Father Rodriguez crossed himself as he watched the men ride toward the center of town, and seeing his priest make the sign of the cross, the altar boy did the same.
There was no saloon as such, but there was a cantina, and Fargo Ford led his band directly there.
All dismounted except for Ponci.
“Hey, Fargo, Ponci is still mounted,” Casey said as the others started toward the cantina.
“You goin’ to stay out here?” Fargo asked.
“What?” Ponci had been hitting the laudanum pretty hard, and he was having a hard time focusing on what was going on around him.
“Are you going to stay out here, or come inside and have a few drinks ... maybe get something to eat?” Fargo asked.
“Oh,” Ponci said. He took another drink of the laudanum. “I think I’ll come in,” he said. He made an effort to dismount, but couldn’t.
“Help his sorry ass down,” Fargo said with a dismissive wave of his hand. As Monroe and Casey went to Ponci’s aid, Fargo stepped up onto the low wooden porch. Dagen followed him as he pushed through the dangling strings of beads that hung across the door of the cantina.
Because it was so bright outside and darker inside, the cantina managed to give the illusion of being cooler. But that was an illusion only. It was out of the direct sunlight, but it was also without any flow of air, so it wasn’t any cooler, and might even have been a little warmer than outside.
Once the two men stepped through the door, they moved to one side for a second, keeping their backs to the wall as they looked around the room. This was always the most critical time because if there was anyone here who intended to harm them, that person would have the early advantage until their eyes adjusted to the darkened interior.
“Do you see anyone?” Fargo asked.
Fargo’s question didn’t have to be any more specific. Dagen knew that he was asking if there was anyone in here who posed a threat to them.
“No, it looks clear,” Dagen answered.
“There’s a table back there,” Fargo said, pointing to the far corner of the room.
The two men started toward the table Fargo had pointed out.
“Fargo, he’s going to die,” Dagen said. “You know that, don’t you?”
Fargo was quiet for a long moment before he answered. “Yeah, I know it,” he finally said.
“Well, what are we keeping him with us for?”
“What do you mean, what are we keeping him with us for?”
“I mean, look at him, Fargo. Right now he’s more dead than alive. If you ask me, all he’s doin’ is just slow-in’ us down.”
“Hell, Dagen, if you want to shoot the son of a bitch, go out there and shoot him,” Fargo said. “I ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ to stop you.”
Dagen shook his head. “It ain’t my place to shoot him. You’re the leader. It’s your place.”
“Now, what kind of leader would I look like if I went around killin’ my own men?” Fargo asked.
By now they had reached the table and, deferring to Fargo, Dagen let him be the first to choose where he wanted to sit. After Fargo was settled, Dagen sat down. Then he looked around the room again, this time making a more careful observation.
There were about a dozen people in the cantina—ten men, counting the bartender, and two women. Not one of the people in the place looked American.
“Damn,” Fargo said. “Are you sure we’re still in America?”
“Yes,” Dagen said. “That is, I think so.”
“You think so? Look around. Do you see one American in here?”
Dagen called over to the bar. “Señor, es esta Norteamérica o México?”
“Territorio de Arizona, Estados Unidos,” the bartender answered.
“Yeah, we’re still in America.”
“Ask the son of a bitch if anyone in here speaks English.”
“I speak English, Señor,” the bartender replied. “We all speak English.” With a wave of his arm, he took in everyone in the room. “We are Americans.”
“Americans, huh? Well, you sure as hell can’t prove it by me,” Fargo said.
Casey and Monroe came in then, half-dragging, half-supporting Ponci between them. Ponci’s arms were across their shoulders, and he was hopping on one leg, dragging his useless leg behind him.
“What happened to your friend?” the bartender asked.
“His horse fell on him,” Fargo said. “Bring us some whiskey and something to eat.”
“No whiskey. Tequila.”
“Tequila is fine,” Fargo said as he watched Casey and Monroe pull out a chair and very carefully help Ponci sit down. Then they sat as well.
A moment later the bartender brought a bottle and five glasses.
“You can take one of the glasses back,” Fargo said. “Ole Ponci here isn’t going to be drinkin’ none. Are you, Ponci?”
“What?” Ponci asked.
“See what I mean?” Fargo said. “Hell, he’s been suckin’ down so much of that laudanum that right now he don’t know if it is daylight or dark outside.”
The other men around the table laughed as, nodding, the bartender took the extra glass back.
One of the women laughed out loud, her voice rather shrill over the subdued conversation, mostly in Spanish, of the other patrons.
Fargo took a drink, then looked over at the two women. The women, obviously bar girls and probably whores, appeared to be in their mid-to-late thirties. They were attractive in a garish sort of way. Both were wearing blouses that showed a lot of cleavage, and skirts split to show long, shapely legs. They had dark hair, black eyes, and olive complexions highlighted by bright red lipstick.
“What do you boys say that we get us a couple of women?” Fargo asked the others.
“Good idea, but they seem to be busy now,” Casey said.
“I’ll take care of that.” Fargo got up from the table and started toward the bar.
“You and you,” he said, pointing to the two women. “You see my friends over there at that table? We’d be much obliged if you’d come join us for a few drinks.”
The two women looked at him just for a second, then returned their attention to the men they were with.
“You,” Fargo said to the woman nearest him. “I asked you nice to join me’n my friends over at the table.
“The señorita is with me, Señor,” the man who was standing with her said.
“Yeah? Well, she is going to be with us now,” Fargo replied.
The Mexican’s hand moved toward his pistol. “No, Señor, I think she will stay with me,” he said, his eyes glaring menacingly.
Fargo found it amusing that the Mexican had threatened him by making a move toward his pistol. As he stared at the Mexican, a big smile spread across his face.
“Well now, mister, are you goin’ to pull that hog leg, or just hold your hand over it tryin’ to scare me?” Fargo asked.
The Mexican had not expected this kind of reaction to his threat, and the expressions on his face went the gamut, from menacing, to surprise, and then, as he realized that he had started down a path from which there was no return ... to fear.
Fargo read the range of emotions, and decided to push the man further.
“Go for it, Mex. That is, if you’ve got any cojones. Otherwise, crawl on out of here like a coward.”
The fear on the Mexican’s face now turned to anger and determination. He let out a yell of rage, and made a ragged attempt to draw his gun.
Fargo had his own gun out in the blink of an eye. The Mexican was surprised at how fast Fargo had drawn. It was almost as if the gun had just magically appeared in Fargo’s hand. Seeing that he was badly beaten, he interrupted his own draw, pausing, just as his gun cleared leather.
The Mexican held his hand out and tried to smile. Fargo smiled, as if greatly enjoying this moment. Then, while still smiling, he pulled the trigger.
The heavy .44-caliber bullet hit the Mexican just under his left eye, and blood and brain matter flew out of the exit wound in the back of his head, leaving a smear on the mirror behind the bar. The Mexican fell, dead before he hit the floor.