Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  “Nausea is normal for head wounds, ” Jane explained. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with it.”

  “Whoa! Whoa, there!” they heard the driver call from atop the coach. The stage came to a stop.

  “Now what?” Johnson asked irritably. “Will this accursed stage trip ever be completed?”

  “I wonder why we are stopping,” Jane said.

  Falcon put the compress down and drew his pistol. “I don’t know,” he said. He cocked his pistol. “But I don’t intend to be caught by surprise this time.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, you might want to see this,” the driver called down. “I think the rest of you should stay in the coach.”

  With his cocked pistol in hand, Falcon stepped down from the coach, then moved up to the front.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Falcon was standing at the right front of the coach. The driver pointed over to the left side of the road. “It’s over there,” he said.

  Looking in the direction the driver pointed, Falcon saw some yellow cloth on the ground.

  “Don’t that look like the dress that Indian girl was wearin’?” Gentry asked.

  “Yes,” Falcon said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought when I seen it. So the question is, what do you reckon it’s doin’ there on the ground?”

  With his gun still at the ready, Falcon walked over for a closer look at the dress. That was when he saw the other items of clothing.

  And then he saw Cloud Dancer.

  The young Indian woman was lying on her back, totally naked. The bullet hole in her forehead was round and black.

  Shaking his head slowly, Falcon put his gun back in his holster and returned to the stage. He reached out and grabbed the front of the wheel, then looked up at the driver.

  “She’s over there,” he said quietly.

  “Is she ...”

  Falcon began nodding before the driver could finish his question. “Yes, she’s dead.”

  “Damn.”

  “She’s also naked.”

  “What’s that you say? She’s nekkid?”

  Falcon nodded again.

  “Why, them sorry sons of bitches,” the driver swore angrily. “It ain’t bad enough they took the girl, and it ain’t bad enough that they kilt her. They had to do this to her. So, what do we do now?”

  “We can’t leave her out here,” Falcon said.

  “No, I don’t reckon we can.”

  Falcon stepped back to the coach window.

  “What is it?” Johnson asked, still irritated by the unscheduled stop. “What is so important that we can’t continue our journey?”

  Falcon ignored Johnson’s question. Instead, he looked directly at Jane.

  “Mrs. Stockdale, I wonder if you would step out here for a moment?” he said.

  “Yes, of course,” Jane Stockdale said, stepping down. She looked at Falcon and the driver with a questioning expression on her face.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Johnson asked, even more irritated now because he got no reply to his earlier question. He stepped out of the coach just behind Jane.

  “Mrs. Stockdale, I’m going to ask you to do something,” Falcon said. “Something that’s not going to be easy or pleasant, and if you don’t want to do it I’ll understand, and I’ll take care of it myself. But I think what needs to be done should be done by a woman.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jane said without hesitation.

  “You haven’t heard what I want you to do.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If you want me to do it, then I know it must be something important. I’ll do it,” she said.

  Falcon pointed toward the side of the road.

  “You’ll find the young Indian woman over there, in that ditch,” he said.

  “Is she ...”

  “She’s dead.”

  Jane put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my! The poor thing.”

  “She’s also naked,” Falcon added.

  “She’s naked?” Johnson asked, looking toward the side of the road. “You don’t say.” He took a couple of steps toward the direction indicated by Falcon.

  “Hold it right there, Johnson,” Falcon said.

  “I was just going to ...”

  “You are just going to do nothing,” Falcon said. Then, turning back to Jane, he said, “You can understand that I don’t want to take her body into town like this. I could dress her, but I think it would be more respectful if a woman put her clothes back on her.”

  “Yes, I think you are right,” Jane said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jane walked across the road, stopped, then gasped visibly as she looked down into the ditch. Gathering her resolve, she pulled her shoulders back, leaned over to pick up the dress from the road, then climbed down into the ravine. For the next few minutes, Jane couldn’t be seen, shielded as she was by the berm along the edge of the ravine.

