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.