The depot was one rather large room with a big table in the middle. A counter ran along one side of the room; a few bottles of whiskey sat on a shelf behind the counter.
On the other side of the room was a small store with a few items for sale, mostly handkerchiefs, soap, toothbrushes, things that travelers might need.
A door at the rear of the room opened onto the kitchen, from which rolled the enticing aroma of roast beef, hot bread, and a touch of cinnamon.
A rather stout woman, wearing a dark blue dress and a white apron, stepped out of the kitchen. Her mousy-brown hair was done up in a bun behind her head, though one tendril hung down alongside a face that was covered with sweat. Picking up the hem of her apron, she rubbed her hands.
“Hello, Mrs. Foster,” Johnson said, showing a feeling of proprietorship in that he had made this trip many times and knew her by name.
“Hello, Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Foster replied. She smiled at the others. “Well, you folks look like you could use a good meal,” she said. She pointed toward a door on the back wall. “They’s some washbasins out back. I reckon you’ll be wantin’ to wash off some of the dust. I know how dusty you folks get, ridin’ in a stage, with all the dirt and dust blowin’ in through the winders and all.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Foster,” Mrs. Stockdale said. “Come along, Timmy.”
The other passengers followed Mrs. Stockdale outside, and all made use of the water, soap, and clean towels. Falcon had to admit that he felt considerably more refreshed when he went back inside.
“Oh, that was good,” Mrs. Stockdale said.
“I’ll have your meal out directly,” Mrs. Foster offered.
“A meal does sound good, but something cool to drink sounds even better,” Mrs. Stockdale said.
“I made some tea, my dear,” Mrs. Foster said. “And I’ve kept it cool in the well house.”
“That sounds good.”
“The driver said you had pie,” Timmy said.
“I do indeed, young man,” Mrs. Foster said. “I just made a fresh apple pie this morning and you ...” Mrs. Foster stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Cloud Dancer. “Well, for heaven’s sake, I haven’t seen you in a long time,” she said. “You are Cloud Dancer, aren’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I thought so. Why, you’re a young woman now. Last time I saw you, you were just a girl. The school back East must have agreed with you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cloud Dancer said politely.
“Well, you folks go ahead and take your seats while I put some food on the table. I need to get you folks fed quick as I can, ’cause when it comes time for Mr. Gentry to leave, why, he just ups and do it, whether you’re finished eatin’ or not.”
Cloud Dancer waited until the others were seated before she took her seat. Falcon waited with her.
“Mr. MacCallister, I want to thank you for coming to my defense in the stage,” Cloud Dancer said quietly.
“You’re welcome.”
“But I am confused.”
“Confused? Why are you confused?”
“You are Dlo Binanta.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My people say that you call yourself a bird. You are that man, aren’t you?”
“Call myself a bird?” Falcon replied. Then he remembered. The last time he was down here, during his fight with Naiche, the Apache had referred to him as the man who calls himself a bird.
“Yes, I guess I am that man.”
“Your given name is Falcon. I have been to the white man’s school now, so I know what they mean when my people call you Dlo Binanta. That means the ‘Leader of the Birds.’”
Falcon smiled. “Yes,” he said. “My name is Falcon.”
“That is why I am confused. If you hate Indians, why did you come to my defense?”
“Yaakos Gan, I don’t hate Indians,” he said. “I was married to an Indian. Her name was Marie Gentle Breeze.”
“Where is your wife now?”
“She is dead,” Falcon said. “Killed by renegade Indians.”
“So that is why you killed so many of my people? To avenge the death of your wife?”
“I’ll admit that played a role in it,” Falcon said. “But only a role. The main reason I killed so many Apache was because they were renegades on a killing spree. And killing them was the only way to stop them.”
“Folks, the food is on the table,” Mrs. Foster called to them. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“After you,” Falcon said, holding out his arm in invitation.
“Thank you.”
Cloud Dancer sat at the table, directly across from Timmy and his mother. Falcon sat beside her and seeing her there, the drummer made a point of moving down to the farthest end of the table.
“Mr. Johnson, why are you sitting down there all alone?” Mrs. Foster asked.
“I prefer to sit here, thank you,” Johnson replied in clipped words.
“Well, suit yourself.”
Outside, Gentry was overseeing the changing of the team. Mr. Foster, the depot manager, was leaning back against the fence with him as they watched the hostlers go about their business.
“Hear anything new about Keytano and his bunch?” Gentry asked.
“No, nary a thing,” Foster answered. “As far as I know, there ain’t nothin’ happened since them three prospectors come up dead ’n scalped here couple weeks or so back.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think they’re likely to come down onto the road and attack a stagecoach,” Gentry said. “Still, I don’t mind tellin’ you, from here on to Oro Blanco, the hair will be standin’ up on the back of my neck.”
“The hair on the back of your neck, huh? Tell you what, Gentry. If it was me ’stead of you makin’ this trip, why, it sure wouldn’t be the hair on the back of my neck that I’d be a-worryin’ about,” Foster said, laughing and running his hand across the top of his head.
Gentry took his hat off, and ran his hand through his own hair. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I reckon I see what you mean.”
“Go on in and get yourself somethin’ to eat,” Foster said. “Don’t worry none about the team. I’ll see to it that all the connections is done right.”
“Thanks,” Gentry replied. “I’ll just do that. What do you say, Kerry?” he called to his shotgun guard. “Let’s me’n you go get us somethin’ to eat. I smelled apple pie and I aim to make sure I get me a piece.”
Nodding, Kerry picked up the canvas bag and followed Gentry toward the front of the depot.
When Gentry and Kerry came inside, Kerry was carrying his shotgun in one hand and the canvas bag in the other.
“Oh,” Timmy said. “Does that mean we have to go? Mama, I haven’t had my pie yet.”
“We haven’t either, young fella,” Gentry said. “And we don’t plan to leave until we do, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
Timmy smiled. “Good,” he said.
Gentry and Kerry drew up a couple of chairs; then Kerry put the bag down in front of him.
“Eat up, folks,” Gentry said. “We’ll be pullin’ out of here in ...” He looked over at the clock that stood against the wall. “Thirty-two minutes.”
CHAPTER 7
No more than five miles away from where the stagecoach passengers were taking their meal, Fargo Ford and the four men with him waited at the top of Cerro Pass. Fargo walked over to the rock overhang and looked down into the valley, some 3500 feet below.
“You think we got here afore the stage?” Ponci asked.
“Yeah,” Fargo said.
“How do you know?”
“You see any tracks on the road?”
“No.”
“Then we beat the stage.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Now? We wait,” Fargo said. He walked back over to the shade of a rocky ledge, sat down, and pulled his hat over his eyes. “Wake me when you see it,” he said.
“Fargo?” Dagen said.