  “You think we ought to let Mrs. Stockdale be down there all by herself ?” Johnson asked. “Shouldn’t one of us be there with her?”

  “Why?” Falcon asked.

  “Why? Well, just to, uh, look out for her.”

  “You are volunteering, are you?”

  “Well, I would do it.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Falcon said.

  “Do you ... do you think those men had their way with her?” Johnson asked. “With the young Indian girl, I mean.”

  “Had their way with her?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes, you know. What I mean is, do you think maybe they raped her?”

  There seemed to be a little more than idle curiosity in Johnson’s question. Falcon thought he saw a little red glint way in the bottom of the drummer’s beady little eyes, and he turned away in disgust, for fear he would backhand the son of a bitch.

  After a few minutes, Jane returned to the stage. She put her hand on the side of the coach and stood there for a moment with her eyes closed. Falcon saw tears sliding down her cheeks.

  Falcon took a scoop of water from the barrel and handed it to her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Jane nodded as she received the dipper. She drank the water, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “That poor girl,” she said. “She was so sweet and innocent, so nice to Timmy.”

  Falcon took the dipper back from her and returned it to the water barrel.

  “Thank you for doing this,” he said. “I know it was hard on you.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, I know you was wounded, but do you feel up to helping me get her back here?” Gentry asked.

  “I’ll help,” Johnson said.

  “No, you won’t,” Falcon said sharply, pointing at Johnson. “If you so much as touch her, I’ll kick you from here to Sunday.”

  “Now, what was that all about?” Johnson asked as Falcon and the driver started toward the dead girl.

  “Mr. Johnson, have you always been this insensitive? Or did you have to study to attain this level?” Jane asked.

  When the five men rode into Oro Blanco, nobody paid any attention to them at first. Then a few noticed a bright yellow piece of calico wrapped around one of the riders’ legs. A couple of them laughed at the incongruous sight, but then another noticed that the calico was stained with blood.

  The riders stopped in front of the saloon.

  “Fargo, I need a doctor,” Ponci said. “This leg is hurtin’ somethin’ fierce.”

  “Ahh, you’ll feel better once you’ve tossed a few drinks of whiskey down your gullet,” Fargo said. “Come on, boys, let’s go in and celebrate.” Fargo swung down from his horse and tied it off at the hitching rail.

  “Fargo, don’t you think we ought to go on a little farther before we stop?” Dagen asked. “That stagecoach ain’t that far behind us.”

  “What the hell for?” Fargo asked. “It’ll be four more hours before the stage gets here, if it comes here at all. Like as not, he turned around and went back to Pajarito.”

  “I’d just feel better
if we would divide the money up now and go our way,” Dagen said. He rubbed his hands together. “I got me some big plans for my share.”

  “We’ll divide up the money when I say we’ll divide up the money,” Fargo replied. “Now, I say we’re goin’ to have us somethin’ to drink and somethin’ to eat. We ain’t eaten this live-long day and I’m hungry.”

  “Yeah,” Monroe said. “I’m for that. Let’s get somethin’ to eat and drink.”

  By now everyone had dismounted but Ponci.

  “What the hell, Ponci? You plannin’ on just sittin’ there on your horse the live-long day? Or are you comin’ in with the rest of us?” Fargo asked.

  “I can’t get down from my horse,” Ponci replied weakly.

  “Well, if that ain’t the shits. All right, a couple of you help him down.”

  Casey and Monroe helped Ponci down. When the five men went into the saloon, Ponci managed to walk under his own power, but with a severe limp.

  The saloon was only about one-third full, and most of the men who were present were standing at the bar. Fargo led his group to a table toward the back of the room.

  “Barkeep, whiskey,” Fargo called.

  “If you gentlemen will step up to the bar, I’ll be glad to serve you,” the barkeeper replied.

  “Nah, we want to be served here.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m the only one working right now and I can’t leave the bar.”

