Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  “He’s lyin’, Fargo,” Dagen said. “Look at the son of a bitch sweat.”

  Fargo pointed his gun at the drummer and pulled back the hammer. “Tell me the truth, or I kill another one of your passengers.”

  “I told you, we ain’t carryin’... .”

  “For God’s sake man, give him the money!” the drummer shouted, his voice breaking in terror. Then, to the outlaws, he said, “He’s got the money. I seen the shotgun guard bring a pouch from the express office. It’s up there under the seat right now.”

  “You chicken-shit son of a bitch,” Gentry said to Johnson.

  Fargo nodded, then eased the hammer back down. “Now don’t be too hard on him, driver. He’s what I call bein’ a good citizen. I thank you for your help, friend.” He looked back at the driver. “Get up there and throw that money down.”

  Gentry hesitated, and Fargo pointed his gun at him.

  “Driver, you don’t want me to kill you and leave these folks stranded out here, do you? ’Cause you know damn well this little pipsqueak ain’t goin’ to be able to drive this coach.”

  Glaring at the drummer, Gentry climbed up onto the box and reached under the seat. Again, he hesitated for a moment, then looked at Fargo. A sixth sense, sometimes developed by creatures on the run, told Fargo that the driver was thinking of reaching for a gun.

  “Driver,” Fargo said coolly. “If you come out from under that seat with anything other than a canvas pouch, you will be dead one second later.”

  The driver picked up the pouch and held his hands in the air.

  “That’s better,” Fargo said. “Now, throw the pouch down here.”

  The driver did as instructed.

  “Hey, Fargo,” Ponci said. “I think we ought to take one of these here women with us.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, just seems to me like it might be a good idea,” Ponci said.

  Dagen laughed. “Looks like ole Ponci’s wantin’ to do a little sportin’.”

  “Yeah, but he might be right,” Fargo said, stroking his cheek as he looked at the two women. “Having us a hostage along to keep as insurance might not be a bad idea.”

  Protectively, Jane Stockdale pulled Timmy closer to her.

  “You better not take my mama!” Timmy said, not out of fear, but defiance.

  Fargo chuckled. “He’s a feisty little shit, ain’t he? Get the hell out of the way, boy,” he said, shoving Timmy down. “Come here, you! You’re goin’ with us.” Fargo grabbed Jane.

  “No!” Cloud Dancer said quickly, stepping toward the men. “Let her go! Take me instead.”

  Fargo looked at Cloud Dancer for a moment. “You serious? You’re volunteerin’ to go in her place?”

  “Yes.”

  Fargo shoved Jane back roughly. “All right,” he said, pointing at Cloud Dancer. “As far as I’m concerned, one of you’s as good as the other. Come on.”

  “Son of a bitch! Look at her, Fargo, that’s a Indian woman!” Casey said.

  “So she is,” Fargo said.

  “Well, what kind of a hostage is a Indian goin’ to make? I mean, there ain’t goin’ to be anybody who gives a shit what happens to her,” Casey said.

  “We’ll take her,” Fargo insisted. “Let’s go.”

  “Where at is the girl goin’ to ride? We didn’t bring a spare horse,” Monroe asked.

  “She can ride with me,” Ponci said. He rubbed himself pointedly. “Oh, yeah. She can sit right in front of me.” He walked over to Cloud Dancer and grabbed her by the arm. “Come on, girlie. You are goin’ to like ridin’ with ole Ponci.”

  “Dagen, get the horses,” Fargo said.

  As Dagen went to get the horses, Fargo climbed up to the front of the stage and reached down under the seat. He pulled out a Winchester rifle, then turned and smiled down at the driver.

  “This here what you were goin’ after while ago?” he asked.

  With the Winchester in hand, he jumped back down, then picked up the shotgun that was leaning against the front wheel. By that time, Dagen had returned with the horses.

  “You boys get mounted now,” Fargo said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Get up there, girlie,” Ponci said, patting the saddle. “Course, you bein’ Indian ’n all, you prob’ly ain’t never rode in no saddle before.”

