Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  The inside of the crib, like every other building in town, was totally dark. Ponci took his horse around behind the crib and tied it off in the lean-to shed. The lean-to was less for the comfort of the animals, and more for the convenience of Suzie’s customers, who might not want the presence of their horses to give away the fact that they were visiting a soiled dove.

  With his horse secure and out of sight, Ponci used his crutch to come around to the front of the little house. He reached up to the eave where he knew she kept an extra key.

  It wasn’t there.

  He felt around a bit more, but still couldn’t come up with the key. Where the hell was it? Finally, giving up on his search for the key, he knocked lightly on the door.

  “Suzie,” he called.

  He knocked again.

  “Suzie?”

  “Go away,” Suzie’s muffled voice called back from inside. “It’s too late to do any business.”

  “Suzie, it’s me, Ponci. Will you open the damn door?”

  “Ponci?”

  “Yes. Open the door, will you? I can’t find the key.”

  “I don’t keep it out there anymore.”

  “Let me in.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Ponci heard her stirring around inside; then the door opened.

  “The reason I don’t keep the key out here anymore is because Fargo ...” Then she gasped in mid-sentence when she saw him standing there on one leg and a crutch. “My God, Ponci! What happened to you?”

  “Well, if you won’t keep me standing out here on the stoop and let me come in, I’ll tell you all about it,” Ponci said.

  “Yes, yes, come in,” she said, stepping aside as he hobbled in.

  Seeing the bed, Ponci hopped over to it, then sat down with a sigh of relief.

  “Have you got anything to drink?”

  “I’ve got some whiskey,” she said.

  “Water first,” Ponci replied. “Then whiskey. And maybe something to eat.”

  “All I have in the house is a can of peaches if that’ll do.”

  “That’ll do fine. Open it. But first, I need a drink of water.”

  Suzie scooped a dipper of water from the water bucket and handed it to Ponci, who drank thirstily and with such abandon that some of it trickled down his chin and onto his shirt. He handed the empty dipper to her.

  “More,” he said.

  “My, you are thirsty, aren’t you?” she said as she handed him the refilled dipper.

  “You said something about a can of peaches?” Ponci asked as he finished the water.

  “Yes,” Suzie said. Finding the can of peaches, she opened it, then handed it and a spoon to him.

  “I don’t need this,” Ponci said, handing the spoon back to her. He turned the can up to his lips, drank the juice, then poured the peaches into his mouth directly from the can, gobbling them down ravenously.

  “How long has it been since you ate?” Suzie asked.

  “I had me some grasshoppers this mornin’,” Ponci answered as he finished the last of the peaches.

  “Grasshoppers?” Suzie shivered. “I can’t imagine eating grasshoppers.”

  “You’ll eat ’em if you’re hungry enough,” Ponci said.

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “I cut it off,” Ponci replied, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his dirty shirt. “Can you believe that shit? I cut off my own leg.”

  “My God! Why would you do that?”

  “Because I had the gangrene,” Ponci said. “And it was either cut off my leg or die.” He giggled. “And since I’m rich, I wasn’t particularly ready to die yet.”

  “What do you mean you’re rich?”

  “I’m rich, Suzie. I got more money than me or you has ever seen. After I lay up here for a few days, me’n you are going to leave this town. Maybe go back to St. Louis, or New Orleans, or even out to San Francisco. We’ll go first-class by train, and when we get there, we’ll live like a king and queen. What do you think of that?”

  “Is this the same money that Fargo was talking about?”

  The smile left Ponci’s face, to be replaced by a quick flash of fear.

  “Fargo? Is Fargo in town?”

  “No,” Suzie said. “He was here, lookin’ for you. But he’s not here now.”

  “You sure he’s not here?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Ponci gave a sigh of relief. “That’s good,” he said. “But you say he was here, looking for me?”

  “Fargo come here lookin’ for you, all right. He wants to kill you.”

  Unexpectedly, Ponci laughed. “Yeah, I reckon he does.”