  Fargo held up a twenty-dollar bill. “Will this get you over here?” he asked.

  The bartender smiled broadly. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I do believe that will.”

  The bartender walked over to the table to take their order.

  “Whiskey all around,” Fargo said. “You got ’ny food in this place?”

  The bartender looked over at the clock. “Consuelo is our cook, but she don’t come in until five o’clock,” he said.

  “Go get her. Tell her to come now.”

  “I ... I can’t leave the saloon now.”

  “You!” Fargo said, pointing to someone who was standing at the bar. “Do you know this woman Consuelo?”

  “Yeah, I know her.”

  “I’ll give you five dollars to go get her.”

  “Give me the five dollars.”

  “How do I know you won’t take the money and not come back?”

  “What if I bring her and you don’t pay me?”

  “Give me your hat,” Fargo said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll give you five dollars, you give me your hat. When you bring Consuelo back, I’ll give you your hat back.”

  The young man smiled, then took off his hat. “You got yourself a deal,” he said.

  A few minutes later, the man returned with Consuelo. When she saw Ponci’s leg, she gasped, then crossed herself.

  “Este hombre muere.”

  “What did she say?” Ponci asked.

  “She wants to know what we want to eat,” Fargo said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “That ain’t what she said,” Dagen said. He looked at Ponci. “She said you’re dying.”

  “What?” Ponci asked, his eyes wide with fear. “I ain’t dyin’, am I? Fargo, am I dyin’?”

  “No, you ain’t dyin’.”

  “But she said... .”

  “Who the hell are you goin’ to listen to?” Fargo asked gruffly. “Your ole pard? Or some Mexican bitch who don’t know her ass from a hole in the ground.” Then, to Consuelo, he said, “Get back in the kitchen and cook some grub for me’n my pards. Lots of it.”

  “Look, mister, I don’t know who you are,” the bartender said. “And I don’t care if you are throwing money around here. You don’t talk to my employees that way.”

  Fargo whipped his pistol out and pointed it at the bartender. He pulled the hammer back.

  “My name is Fargo Ford,” he said. “And I’ll talk to anyone in any way that I please.”

  “F-Fargo Ford?” the bartender stammered. The name alone was enough to cause him to start shaking in fear.

  Fargo Ford smiled. “I see that you have heard of me.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve heard of you.”

  “Good, good. When someone knows who I am, it always makes things go a little easier. Now you tell your cook to get her ass into the kitchen and cook us up some grub like I said. And it better be good grub too. Me’n my friends ain’t et for a day or two.”

  “Consuelo. Cocina para ellos. No haz éste enojado.”

  “Dagen, what did he say to her?”

  Dagen chuckled. “He told the bitch to go cook for us and not to make you angry.”

  Fargo Ford held his glass out toward the bartender. “I like you. You learn fast.”

  “Hey, Fargo,” Monroe said.

  “What?”

  “I think ole Ponci has done passed out on us.”

  Ponci was sitting in his chair, his head lolled back, his mouth open and his eyes shut.

  “Maybe we better get him to a doctor,” Monroe suggested.

  “Yeah,” Fargo said. “We’ll do that, soon as we eat.”

  It took less than fifteen minutes for the food to be delivered, and for the next thirty minutes, four of the five men sat around the table eating, talking loud, and laughing boisterously. The fifth man sat in the chair, neither eating nor participating in the activity.

  The rest of the saloon grew quiet as the patrons, aware that this was Fargo Ford and his gang, were very careful not to do anything to incur Ford’s wrath.

  “Hey, Fargo,” Casey said after a while.

  “What?”

  Casey nodded toward Ponci. “Maybe we’d better get him to a doctor now.”

  “Yeah, all right,” Fargo finally agreed. He turned toward the bar. “Hey, bartender. You got a doctor in this town?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Ford, we sure do,” the bartender answered. “That would be Doc Andrews. He’s just down the street, you can’t miss him. His office is above the hardware store.”

