According to the legend, no man who had ever served in the cavalry could have possibly lived a life that was good enough to earn him a place in heaven. On the other hand, the cavalrymen had all served enough penance on earth to keep them from going to hell. The alternative to heaven or hell was Fiddlers’ Green, a place where the water was cool, the beer was plentiful, there was always bacon with the beans, and the dance-hall girls were friendly.
“Save me a place, troopers,” Falcon said, making a half-salute. “It’ll be a lifetime for me, but only a drink or two for you.”
Turning away from the hasty grave, Falcon mounted his horse and started out in pursuit of the Indians who had done this.
The Indian trail was surprisingly easy to follow. Falcon was certain that the Indians he sought were being led by Chetopa, and Chetopa either didn’t think there were any white men capable of trailing him ... or he was so confident in the strength of his band that he didn’t care if anyone trailed him or not.
Falcon caught up with them in late afternoon, then stayed well back of them so that they were totally unaware of his presence. He stayed on their trail for the rest of the day, actually enjoying the chase almost as if he were playing a game of chess—move and countermove. And what made this particularly enjoyable to Falcon was the fact that he was controlling all the moves.
When night fell, Falcon became much more careful in his tracking. That was because he knew that Chetopa would not travel at night, and he didn’t want to suddenly ride in on them. In order to prevent that, Falcon decided to dismount. He led his horse through the darkness, picking his way very carefully so as not to dislodge any stones that would give him away.
Then, on the desert floor in the darkness ahead, he saw the glow of a campfire.
He smiled.
If they had known they were being trailed, they would have made a cold camp. So far, he still had the advantage of secrecy.
As Falcon ground-hobbled his horse, he thought of Diablo, who had served him faithfully for so many years. Diablo was old, and enjoying a well-earned retirement on Falcon’s ranch back in Colorado. He found himself wishing he had Diablo with him now, rather than the horse furnished him by the sheriff in Oro Blanco. He and Diablo were simpatico. He could get the response he needed by just thinking things, and that had gotten him through some very tight spots over the years.
This horse was not Diablo, but Falcon had to admit that it had served him well, and he patted his mount affectionately on its face a couple of times.
“You’ve done a good job, and don’t let anyone ever say otherwise. Now, what I want you to do is stay here and be quiet until I get back.”
Falcon looked around, marking the position so that he could find his way back in the dark. Then, he started toward the Indian camp.
The moon was full, and there were a few clouds in the sky. From time to time one of the clouds would pass over the moon, and when it did so, it would shine silver during its transit. At those times a shadow would fall across the desert floor, and Falcon utilized those opportunities to advance forward.
Whenever the moon was out, he would try to remain in the shadows of a saguaro cactus or a rock outcropping. Sometimes he would find a depression and move forward in defilade.
As he approached the camp, he could smell something cooking over the fire. He didn’t know whether it was a rabbit, a snake, or some bird they had killed. Whatever it was, he was glad they were cooking, because the smell of cooking would mask any scent the Apache or one of their horses might get of Falcon as he approached.
He heard one of the Indians say something, and the others laughed. He was surprised by how close it sounded, and he stopped, remaining perfectly still, barely breathing, for a long moment.
Standing there, still and quiet, gave Falcon the opportunity to look around. That was when he picked out a shadow within a shadow, noticeable only because it was even blacker than the surrounding darkness.
The shadow moved, then coughed.
The shadow was an Indian, a guard perhaps, though Falcon knew that Indians rarely posted guards.
The Indian guard stood up and blew his nose onto the ground. That gave Falcon the opportunity to move forward several feet. He advanced through the night as silently as the clouds overhead. As he came closer to the Apache on guard, he pulled out his Arkansas toothpick.
The Indian shouted something toward the camp, and one of the ones around the fire lifted a chunk of cooking meat and looked at it, then shouted back. Evidently the Indian was hungry.
Well, Falcon would take care of that.
Falcon moved closer, ever closer, until he was but inches behind the rock the guard had chosen to use as his backrest. The guard sat back down, then leaned back against the rock.