  “What is all this about, Ponci? Where did all this money come from that you and Fargo are talking about? And how is it that you wound up with it?”

  “We robbed us a stagecoach,” Ponci said. “And we stole fifteen thousand dollars. Then I got hurt in the leg and caught me a case of the gangrene. Fargo wanted to leave me, without givin’ me my share. So, I let on as I was in much worse shape than I was; then when Fargo and the others wasn’t expectin’ it, I stole all the money and lit out.”

  “What do you mean you was lettin’ on like you wasn’t hurt all that bad? It must’ve been pretty bad,” Suzie said. “I mean, it had to be bad for you to cut off your own leg like you done.”

  “Yeah,” Ponci said. “Well, it was bad, and over the next couple of days after I stole the money and started runnin’, it started in gettin’ a lot worse. Pretty soon, I know’d that if I didn’t do somethin’ soon, I was goin’ to die. So, I didn’t have me no choice but to cut off my leg, so, that’s just what I done. I hacked her off, clean as a whistle.”

  Suzie shivered. “How in the world could you do such a thing?”

  “It wasn’t all that hard,” Ponci said. “If you remember, before I took up to runnin’ with your brother, I used to be a butcher. I was a good one too. I’ve carved up pork and beef lots of times, and I’ve cut a lot of legs off’n hogs ’n steers. And to tell you the truth, Suzie, cuttin’ off a human leg was lots easier.”

  “But this ain’t just any human leg you’re talking about. That was your own leg you cut off! Didn’t it hurt?”

  “You’re damn right it hurt. But hell, it was already hurtin’. And I had me some laudanum, so that helped. After that, I just waited till I healed up some, and here I am.”

  “So, where’s the money now? Do you have it with you?”

  Ponci shook his head. “No, I don’t have it with me. I got it hid. I figured, if Fargo and the others happened to catch up with me, that might be ’bout the only thing that would keep ’em from killin’ me soon as they seen me.”

  “Yeah,” Suzie said, hiding her own disappointment that he didn’t have the money with him. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “Listen, Suzie, I’m goin’ to need to stay here for a few days till I get stronger. Don’t be bringin’ no business in until then.”

  “You can’t ask me to do that, Ponci. I’ve got to make a livin’,” she said.

  Ponci reached down into his pocket and pulled out one hundred dollars.

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “This’ll take care of you for the next few days. And once I’m on my feet again and we are out of here, there’s lots more where that came from.”

  “What’ll I tell my customers?”

  “Tell ’em you’re takin’ care of a sick aunt, tell ’em anything. Just don’t bring nobody here.”

  “All right.”

  Ponci lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

  “Don’t wake me till breakfast time,” he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Two days later, Gibson, Carter, and Wilson found themselves on the west side of the Quigotoa Range, a good eighty miles from the post. The horses were now hobbled, while the men were poking around in one of the many washes that came down from the side of the mountain.

  “They say these washes are the best place to look,” Gibson said as he picked through the roc
ks. “The gold is flushed down after a rain, and collects in the washes.”

  “You lied to me, Gibson,” Wilson said.

  “How’d I lie to you?”

  “You told me if I’d let you and Carter out, you’d take me to your money. You didn’t tell me we’d have to look for gold to find it.”

  “Well, hell, boy, gold is money, ain’t it?” Gibson replied.

  “Are you sure there is gold out here?” Wilson asked.

  “Hell, yes, there is gold,” Gibson said. “Or, if not gold, there’s silver. Why do you think the government is keeping the U.S. Army out here? It’s to keep the Indians off the backs of the prospectors while they look for gold.”

  “That’s the truth of it, Wilson,” Carter added. “We’re here to make it safe for the prospectors and the miners.”

  “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to risk my neck for someone else to get rich,” Gibson said. “If I’m going to risk my neck, I’m going to risk it for me.”

  “Damn right,” Carter said.

