“I thought that was Ponci.”
By now several dogs were barking outside.
“That’s it? You thought it was Ponci, so you came in here shooting?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? You break into my crib, kill the man who is in my bed, scare me to death, and all you can say is you are sorry?”
“I told you, I thought it was Ponci. Where is Ponci anyway?” Fargo asked.
The dogs continued to bark, and now, from a nearby house, a baby added its crying to the noise.
“Why are you asking me where Ponci is? How the hell am I supposed to know?” she asked. “I haven’t seen Ponci in nearly a year. I thought he was with you.”
“No, Ponci isn’t with me,” Fargo said angrily. “If he was with me, I would have already killed the son of a bitch, instead of coming here to do it.”
“Yeah? Well, you didn’t do it. You killed poor Mr. Thompson.”
“Who is Mr. Thompson?”
“That’s Mr. Thompson,” Suzie said, pointing to the body in her bed. “He works in the general store. What made you think it was Ponci?”
“One of the Mex whores down at the cantina told me the man you were with has a limp. Does this man have a limp?”
“He doesn’t have anything now, you ignorant bastard,” Suzie said. “You just killed him.”
“All right, before I killed him, did he have a limp?” Fargo asked.
“Yes, he did have a limp. One of his legs was deformed.”
“Yeah, well, then you can see that it was an honest mistake. She said he had a limp, so I thought it was Ponci.”
“What are you talking about? Ponci doesn’t have a limp.”
“He does now.”
“What was that shooting?” a man’s voice called from outside.
“I don’t know, it come from down that way,” a muffled voice answered. “And I think I heard a woman scream.”
“Listen, you’d better get out of here,” Suzie said, shoving him toward the door. “And if I were you, I would leave town.”
“How are you going to handle this?” Fargo asked.
“What are you going to tell the sheriff when he finds a dead man in your bed?”
Suzie sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll just tell him what happened, that someone broke in here and shot him.”
Fargo’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell him who did it. I’ll just say I don’t know who it was.”
“What if they blame you?” Fargo asked.
“They aren’t going to blame me,” Suzie replied. “As soon as you are out of here, I’m going to start screaming bloody murder. And anyway, do you really give a shit if I get blamed for this?”
Fargo shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t give a shit.”
“I didn’t think you would. Now, get the hell out of here.”
Fargo left the house, then ran back up between the two buildings.
“Hurry, there’s some people comin’,” Casey said, handing the reins back to Fargo. “I can see ’em comin’ this way from the other end of the street.”
“Did you get the money?” Monroe asked.
“No,” Fargo answered, swinging into the saddle.
“What the hell, you killed the son of a bitch and you didn’t even get the money?”
“Look, down there!” someone shouted from the darkness at the far end of the street. “There’s riders in front of Armbruster’s!”
“This is the sheriff!” a voice called. “You men hold it right there!”
“Throw a few shots their way, then let’s get the hell out of here!” Fargo said.
Fargo, Casey, Monroe, and Dagen began shooting toward the approaching crowd. The muzzle-flame patterns lit up the building fronts like flashes of summer lightning, and the sounds of gunshots filled the street.
The shooting had the desired effect, because the crowd screamed and scattered, just as Fargo thought they would.
“Let’s go!” Fargo shouted, and he and the other three galloped out of town.
“You didn’t get the money?” Monroe shouted over the sound of the galloping horses. “Why did you kill him without getting the money?”
“It wasn’t Ponci!” Fargo yelled back. “I killed the wrong man!”
CHAPTER 15
Falcon had seen scores of Army posts just like Fort Lowell all over the West. But unlike the forts of the Northwest, this one did not have a palisade. Instead, it had a low-lying rock fence, more as a means of marking out the property than providing any protection. But there was a front gate, from which hung a sign denoting this as the Fort Lowell Military Reservation, and the gate was manned by an armed guard.
As Falcon and Sheriff Corbin approached the gate, the guard, a young private, stepped out to meet them. He held his rifle at the high-port position.
“Halt!” he ordered.
Falcon and Sheriff Corbin complied.
“Dismount,” the guard ordered.
Falcon and Corbin swung down from their horses and, holding the reins, approached the guard.
“Who are you, and what is the purpose of your visit?” the guard asked.
“Private, I’m Sheriff Corbin from Oro Blanco,” Corbin said. He pointed to Falcon. “This is ... my deputy,” he added, cutting a quick glance toward Falcon and asking him silently to go along with the ruse.
Falcon said nothing to dispute the sheriff.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” the guard asked.
“We are here on official business. I need to speak with the fort commander.”
“Wait here,” the guard ordered. He stepped back a few paces, then turned his head to shout. “Corporal of the guard! Repair to post number one!”
His call was repeated by the next-nearest sentry to him.
“Corporal of the guard! Repair to post number one!”
They heard it repeated three more times, each call becoming less distinct than the preceding call as the relaying guards grew farther away. Then they heard the returning call, repeated several times until it reached the guard nearest this one.
“Corporal of the guard is repairing to post number one!”
“The corporal of the guard will be here shortly, sir,” the private at the front gate said.
