “Well, Mr. MacCallister, I am pleased to meet you. Especially now.”

  “Now?”

  “Maybe you haven’t heard about Keytano.”

  “Keytano? Yes, Keytano, I think I know that name. He’s Naiche’s brother, isn’t he?”

  “He’s Naiche’s cousin. He’s also an Apache chief, about the only one left around here now,” Farrell said. “His band owns several thousand acres in between the Cababi and Quigotoa Mountains.”

  “Is he giving you trouble?”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s Keytano himself. More’n likely it’s just some renegades that’s goin’ out on their own. But whoever it is, they killed three prospectors not long ago. Of course, the prospectors was on Indian land, but the real thing has the Indians all up in arms is the fact that some settlers cut off their supply of water and their cattle are dying.”

  “That doesn’t sound very smart, cutting off the water supply for a bunch of warlike Indians. I can’t say that I would blame them,” Falcon said. “Isn’t there anything the government can do to get their water back?”

  “The Indian agent has taken it to the territorial governor, asking him to demand that the settlers take down the dam and let the water flow again, but the settlers have gone to court claiming that the water is on their land, to use as they see fit.”

  “I see what you mean about trouble brewing,” Falcon said.

  “Yes, well, so far, except for some renegades, probably led by a hothead named Chetopa, Keytano has managed to keep most of his people out of trouble. But the whole thing is a tinderbox, and it wouldn’t take much to set off another Indian war down here.”

  Falcon shook his head. “I’ve had enough Indian war,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to get involved in another one.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing,” Sheriff Ferrell said. “That mine you bought from Doc Holliday? It’s right on the edge of Keytano’s land, so, like it or not, you’re just likely to find yourself right in the middle of it.”

  “Mister?” someone called and, looking back, Falcon saw the waiter from the dining room of the Railroad Hotel coming toward him. The waiter was carrying Falcon’s canvas grip.

  “Oh, damn, I nearly forgot that. Thanks,” Falcon said, reaching for it.

  “My pleasure,” the waiter said. “I, uh, brought the check too.”

  Falcon chuckled.

  “Oh, yes, I did run out of there in a hurry, didn’t I? Here you go.” He handed the waiter a dollar.

  “Breakfast was only fifteen cents, mister, and I didn’t bring no change with me.”

  “You keep the change,” Falcon said.

  A broad smile spread across the waiter’s face. “Gee, mister, thanks!” he said. “Thanks a lot!”

  By now, over at the depot, the team was connected to the coach and the passengers’ luggage was being put into the boot in the back.

  “Well, Sheriff, it looks like they are getting ready to leave, so I guess I’d better wander over there and get aboard,” Falcon said.

  “Good luck to you, Mr. MacCallister. And thanks again for your help,” Sheriff Ferrell said.

  “You’re welcome,” Falcon called back as he walked away.

  As Falcon headed toward the stage, he crossed paths with a tall, dark-haired, bearded man who was going in the opposite direction. The bearded man was carrying a shotgun.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Sheriff,” the man with the shotgun said, nodding his greeting as he reached the front of the express office.

  “Hello, Kerry,” the sheriff replied. “Could’ve used you and that Greener a bit earlier.”

  “Looks to me like you handled it pretty good,” Kerry said. “You kept them outlaws from gettin’ the money shipment, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, we did that. But I reckon Mrs. Snyder’s takin’ scarce comfort about now.”

  Kerry looked toward Mrs. Snyder, who was still sitting beside her dead husband, weeping quietly.

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. This don’t hardly seem like the proper time an’ all, but we got orders to get the money on to Oro Blanco. I hate to be botherin’ her right now, but ...”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Snyder will understand,” Sheriff Ferrell said, interrupting Kerry in mid-sentence. “Come on, we’ll go see her.”

  Kerry stepped up onto the front porch and stood there for a moment, looking down at George Snyder. He’d known George for a couple of years now, ever since he took on the job as shotgun guard for the stage line. He liked George, who had a really good sense of humor and always had some funny story to tell.

  Even now
, there appeared to be almost a smile on his face, as if he was laughing at something from the other side.

  Kerry touched the brim of his hat in a salute. “Ma’am,” he said. “I’m real sorry about your loss, and I’m sorry to bring up business now. But the driver sent me over to pick up a delivery.”