  “I don’t think I would’a let you two out of jail if I’d’a know’d you was just talkin’ about maybe findin’ some gold or silver.”

  “It’s more’n just maybe. It’s out here for real,” Gibson insisted.

  “So, what do you think, Corporal, do you have any idea where to look?” Wilson asked.

  “You don’t have to call me Corporal anymore,” said Gibson. “We ain’t in the Army right now.”

  “Yeah, well, far as the Army is concerned, we are still in the Army,” Carter said. “I mean, it ain’t like they give us papers cuttin’ us loose or anything.” Carter was the smallest of the three, with red, blotchy skin and a nose that was too big for his face.

  “I sort of wish we was still in the Army,” Wilson said. Wilson was tall and gangly, and by many years the youngest of the three. “One thing we did while we was in the Army was we got to eat. Which we ain’t been doin’ that much of since we deserted.”

  “We didn’t desert,” Gibson said. “We are absent without leave. There’s a difference.”

  “What’s the difference?” Wilson asked.

  “Well, for one thing, deserters can be shot or hung,” Gibson said. “But if we are just absent without leave, the most they can do is send us to Ft. Leavenworth for a couple of years.”

  “Yeah, but how do we convince the Army we are just absent without leave and not deserters?” Wilson asked.

  “’Cause we are still carryin’ a Army-issue pistol, that’s why,” Gibson said. “And as long as we got any part of the Army still with us, well, we ain’t exactly deserted.”

  Carter laughed. “Don’t listen to Gibson,” he said. “He’s spoutin’ off that barracks-law bullshit. Don’t fool yourself, kid. If they find us, they’re goin’ to hang us.”

  “Even if we’re carrying these pistols like Corporal Gibson said?” Wilson asked.

  “Hell, yes, even if we’re carryin’ these pistols. Fact is, that’ll make it worse. They’ll hang us for desertin’ the Army and for stealing Army property,” Carter said, laughing.

  “Shit,” Wilson said. “I wish I was back in Missouri.”

  “Doin’ what? Walkin’ behind a plow horse?” Gibson asked. “Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life? Plow?”

  “So if you don’t want to plow, what do you want? To spend the rest of your life in the Army?”

  “No, I don’t really want to do that either. I wasn’t exactly what you would call a good soldier,” Wilson said.

  Carter laughed. “I can’t argue there. As a soldier, Wilson, you wasn’t worth shit.”

  “Maybe not, but you was both good soldiers. Both of you have been sergeants.”

  “That’s true,” Carter said. “Fact is, we both been sergeants more’n a couple of times.”

  “I still can’t believe that you both deserted.”

  “Unauthorized absence,” Gibson said. “We didn’t desert. You keep sayin’ we deserted like that and you will wind up gettin’ our asses hung.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry none ’bout us gettin’ hung, Gibson,” Carter said, all the humor suddenly gone from his voice. “We prob’ly ain’t goin’ to live that long.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Over there,” Carter said, pointing to the next ridgeline.

  “Holy shit.”

  Six Apache Indians were coming toward them, riding fast and spread out in a long line.

  “Hell, there’s just six of ’em,” Gibson said, pulling his pistol. “We’ll take cover behind those rocks over there.”

  “Corporal, I only got about three bullets in my gun,” Wilson said.

  “I’ve got a box of ammunition in my saddlebag,” Carter said.

  “Forget it, Carter,” Gibson said, holding out his hand to stop him. “You’ll never make it to your horse.”

  The Apaches opened fire and bullets began frying the air around the three soldiers, hitting the rocks alongside, then whining off behind them.

  The Indians began riding back and forth in front of them. They were excellent horsemen, and as they passed by in front, they would lean down behind their horses, always managing to keep their horses between them and the soldiers.

  The three returned fire and for the next several seconds, the valley rang with the echo of gunfire.

  “I’m out of shells!” Wilson screamed in panic.

  Carter fired, then pulled the trigger to fire again. His hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  “Damn! I am too!”