Falcon chuckled. “Yes, we heard.”
A moment later, the corporal arrived. He was overage for his grade, and the corporal’s corpulent body and patchy red face suggested that his lack of rank might be related to his love of drink. “What is it, Private Wilson? What’s the problem?” he asked.
“These men are here to speak with Colonel Dixon,” Private Wilson answered.
The corporal looked at Falcon and the sheriff. “I’m Sergeant ...” he started, then corrected himself. “That is, I’m ... Corporal ... Gibson. You are here to see the colonel?”
“We are.”
“What do you want to speak to the colonel about?”
“That’s between us and the colonel,” the sheriff said.
Corporal Gibson shook his head. “No, it ain’t between you and the colonel. Not unless I say it is. I’m in charge here, so I’m the one you are going to have to deal with. Now, I’m goin’ to ask you one more time, real nice. What do you want to see the colonel for?”
“And I’m going to tell you one more time ... real nice,” the sheriff replied, emphasizing the “real nice,” “that what we want to talk to your commanding officer about is none of your business. It is between the colonel and us.”
With a dismissive wave of his hand, the corporal turned and started walking away. “In that case, the answer is no, you cannot see the colonel,” he called back over his shoulder.
“How the hell are we going to get around this arrogant shit?” the sheriff asked, frustrated by the self-inflated ego of the corporal.
“Wait here for a moment, Sheriff, and let me talk to him,” Falcon said. “I’m pretty sure I will be able to reason with hi
m.”
Sheriff Corbin shook his head. “No, I don’t think you can. I’ve seen his kind before. He’s probably been up and down the ranks a dozen times or more, and he wears what stripes he has managed to hang onto like a crown ... lording it over anyone he can.”
“Don’t give up yet. Let me try,” Falcon said, walking quickly toward the corporal. “Corporal,” he called. “Wait a moment. Let’s see if we can’t work this out.”
The corporal turned toward him with a smirk. “So, you goin’ to tell me what you want to talk to the colonel about?” he asked. “I thought you might come around.”
“No,” Falcon said. “But I do believe we can work this out. You see, I’m going to give you one more opportunity to take us to see him. And I think you ought to take it, because otherwise I don’t think you will care much for the consequences.”
“You are going to give me one more opportunity?” the corporal asked. He laughed. “All right, you’ve given me my ... opportunity ... so what happens now if I don’t take it? What consequences are you talking about?”
“It’s a rather severe consequence, Corporal. Because you see, if you don’t take us to see the colonel, I am going to kill you,” Falcon said easily.
“You’ll what?” the corporal replied. Again he laughed, but this time the laughter was strained. “What did you just say to me?”
“I said, if you don’t take us to see the colonel, I am going to kill you,” Falcon repeated.
“How are you going to do that?” the corporal asked with a nervous, snorting type of laugh.
“Easy. You see, I’m wearing a gun and you aren’t. I’ll just pull my gun and I will kill you.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Are you crazy? You are in the middle of an Army post. Do you think you could just shoot me here and get away with it?”
“Oh, I don’t just think I can. I know I can,” Falcon said.
The corporal pointed to the gate. “Look, mister, in case you haven’t noticed it, there is an armed guard not fifteen yards from here.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll kill him too,” Falcon said. “Of course, I’d rather not shoot him unless I have to, because he hasn’t pissed me off. But Corporal, you have pissed me off. So believe me when I say that I won’t have any trouble killing you at all.”
“Now ... wait a minute,” the corporal said, pointing at Falcon. “You can’t ... uh ...” He stopped in mid-sentence. His pupils were dilated with fear, his nostrils were flared, sweat was popping out all over his face, and he started licking his lips nervously. “You ... you are serious, aren’t you? You really would kill me.”
Falcon smiled. “Maybe you aren’t quite as dumb as you look. It’s time to get down to the nut-cutting, Corporal. Do we see the colonel, or do I kill you? It’s up to you, and at this point I really don’t give a shit which it is. I believe I’d just as soon kill you as not.” Falcon didn’t pull his gun, but he did let his hand rest lightly on the handle of one of his pistols. “What’s it going to be?”
“All right, all right!” the corporal said nervously. “I’ll take you to see the colonel.”
“Good. Oh, and Corporal, this conversation we just had? Let’s keep it our little secret, shall we? I mean, we wouldn’t want to be blabbing it to my friend the sheriff, or to the colonel, or anyone else, that I was going to kill you, would we?”
“No,” the corporal answered in a muffled and choked voice.
“No, what?”
“No, I won’t say nothin’ to nobody about it,” the corporal mumbled. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped at the big drops of sweat that had suddenly popped out on his face.
“I thought you might see it my way,” Falcon said. He turned toward the sheriff and waved him on. “Come along, Sheriff. The corporal and I have worked things out.”
“You have?”
“Tell him it’s all right,” Falcon said to the corporal.
“It’s ... all right,” the corporal said. “I’ll take you to see the colonel.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sheriff Corbin said, coming toward them, leading both horses. “You must have some kind of a silver tongue.”
“Yeah,” Falcon said. “I can be pretty damn persuasive when I want to be.”