  A small white sign with black letters hung from the corner of the hardware store. A hand with an extended index finger pointed up the stairs that climbed the outside of the building. The sign read SETH ANDREWS, M.D.

  “I can’t climb up them stairs,” Ponci said.

  “Help him up,” Fargo said, bounding up the steps before them. He pushed the door open and walked inside. The office was rather small, with a desk, an examining table, and an assembled human skeleton hanging from a wooden arm that protruded from the wall.

  Hearing Fargo come in, Dr. Andrews stepped in from the back. He was just beyond middle-aged, with hair still a little more black than gray. He was wearing a gray suit and a gray silk vest.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a friend that they’re bringin’ up the stairs now,” Fargo said. “He’s been hurt, and I’d like for you to look at him.”

  At that moment the door opened and Ponci was carried in, supported on the right and left by Dagen and Casey. Ponci’s face was white, and he was in obvious pain. Dr. Andrews saw the piece of blood-soaked calico around his leg.

  “Get him up here on the table,” he said. “And get his boots and pants off.”

  “Damn,” Casey said as he began removing Ponci’s boots. “I sure never thought I’d be tryin’ to take off a man’s clothes.”

  The others laughed.

  With the pants off, the two wounds on Ponci’s legs were very obvious: one a puncture wound, just below the knee, and the other a deep gash across the calf muscle, running from the front of the leg to the back of the leg.

  In addition to the crusted blood around each of the wounds, there were patches of blue-green skin, along with a network of lines of color running away from them.

  “How did you get these wounds?” the doctor asked, examining Ponci’s leg.

  “He fell off his horse into some cactus,” Fargo said.

  Dr. Andrews shook his head. “These aren’t cactus wounds,” he said. “These wounds came from a knife.” />
  “If you know what they are, why the hell did you ask? It ain’t none of your business how he got ’em,” Fargo said. “All we want from you is for you to fix him up.”

  “It isn’t going to be that easy,” the doctor said. “What we have here is tissue necrosis, brought on by arterial ischemia.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about? Talk English, Doc,” Fargo said.

  “I’m talking about a serious wound. Your friend has the beginnings of gangrene.”

  “Gangrene? Damn, you mean you’re goin’ to have to chop off his leg?” Dagen asked.

  “Son of a bitch! No way!” Ponci said angrily. Sitting up, he put his hand down protectively over his leg. “Huh-uh,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “You ain’t goin’ to take off my leg!”

  “I didn’t say anything about taking off your leg.”

  “You said I had gangrene.”

  “I said you have the beginnings of gangrene. It hasn’t gone far enough to consider amputation. I can still save it.”

  “That’s good,” Ponci said, his expression of relief evident. He lay back down on the examining table. “That’s good.”

  “So, what you’re sayin’ is, you can give him something to fix it up, then we can go on, right?” Fargo asked.

  “Oh, no, I didn’t say that. This is going to require a very aggressive treatment.”

  “Aggressive treatment? Like what?”

  “I’ll have to get some meat from the butcher, then leave it outside until I can cultivate some fly maggots,” Dr. Andrews said.

  “Fly maggots? What the hell do you want them nasty things for?”

  “To treat his leg,” Andrews said. “You see, the fly maggots eat away the dead flesh. And they eat only dead flesh. That will keep the infection from infesting any more of the leg.”

  “How’s he goin’ to keep them maggots on his leg while he’s ridin?” Fargo asked.

  Dr. Andrews chuckled and shook his head. “He’s not going to be doing any riding,” he said. “He’s going to have to stay right here in bed.”

  “For how long?”

  “Well, it’ll take a day or two to cultivate the maggots. Then, they’ll need to work for at least four or five days in order to get all the dead flesh out of there and stop the spread. Your friend is going to be laid up for the better part of a week at least. And to be sure that all the infection is gone, I’d recommend that it be even longer.”