The rock only came halfway up the Indian’s back, which was very good for Falcon’s purposes. Falcon raised up, put his arm around the Indian, and clamped his hand down on the Indian’s mouth.
The Indian tried to shout something, but Falcon had him so clamped down that only a very muted sound escaped.
Falcon drew his knife across the Indian’s neck in one quick slice, severing his jugular. Falcon jerked his hand away as blood gushed from the wound. The Indian fell back, flopped a few times like a fish out of water, then died.
Falcon cut around the base of the Indian’s scalp, then turned him over on his belly. Putting his foot in the middle of the Indian’s back, Falcon grabbed the Indian by his hair, then jerked. The scalp came off cleanly.
Falcon debated for a moment or two as to whether he should take the scalp with him. Then he decided against it. Instead, he cut a coup stick, put the scalp on the stick, then rolled the Indian over on his back and forced open the dead man’s mouth. He then stuck the bottom of the coup stick into the open mouth, using it as a support mount for the stick.
Falcon left then, creeping away as quietly and as carefully as he had arrived.
Let them find their brother, neatly and expertly scalped, with no sign of who did it.
CHAPTER 18
The sun was high overhead, a brilliant white orb in a fixed blue sky. It beat down mercilessly on the four men who rode slowly across the desert floor.
“Hey, Fargo, are you sure you know where we are?” Casey asked.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You sure? ’Cause I don’t want to get lost out here, maybe have somebody find our bones about a hundred years from now.”
Dagen laughed.
“What you think’s so funny?” Casey asked.
“Somebody findin’ our bones a hunnert years from now,” Dagen said.
“I don’t think that’s funny. I don’t think that’s funny a’tall.”
“Will you three shut the hell up? It’s too damn hot to be listenin’ to the three of you palaverin’ all the damn time,” Fargo said.
“Well, I’d like to know just where the hell we are. I mean, we was headin’ north when we left town; next thing you know we started curvin’ aroun’, we was going west for a while; now damn me if it don’t seem we’re goin’ south. If you ask me, we’re just ridin’ in circles. And when a fella starts ridin’ in circles, that means we’re lost.”
“We ain’t lost,” Fargo said. “We’re doublin’ back is all.”
“Doublin’ back? Doublin’ back for what? If you hadn’t shot that son of a bitch back in Mesquite, we wouldn’t have to be out here and we wouldn’t be hot. We’d still be sittin’ in a nice, cool saloon,” Dagen said. “Drinkin’ beer and talkin’ with the women ...”
“And eating,” Monroe said, interrupting Dagen.
“Yeah,” Dagen agreed. “And eating.”
“What the hell did you shoot that son of a bitch for anyway?” Casey asked.
“I told you why I shot him. I thought it was Ponci,” Fargo said.
“What if it had been Ponci and he had hid the money somewhere?” Dagen asked. “Then he would be dead and we wouldn’t have no money, or no idea where it was. Did you think of that?”
&
nbsp; “No, I reckon I didn’t,” Fargo admitted. “All I could think of was that the son of a bitch stole money from us and I wanted to kill him.” The four men rode on for a while longer before Dagen spoke again. “Hey, Casey, you got ’nything left to eat? Jerky or somethin’?”
“No.”
“How ’bout you, Monroe? You got ’ny jerky? Anything to eat?”
“I ain’t got nothin’ a’tall left,” Monroe said.
“Well, son of a bitch, I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, me too,” Casey said. “I could damn near eat this saddle.”
“Quit your bellyachin’, all of you,” Fargo said. “Do you think I ain’t hungry? But you don’t hear me bitchin’ about it, do you?”
“Well, what are you goin’ to do about it?” Dagen asked.
“What do you mean, what am I going to do about it? What am I supposed to do about it?”
“You’re the leader, ain’t you? Leastwise, you been claimin’ to be the leader. You the reason we had to hightail it out of Mesquite. So by my way of thinkin’, that means it’s up to you to find us somethin’ to eat,” Dagen said.