  “I saved three bullets,” Gibson said pointedly.

  “Saved three bullets? What do you mean?” Wilson asked. “Three bullets ain’t goin’ to do us no good! There’s six of them!”

  “But there’s only three of us,” Gibson said pointedly.

  “Three of us? What do you mean?”

  “Let’s do it,” Carter said, understanding immediately what Gibson was talking about. He got down on his knees, crossed himself, then bowed his head.

  Seeing him, Wilson realized what was about to happen.

  “Oh, shit,” Wilson said quietly, shaking his head. “Oh, shit, no. We can’t do this!”

  “Johnny, trust me, you don’t want those heathens to take you alive,” Gibson said. It was the first time he had ever called the young soldier by his first name.

  “Do it, Mickey,” Carter said to Gibson. “Do it before it’s too late.”

  Gibson looked at Wilson.

  Wilson’s bottom lip was trembling, but he nodded his head in the affirmative. “Yes,” he said. “Do it.”

  “God be with us, boys,” Gibson said. He put the gun to Wilson’s temple and pulled the trigger.

  “Hurry, Mickey, hurry!” Carter said.

  Gibson shot Carter. After that, he put the barrel in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

  The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Nothing!

  Had he miscounted?

  He tried again, still nothing.

  By now the Apache realized what he was doing and, incensed by being cheated of their prisoners, they rushed him.

  “No!” Gibson screamed. He grabbed one of the pickaxes they had been working with and had the fleeting satisfaction of burying it halfway into the head of one of the Indians. But before he could pull it out, he was jumped on by three more, and despite his struggles, they were able to subdue him, tying his hands and feet with rawhide.

  Falcon stood in the stirrups for a moment, just to stretch away his saddle ache, then urged his horse on. That was when he saw the vultures.

  They were circling too warily, too cautiously, for it to be a small animal. And there were far too many for them to be attracted to one thing.

  Falcon had seen them gather like this before, over the battlefields during the war in which he and his brothers had fought on opposite sides. He’d seen them since the war as well, during his wanderings through the West. Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, he hurried it on for the ne
xt mile until he saw what was attracting the vulture’s attention.

  Three naked bodies lay white and bloating in the sun. Two of the bodies were just lying there, and one of those he recognized as Private Wilson, the young private who had challenged him and Sheriff Corbin at the gate when they visited Fort Lowell. Private Wilson and the man lying beside them were not mutilated in any way. Both had gunshot wounds in the temple, the bullet holes black with encrusted blood.

  The third man was staked out on the ground, his arms and legs spread out. His penis had been cut off and, from the amount of blood that had pooled between his legs, it had happened while he was still alive. His eyes were cut out, and his scalp had been lifted, but Falcon was more than reasonably sure that this was Corporal Gibson, the corporal he had encountered on that same visit to Fort Lowell.

  “What were you three doing out here?” he asked. “I’m sure Colonel Dixon did not send out a three-man patrol.”

  Looking around, Falcon saw a shovel, a pretty good-sized hole, and a few rocks that had been broken into smaller pieces. That told him all he needed to know.

  “I’ll be damn. You three men were deserters, weren’t you?” he said. “Figured you’d come out here and dig yourself up some of that gold you heard people talking about.” He sighed. “You should’ve thought about it a little more.”

  Picking up the shovel, Falcon enlarged the hole enough to be able to take all three bodies. Then he cut the corporal loose and dragged him and the others over to where he had been working. He pushed them down into the hole, covered them with dirt, then moved a few rocks over the top of the grave.

  When he was finished, he looked down at the grave.

  “Corporal Gibson, you were an asshole, but you deserved better than this. You others as well,” he said aloud.

  Then recalling a legend that brought comfort to cavalrymen, he recited a poem:

  Halfway down the trail to Hell,

  In a shady meadow green,

  Are the souls of all dead troopers camped,

  In a good old-time canteen.

  And this eternal resting place

  Is known as Fiddlers’ Green.