  Mrs. Snyder nodded, and wiped a tear from her eye. “Yes,” she said. “I understand that it has to go, and George got it ready earlier this morning. If you’ll come on inside, I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Kerry replied, following her inside.

  Mrs. Snyder opened a safe, then took out a canvas bag and set it on the counter. The bag was sealed shut with a padlock, and Mrs. Snyder opened it. “There’s fifteen thousand dollars here,” she said. “Would you count it, then sign here, please?” she asked.

  Sheriff Ferrell had come inside to watch.

  “Yep, fifteen thousand, just like you said,” Kerry said after he finished counting.

  “Sheriff, would you sign here as a witness to the transfer, please?” Mrs. Snyder asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m real sorry about your husband,” Kerry said again as the sheriff signed. “But I’m glad them yahoos is all in jail. I wouldn’t want to run across them out on the road.”

  “Well, you aren’t going to have to worry about them,” the sheriff said. “The only place those people are going from here is hell.”

  As Kerry left the office, he met the undertaker. Significantly, the man Falcon had shot was still lying in the street, surrounded now by a handful of the morbidly curious. The undertaker and his assistant had gone first to see to George Snyder’s body.

  The undertaker, who was dressed in a black swallowtail coat and a tall black hat, touched the brim of his hat with a white-gloved hand.

  “You have my sympathy in your bereavement, Mrs. Snyder,” he said with professional somberness.

  At the stage depot, there were four other people besides Falcon who were waiting to board the stage. One of the passengers was an attractive woman with copper hair. She was accompanied by her ten-year-old son. The little boy had fire-red hair and a face that was covered with freckles.

  The only other male passenger was short, overweight, and had a round, puffy face. He looked to be in his early forties.

  The last passenger was a very pretty young woman with black hair, deep brown eyes, and a smooth, golden complexion. Seeing her made Falcon catch his breath for a moment, because she reminded him so much of his own late wife, Marie Gentle Stream.

  A second look confirmed that, like his wife, the young woman passenger was actually Indian. She was dressed as a white woman, though, wearing a calico dress of yellow with a pattern of tiny red flowers and green leaves.

  The driver stuck his head into the waiting room.

  “Folks, my name is Gentry. I’ll be your driver today. We’ve got your luggage all stowed and the team hitched up. If you’ll climb aboard, we’ll get under way.”

  The five passengers went outside to the stage. Falcon glanced first toward the front of the express office, then out into the street. He was glad to see that both bodies had now been moved.

  The short, fat man opened the door for the young mother, and graciously allowed her and her son to get into the coach first. When the young Indian woman started to board as well, however, the man stepped in front of her.

  “Since when have they started letting Indians ride on the stage with white people?” he asked under his breath.

  Falcon resisted the urge to reach up and jerk him back down. Instead, he removed his hat and smiled at the young Indian woman.

  “After you, miss,” he said politely.

  She smiled shyly back at him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The seats inside the coach faced each other. They were quite wide, wide enough, in fact, to seat four across. The short fat man sat on the front seat, with the young mother and her son. Falcon and the Indian girl sat on the rear seat, facing forward.

  Smiling broadly, the short fat man stuck his hand out toward Falcon.

  “Arnold Johnson is my name and selling harness is my game,” he said. “I’m what they call a drummer.”

  Falcon hesitated for a second, then took Johnson’s hand. “MacCallister,” he said. “Falcon MacCallister.”

  Falcon heard the Indian girl inhale sharply, and he sensed that she’d tightened up beside him.

  “What brings you to our fair part of the country, Mr. MacCallister?” Johnson asked.

  “Business,” MacCallister said.

  “Will you be staying long?”

  “No.”

  Falcon’s truncated answers finally convinced Johnson that he wasn’t looking for conversation. Johnson leaned back in his seat, then took a collapsible fan from his pocket and began fanning himself. “Whew, I’ll be glad when we get under way, so we get a little air. It’s very hot in here.”

  “Oh, how clever,” the young mother said, seeing the fan.

  Proudly, the drummer turned the fan toward her so she could see.

  THURMAN LEATHER GOODS it said on the fan.