  “Wait a minute, Ponci. Better let me hold the reins once she’s mounted, else she might try’n run off,” Casey said.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Ponci said. He handed the reins over to Casey, then looked back at Cloud Dancer, who, having made no effort to mount, was still standing there.

  “I told you to get mounted, girlie,” he said, growling at her.

  “I can’t ride straddle with this dress,” Cloud Dancer said.

  “Well, hell, if that’s all it is, I can take care of that,” Ponci said, giggling. Pulling his knife, he cut a slice down through the front of her dress and petticoat, then did the same thing to the rear.

  “Now you can ride,” he said. “Get up there.”

  Cloud Dancer put her foot in the stirrup, then swung easily, gracefully, onto the back of the horse. The slit in her dress allowed it to fall to either side of the horse.

  “Scoot up to the front,” Ponci said, reaching up to grab the saddle horn. He swung into the saddle behind her. “Oh, yeah,” he said when he was in the saddle. “This’ll do fine. Yes, sir, this’ll do just real fine.”

  “Let’s go,” Fargo said when all were mounted.

  As the riders started away, Cloud Dancer glanced back toward Jane. Jane saw the look of fear in the young Indian woman’s eyes, and she felt guilty that she had allowed Cloud Dancer to take her place. But she also knew that she had a son to look out for and, involuntarily, she put her arm around Timmy and pulled him to her.

  After just a few feet, the horses broke into a gallop and started down the other side of the pass. Within moments, they were out of sight.

  “That there is about the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Gentry said.

  “Yes, it was,” Jane said in a quiet, plaintive voice.

  Realizing that she might be feeling guilty, Gentry looked at her.

  “Miz Stockdale, don’t you go be holdin’ on to no guilt feelin’s or nothin’,” Gentry said. “She done what was right, and you done what was right.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

  Gentry glared at Johnson. “And you, you lily-livered son of a bitch. You had to go ’n tell them about the pouch, didn’t you?”

  “I had no choice, I had to tell them. They would have killed me if I hadn’t told them,” Johnson said. He pointed at Gentry. “And you. You’re supposed to look after your passengers, but you would have let them do it, wouldn’t you?”

  “We’ll never know now, will we?” Gentry said. “’Tell you what, if you’re all that easy to bluff, why, I’d sure love to get you in a poker game.”

  “You weren’t bluffing. You were serious. You would’ve let him shoot me,” Johnson insisted, pouting his displeasure.

  “Yeah, well, maybe I would have and maybe I wouldn’t. But there ain’t no sense in arguin’ over it now. Help me get these two bodies up on top of the coach so we can get ’em into town.”

  “Why don’t we just leave them here, and send someone back for them?” Johnson suggested.

  “Send who back?” Gentry asked. “I would be the one who came back for them. We’re not going to leave them out here. Now are you going to help me, or do I have to do it myself ?”

  “How are we going to get these two bodies all the way on top?”

  “I’ll climb up onto the seat and you get them up this far. I’ll put ’em on top.”

  “Are we going back to Pajarito?” Jane asked.

  Timmy walked back to have a closer look at Falcon MacCallister, who was lying facedown by the rear wheel of the stage.

  “Timmy, get back here,” Jane said.

  “No, we’re closer to Oro Blanco now. I
figure we may as well go on through,” the driver said, answering Jane’s earlier question.

  “Hey,” Timmy said. “Mama, come look! Mr. MacCallister ain’t dead!”

  “Isn’t,” his mother corrected automatically.

  “He isn’t dead,” Timmy said.

  Falcon groaned once, then got up on his hands and knees. He stayed that way for a moment, then stood the rest of the way up. Doing so made him dizzy, however, and he fell back toward the coach, and Jane, who had come over at Timmy’s bidding, had to reach out to steady him or he would have fallen down.

  “Whoa, take it easy,” she said solicitously.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking her hand for stability.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. What happened?” Falcon asked, confused by what he was seeing and hearing.

  “You’ve been shot.”

  “Shot?”

  Falcon put his hand to his head and felt a ridge running from front to back, just above his right ear. When he pulled his hand back, he saw blood on the tips of his fingers.

  He looked at the blood for a second; then he saw the shotgun guard lying belly-down in the dirt.