“Yeah,” Casey agreed. “You’re the leader. Do some leadin’. Get us somethin’ to eat.”
“All right, there’s a ranch up ahead,” Fargo said. “We’ll get somethin’ to eat there.”
“How? Are we just going to walk up to the door and say, ‘Excuse me, but we’re awful hungry, and we was won-derin’ iffen maybe you wouldn’t feed us’?” Dagen said.
“Something like that,” Fargo replied.
“Well, I ain’t one for beggin’,” Dagen said. “I like to earn my keep.”
“Earn it?” Casey said with a laugh. “Dagen, what the hell do you mean earn it? You’re a thief, for crying out loud. We’re all thieves.”
“Yeah, well, that’s earnin’ it,” Dagen said. “Sort of.”
The others laughed.
“Don’t make me laugh no more,” Monroe said. “I ain’t got enough spit left to laugh.”
“Where is this here ranch anyhow?” Casey asked. “’Cause, I sure don’t see nothin’ that looks like a ranch.”
“It’s just up ahead a little ways,” Fargo said. “Another couple of miles is all.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure about that. I told you, I used to live around here. Fact is, I worked on this ranch once. It’s the Double R Ranch.”
“Double R,” Dagen said.
“Double R for Raymond Reynolds,” Fargo said. He tore off a chew of tobacco, settled it in his jaw, then put his plug away.
“How come you quit ranchin’?” Monroe asked.
“’Cause the only thing dumber’n a cow on a cattle ranch is the men who are dumb enough to punch ’em,” Fargo said. “You are either too hot or too cold, too wet or too dry, and you ain’t never got two nickels to rub together in your pocket. I had me a bellyful of it, so I just up and quit.”
“I’ve always thought I’d kind of like to be a cowboy,” Monroe said.
“You’d make a good cowboy,” Fargo said.
“I would?”
Fargo leaned over and spit. “Yep. You’re just exactly what all the ranchers is lookin’ for. Someone who is dumb enough to do it.”
“That ain’t right for you to say,” Monroe said. “I ain’t all that dumb.”
“You ain’t?”
“No.”
“You’re ridin’ with me, ain’t you?” Fargo asked. He spit again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anyone who would ride with me is dumber’n shit.”
“Hey,” Dagen said. “When you say that, you’re saying that about all of us.”
“Yep.”
“Includin’ yourself,” Casey pointed out.
Fargo spit the last of his chew. “I’m especially talkin’ about myself,” he said.
They rode on in silence for another few miles; then Fargo pointed toward a ranch house in the distance. “There it is,” he said. “Just like I told you.”
Dagen and the other two riders started sloping down a long hill toward the main house.
“Where you goin’?” Fargo asked.
“Toward the ranch house,” Dagen replied. “Didn’t you say we’d get something to eat here?”
“Yeah, but not there,” Fargo replied. “Come this way.” He cut his horse off to the left, at almost a right angle to the way they had been going.
“What are we goin’ that way for? That’s the house over there, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, but I told you, we’re not goin’ to the house,” Fargo said.
“Well, if we ain’t goin’ to the house, just where the hell are we goin’?”
“You’ll see.”
Fargo led them on for about two more miles, and though Dagen and the others were anxious to know what he had in mind, it seemed clear enough by his determination that he had something in mind. And at this point, there was nothing they could do but follow.
“There it is,” Fargo said after a while. “That’s where we’ll get our next meal.” He pointed to a small adobe cabin that rose, like a clump of dirt, from the desert floor.
“Yeah,” Dagen said, smiling broadly and nodding his head. “Yeah, I see what you’re up to now.”
“Wait a minute! That’s what we come all this way for? A little dirt hut like that? What the hell is it?” Monroe asked.
“Monroe, if you’d ever done one day’s work in your life, you would recognize it,” Dagen said. “It’s a line shack.”
“What’s a line shack?”