  “My company puts these out,” he said. “I do a lot of traveling by stagecoach selling my goods, you see. So I learned a long time ago to always carry a fan with me.”

  “Are you folks all settled in down there?” the driver called from his seat up front and on top.

  “We’re ready,” Johnson called back.

  “Yeeehah!” the driver shouted; then he whistled, and snapped the whip over the top of the team. The report of the whip was as loud as a gunshot, and the team started forward, putting the stage into motion with a jerk.

  The stage rolled through town with little rooster tails of dust coming from all four wheels. As they passed through the town, Falcon looked through the window. It was small, but typical of the hundreds of Western towns he had visited over his lifetime, the only difference being that, instead of the false-fronted whipsawed lumber buildings he was more used to, these buildings were adobe, or mud-brick.

  It was still early morning, so many of the businesses were not yet open. A man with an apron was sweeping the porch in front of the general store. A dog ran off the porch and followed the coach through town, barking at the spinning wheels.

  When they passed the blacksmith shop, Falcon saw the smithy building his fire. The last building they passed was the livery barn, and a young boy of no more than fourteen was pitching hay into the feeding troughs. After that, they were out of town and rolling through the desert, which was pocked with hundreds of stately looking saguaro cactuses.

  “Are you a Indian?” the little boy asked the young woman who was sitting beside Falcon.

  “Timmy!” the mother said sharply.

  “It’s all right,” the young Indian woman answered pleasantly. “Yes, I am an Indian.”

  “You don’t look like one,” Timmy said. “I mean, you’re so pretty and all.”

  “Well, thank you,” the Indian girl said with a lilting laugh. “Does that mean you’ve never seen a pretty Indian girl?”

  “Oh!” Timmy said, putting his hand to his mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you don’t look like a Indian because of your clothes.”

  The Indian woman smiled. “I know what you meant,” she said. “I was just teasing you. I’ve been wearing these kind of clothes for the last two years while I was back East, enrolled in school.”

  “I’ll bet that’s why you speak English so good too,” Timmy said.

  “Well,” the Indian woman said.

  “Well what?”

  “That’s why I speak English so well.” She laughed. “Excuse me for correcting you, but I learned to be a teacher while I was back East, so I’m just practicing.”

  “White man’s clothes, white man’s language,” Johnson said sneeringly. “But it’s like they say, you put a mule in horse harness ... you still got a mule.” He laughed at his comment.

  “Sir, have I done something to of
fend you?” the Indian woman asked.

  “You are Apache, aren’t you?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You are Apache, and you ask if you have done something to offend me? I’m offended just by having to ride in the same coach with your kind.”

  “Well, hell, Mr. Johnson, if you don’t want to ride in the coach with her, I can take care of that,” Falcon said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You say you don’t like riding in the coach with an Indian?”

  “I do not.”

  Falcon opened the door. “Then why don’t you just get out?” he asked.

  “What?”

  Falcon reached across the stage, grabbed the drummer by his collar, jerked him off his seat, then pushed him through the open door.

  “Hey!” the man shouted as he fell from the stage.

  “Oh, my!” Timmy’s mother said, putting her hand over her mouth.

  Timmy laughed.

  From outside, they could hear Johnson shouting. “Stop the stage, stop the stage!”

  Either the driver or the shotgun guard heard him, because the driver started shouting at the team.

  “Whoa! Whoa there!” he called.

  The stage rolled to a stop.

  A few seconds later, Johnson appeared alongside the coach, covered with dust and breathing heavily from the run, but otherwise none the worse for his ordeal.

  “What the hell happened?” the driver asked. “How did you fall out of the coach?”

  The drummer pointed toward Falcon with an angry expression on his face. Falcon looked back at him. Falcon’s face was as devoid of expression as if the two were strangers in a casual encounter on the street.

  “I ... I,” the drummer started, then he sighed. “I don’t know what made me fall out. I must’ve leaned against the door, I guess.”

  “Well, hell, Johnson, you’ve ridden my stage enough times to know better than that. Be more careful from now on,” the driver said. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today. I can’t be stopping every mile or so just to be picking you up.”

  “I’ll ... be more careful,” the drummer said. He looked pleadingly at Falcon, who, without a word or a change of expression, opened the door.