  “I see that I wasn’t the only one,” he said. “Road agents?”

  Gentry nodded his head. “We was robbed,” he said. “When we stopped to rest the horses, they was hidin’ behind them rocks over there, and they opened up on us. They kilt Kerry right off the bat, and we thought they kilt you. They shot you in the head.”

  Falcon chuckled. “Yeah, well, that’s where they made their mistake. Folks always did say I was hardheaded.” He looked around. “Where’s Yaakos Gan?”

  “Who?” Gentry asked.

  “That’s the Indian girl’s real name,” Timmy said. “Yaakos Gan.”

  “Oh. They took her with them,” Gentry said.

  “They took her? Why?”

  “They were going to take me,” Jane said. “But that dear, sweet girl volunteered to go in my place. So they took her.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why they took her,” MacCallister said.

  “Fargo Ford said somethin’ about usin’ her as a hostage,” Gentry suggested.

  “Fargo Ford? Wait a minute, isn’t he the one that tried to rob the express office back in Calabasas?”

  “That’s him, all right.”

  “How did he get out here? I thought he and his men were in jail.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too, and I asked him about it. He said the sheriff let ’em go, but I don’t believe that for a moment. I believe they escaped.”

  “I believe you are right.”

  “We need to get going if we are going to make Oro Blanco by dark. Come on, Johnson, give me a hand with Kerry.”

  Gentry climbed up onto the driver’s seat, then held his hands down while the drummer tried, unsuccessfully, to pick up Kerry.

  “Here,” Falcon said, pushing Johnson aside. “I’ll do it.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, be careful. You’ve got a bad head injury,” Jane said.

  “Yes, well, it’s my head, not my hands,” Falcon said. He picked up Kerry and handed him up to Gentry, who was able to pull him the rest of the way up, then position him on top of the coach.

  “Get on board, folks,” Gentry said. “The sooner we get going, the better.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Ponci held the Indian girl on the front of his saddle, pulling her back hard against him. As he did so, he felt himself growing aroused, and he reached a hand up to squeeze her breast.

  “Please don’t,” Cloud Dancer said.

  “Please don’t,” Ponci mimicked. He grabbed her breast again, and this time she slapped it away.

  “Please don’t,” she said again.

  “Ponci, leave her the hell alone,” Fargo said. “We ain’t got time for any of your foolishness.”

  Slowly, so slowly that Cloud Dancer didn’t realize that he was doing it, Ponci stuck his hand in the slit of her dress. Going in under the dress, he reached up and put his hand on her inner thigh.

  “Now, don’t tell me you don’t like that, girlie,” Ponci said.

  Cloud Dancer said nothing, nor did she try and slap his hand away.

  “Uh-huh, I thought you might like that. All you Indian women is nothin’ but whores anway,” he said.

  Cloud Dancer reached down and gently rubbed Ponci’s arm. She leaned back into him.

  “Damn!” Ponci said. “You little whore, you really are a’likin’ this, ain’t you?”

  Suddenly, Cloud Dancer reached back and grabbed Ponci’s knife. Pulling it, she stabbed him in the leg, just below the knee.

  “Oww!” Ponci shouted. “You bitch!” Ponci pushed her off his horse.

  “What the hell is going on back there?” Fargo asked, twisting around in his saddle.

  Cloud Dancer was very quick and athletic, so, instead of landing on her back, she landed on her feet with his knife still in her hands. She made another swipe at him, making a big slice in the calf of his leg.

  “Ahhhh!” Ponci shouted with pain. Pulling his pistol, he shot her. His bullet hit her in the forehead, and she fell back, dead before she even hit the ground.

  “Son of a bitch!” Fargo shouted. “You shot her!”

  “Hell, yes, I shot her! This Indian whore damn near cut my leg off,” Ponci replied, his voice strained with pain. “If you want to know why I done it, that’s why I done it.”

  Fargo rode back to Ponci and looked down at the Indian girl. She was lying on her back alongside the road, a black hole in her forehead, blood and brain matter on the ground at the back of her head.

  “Shit, Ponci, you killed her,” Fargo said angrily. “Damn it, what’d you do that for?”