“It’s where the cowboys that watch over the herds in the field stay,” Dagen said. “It’s lonely work, but as I recall, most of the time the cowboys in the line shacks eat better’n the boys back in the bunkhouse.”
“I’ve heard that my ownself,” Casey said. “But I ain’t never spent no time in a line shack.”
“I have,” Dagen said. “And believe me, whoever is in there now will have food.”
“What if they do have food?” Monroe asked. “You don’t really think they’ll just share it with us, do you?”
“Oh, I don’t intend to ask them to share it,” Fargo said. “I intend to just take it. Dismount, pull your long guns, and follow me.”
“What do we want with our rifles?” Dagen asked.
“You’ll be needin’ them,” Fargo said without further explanation.
There were four cowboys inside the small adobe line shack. One was asleep on the bunk; the other three were sitting across a small table from each other, playing cards. They were playing for matches only, but that didn’t lessen the intensity of their game. When one of them took the pot with a pair of aces, another one complained.
“Sandy, you son of a bitch! Where’d you get that ace?” His oath, however, was softened by a burst of laughter.
“Don’t you know? I took it from Shorty’s boot while he was asleep.”
“Does Shorty keep an ace in his boot?”
“You think he don’t? I never know’d him to do anythin’ honest when he could cheat.”
“That’s the truth of it,” Shorty admitted from his bunk, proving that he wasn’t actually asleep. “Hell, it’s the only way I can be sure to win. But Arnie is just as bad.”
“I am not,” the dealer replied.
“And so is Curley,” Shorty added.
“Well, now you’re right there,” the third cardplayer said. “I will cheat if I think I can get away with it.”
The others laughed.
The cards were raked in, the deck shuffled, then dealt again.
“Hey, do either one of you know Jennie?” Arnie asked as he dealt the cards.
“Jennie? Jennie who?” Sandy asked as he began picking up cards.
“You know Jennie who,” Arnie insisted. “She’s one of the whores down at the Desert Flower.”
“Oh, yeah, that Jennie. What about her?”
“Well, here’s the thing. Do you fellas think she likes me?” Arnie asked.
&nb
sp; The others laughed. “Do we think she likes you? Damn, Arnie, she likes anybody who has enough money to take her upstairs,” Sandy said.
“You’re just talkin’,” Arnie said. “She won’t go upstairs with just anybody.”
“You may be right about that,” Shorty said from the bunk. “She won’t go upstairs with Curley. I mean, he’s so damn ugly he can’t come up with enough money to make any woman go upstairs with him.”
Sandy added, teasing Curley, “How’d you get to be so ugly, Curley?”
Curley was short, round, freckled, and without a hair on his head.
“My mama says she was scairt by a bear when she was carryin’ me, and some of that bear’s ugly wore off,” Curley replied.
The others laughed.
“But speakin’ of Jennie,” Curley continued, “better not nobody be messin’ around with her unless they’re wantin’ to tangle with Tucker.”
“Tangle with who?”
“Tucker Godfrey,” Curley said. “You know, that bandy-legged little shit from the Flying J Spread? He’s got his cap set for Jennie and he sees anyone sniffin’ around her, why, he runs ’em off.”
“Ha! You think I’m scared of Tucker? I could break that little pipsqueak over my knees like a piece of kindlin’ wood,” Arnie said.
“Hell, any of us could, if we could ever catch the little son of a bitch without his gun. But he’s damn good with that gun, and he has it with ’im all the time. Folks say he even has it with him when he goes to take a shit.”
The others laughed again.
At that moment, four riders stopped on a little hill overlooking the line shack. They ground-tied their mounts about thirty yards behind them, then moved to the edge of the hill at a crouch and looked down toward the little building.
“Can you see anybody inside the shack?” Fargo asked.
“Yeah, I can see three men sittin’ at a table, just inside the window,” Casey said.
“When I give the word, everyone start shooting at the same time,” Fargo said, raising his rifle to his shoulder. The others raised their rifles as well, and waited for Fargo.
“Now! Shoot!” Fargo shouted, squeezing the trigger that sent out the first bullet.
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