Still unmounted, Falcon and Sheriff Corbin followed the corporal from the front gate and out onto the post toward the headquarters building. The fort was laid out around a large, square parade ground, fronted on all four sides by the buildings of the garrison. Most of the buildings were two-story wooden barracks buildings. But next to every third barracks building were somewhat smaller structures. These, Falcon knew, were the individual company mess halls.
The parade ground was a large rectangle, with the barracks buildings and mess halls on each of the longer sides. The stables and corral occupied one end of the rectangle, while the post hospital and sutler’s store sat at the opposite end. Midway down the far side of the parade ground, and situated right behind the flagpole, was a brick building. This was the only brick building on the entire fort, and it was to this building the three men were headed.
A white sign in front of the brick building featured crossed swords, in gold, while in black letters were the words:
FORT LOWELL MILITARY RESERVATION
Headquarters
Fifth Cavalry Regt.
United States Army
Post Commandant and Regimental Commander
Fred M. Dixon
Colonel of Cavalry
“This here is the orderly room. You can tie your horses off here,” the corporal said, pointing to a hitching rail.
“Thanks,” Sheriff Corbin said as he began wrapping his reins around the rail. Falcon did the same; then they followed the corporal up onto the little wooden porch and Corporal Gibson knocked on the door.
“Enter,” a voice called from inside.
Inside the orderly room of the headquarters building, they saw a tall, impressive-looking, clean-shaven NCO who was sitting at a desk in front of a large wall map of Pima County, Arizona. A sign on the NCO’s desk read:
Seamus O’Riley
Regimental Sergeant Major
“What is it, Corporal Gibson?” the sergeant major asked.
“Sergeant Major, these here men are the sheriff and his deputy. They want to speak to the colonel, but I don’t know what it’s about.”
“I wouldn’t think that you would. It’s not your business to know,” Sergeant Major O’Riley replied. “If they want to speak to the colonel, then their business is with him.”
“Yeah, but don’t you think ...” Corporal Gibson started to say, but the sergeant major cut him off.
“Don’t try to think, Gibson,” he said. “You’re not that good at thinking.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Gibson replied, contritely.
The sergeant major, who actually did have some authority to exercise had he chosen to do so, did not try to impress Falcon and the sheriff with his position. Instead, he stepped up to the door of the colonel’s office, knocked once lightly, then at a muffled voice from within, stepped inside. No more than a few seconds later, he was back outside.
“If you gentlemen will go on in, the colonel will see you,” he said.
“Thanks, Sergeant Major,” the sheriff said as he and Falcon entered the colonel’s office.
Colonel Dixon, who had stood to meet them, was the perfect portrait of an Army officer, trim and fastidious about his dress and person.
“Gentlemen, welcome to Fort Lowell. I’m Colonel Dixon,” he said, extending his hand.
“Colonel Dixon, I’m Sheriff Corbin from Oro Blanco,” the sheriff said. “This is my deputy.” He did not say Falcon’s name.
“Well, Sheriff, what can I do for you?” Dixon asked.
“We have had an incident with the Indians,” Sheriff Corbin said.
“Which group?” the colonel asked.
“The Cababi Mountain band.”
&nbs
p; “Ah, yes, the Cababi Mountain band,” the colonel repeated. “I believe they are the ones under Keytano, are they not?”
“They are.”
“The Cababi band would be mostly what ... Chiricahua?”
“I wouldn’t say that. As you know, most of the Chiricahua have been moved to Oklahoma,” Sheriff Corbin answered. “There are some Chiricahua left, of course, and many of them are with the Cababi band. But Keytano’s village is actually a mixture of Western Apache, Jicarilla, and, of course, those few remaining Chiricahua I mentioned.”
Colonel Dixon picked his pipe up from the desk and began tapping tobacco into the bowl.
“You said there was an incident. Are you talking about the three prospectors who were killed? Because I already know about them. It’s a bad thing, but the truth is, those men were on Indian land, so there’s not a whole lot we can do about it,” the colonel said.
Sheriff Corbin shook his head. “No, I wish that was what we was here about, but that ain’t it. This here incident might wind up startin’ a war with the Cababi, and if it does, I don’t mind tellin’ you, it’ll be our fault.”
“What do you mean, our fault?” Colonel Dixon asked as he lit his pipe.
“By our fault, I mean white men,” Corbin said. “Or, to be more specific, Fargo Ford and his gang.”
The colonel took several puffs; then, through a cloud of aromatic tobacco, he answered.
“Fargo Ford. Yes, I’ve heard of him. But he’s an outlaw, isn’t he? What does he have to do with an Indian problem?”
“Ford held up a stagecoach and took one of the passengers off the stage. That passenger was Cloud Dancer.”
“Cloud Dancer? Wait a minute, isn’t that Keytano’s daughter? I thought she was back East,” Colonel Dixon said.
“She was. She was going to school, but she finished and was coming back home. It turns out that the coach was carrying a money shipment, so Ford waited at the top of Cerro Pass, held up the stage, and took her off the coach.”
“Is he holding her somewhere?”
Corbin shook his head. “He killed her,” Corbin said.
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