  “Why did I do it? I did it because she cut me. She cut me bad.”

  Fargo looked toward Ponci and saw blood streaming down his leg.

  “Yeah, I’d say she did cut you,” he said. “If you didn’t keep that knife honed like a razor all the time, maybe it wouldn’t of been so bad.”

  “No sense in having a knife if you don’t keep it sharp,” Ponci said.

  “Yeah, well, maybe that’s true when you’re butcherin’ cows and pigs, but you ain’t butcherin’ anymore,” Fargo said.

  “Damn, it hurts,” Ponci said, his voice raw and edgy with pain.

  Fargo looked back toward Cloud Dancer and sighed. “She was supposed to be our hostage,” he said. “You can’t have a hostage if she’s dead.”

  “Yeah, and besides that, now we can’t have no fun with her,” Dagen said. “I hope you’re happy, Ponci. You dumb son of a bitch, you’ve done screwed it up for everyone now.”

  “Fargo, we better get a bandage on ole Ponci there or he’s goin’ to bleed to death,” Monroe said, pointing to Ponci’s leg. The bottom of his trousers was soaked red with blood.

  “You want to patch ’im up, you do it,” Fargo said with a scowl. “If you ask me, the son of a bitch got just what he deserved. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t feelin’ her up or something.”

  “What are we goin’ to patch him up with?” Monroe asked.

  Dagen laughed. “Pull the dress off the Indian woman,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Why not? We need a bandage, don’t we? And we ain’t goin’ to have no fun with her, so we might’s well see what she looks like nekkid.”

  “Dagen, you are one crazy son of a bitch,” Monroe said.

  “You don’t have to look none if you don’t want to,” Dagen said, starting for Cloud Dancer’s body.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t goin’ to look,” Monroe said. “I just said you was one crazy son of a bitch for thinkin’ about it, that’s all.”

  Dagen tore the dress off, then handed it to Monroe. “Tear strips out of this,” he said.

  Ponci weaved back and forth in the saddle a couple of times, then fell, raising a little puff of dust as he hit the ground.

  “Son of a bitch, he fell off,” Dagen said.

 
“Is he dead?” Fargo asked.

  Dagen leaned over for a closer look. “No, I think he’s just passed out.”

  “Now what?” Monroe asked.

  “Son of a bitch,” Fargo said disgustedly. He sighed. “Shit,” he swore. “All right, get the son of a bitch bandaged up and get him back into the saddle. And be quick about it. We got to keep movin’.”

  Dagen pulled Cloud Dancer’s petticoat, camisole, and underdrawers off while Monroe wrapped strips around Ponci’s wounds. Ponci came to while Monroe was working on him. He groaned.

  “Ponci, you son of a bitch,” Dagen said as he stared at the Indian girl’s nude body. “Lookit them nice little titties. Damn me if she ain’t better-lookin’ than any whore I’ve ever seen.”

  “Get Ponci back on his horse and let’s get out of here, you dumb bastards,” Fargo said.

  The stagecoach was under way again. Timmy and Johnson were sitting in the front seat; Falcon was in the backseat. Jane Stockdale was sitting beside Falcon.

  “Let me get a closer look at your wound,” she said.

  Obligingly, Falcon lifted his hat and lowered his head so she could examine it more closely. After a moment of study, she lifted the hem of her skirt, then tore a strip off her petticoat.

  “I know this isn’t very ladylike,” she said. “But what has to be done has to be done.”

  She took a dipper of water from the water barrel, then poured it over the piece of petticoat. Then, using the wet cloth, she gently cleaned the wound on Falcon’s head.

  “It doesn’t look as bad now as I thought it did at first,” she said as she worked. “The crease wasn’t very deep, and there’s not much blood. Nevertheless, I think you should hold this against your wound for a while, just to keep out some of the dust that’s coming in through the stage windows.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon said, holding the compress to his head. “You did that well.”

  “I was raised on a ranch, Mr. MacCallister,” Jane said. “Nursing becomes a necessary skill.”

  Holding the cloth to his wound as she suggested, Falcon leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes,” Falcon replied. “I’m a little nauseous, but other than that, I’m fine.”