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“Keep this horse,” he said. “This is a gift to you, to express my grief over the death of your daughter.”

Keytano said nothing but nodded.

Falcon rode out of the village, fighting the urge to break into a gallop, depending upon Keytano’s honor to keep Chetopa from shooting him in the back. It didn’t take too long before he disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER 12

A fly landed on Fargo Ford’s face. Without waking, he brushed it off, but the second time it landed, it woke him up. He lay there for just a second to get his bearings; then he realized where he was.

Last night he had brought Carmelita to his room. He had kept the whore all to himself, telling the others to share Rosita. Turning his head, he saw her in bed beside him. The bedsheet came up only to her waist and she was naked above it. In the bright light of the morning sun, she didn’t look nearly as attractive to him as she had last night. The dissipation of her profession was beginning to show, and she looked older now than he had thought she was last night. There was a terrible scar on one of her breasts, ending with a split nipple.

“Damn, woman, someone cut you pretty good,” he said under his breath. He got out of bed, then walked over to the window and looked outside. The window opened onto the back of the cantina, so he raised it, then relieved himself over the windowsill, shooting a golden stream out to glisten in the morning sun.

“There is a chamber pot under the bed,” Carmelita said from behind him.

“This’ll do fine,” Fargo said, shaking himself off. He walked over to the chair and started pulling on his trousers. “How’d you get your titty all cut up like that?” he asked.

As if just now realizing that she was naked from the waist up, Carmelita jerked the sheet up to cover herself.

“A very bad hombre,” she said.

“Woman, you ain’t never seen an hombre as bad as I am,” he said.

“You ... you are going to hurt me, Señor?” Carmelita asked in quick fear.

“No, I ain’t goin’ to hurt you,” he said. He looked at her as he buttoned his shirt. “But if I had seen how ugly you was last night, I sure wouldn’t of give you as much money as I did.”

“I’m sorry I do not please you, Señor.”

Fargo laughed. “Oh, hell, I didn’t say you didn’t please me. You was good enough in bed last night. And like they say, in the dark all cats are gray.”

Fargo pulled on his boots, strapped on his gun, and picked up his saddlebags.

“Well, I guess I’ll be gettin’ my pards and movin’ on. We got a ways to ...” He paused in mid-sentence, then hefted the saddlebags again. His eyes narrowed, and quickly he opened the flap and looked inside. “Where’s my money?” he asked.

“Qué?”

“You heard me! My money, you ignorant bitch! Where’s my money?” Fargo pulled his pistol, cocked it, and shoved the barrel of it into her nostril, pushing so hard that her nose began to bleed. “You stole my money!”

“Señor. No entiendo! What are you talking about? I know nothing about your money!”

Fargo pulled the pistol back, then ripped the sheet off the bed. Seeing nothing, he pushed her onto the floor, then pushed the mattress off, so he could look under the bed.

The money wasn’t there.

“Where is the money?” Fargo demanded again, this time hitting her across the face with the flat of his pistol. Now, both her nostrils were bleeding, and he left a cut on her lip.

“Por favor ayúdeme. El gringo trata de matarme!” Carmelita screamed.

“Where is my money?” Fargo asked again, shouting at the top of his voice.

Suddenly the door to the room opened and, turning toward it, Fargo saw the bartender rushing in, holding a shotgun. Fargo shot first. The .44-caliber bullet punched through the bartender’s chest, then broke through his back, leaving a quarter-sized hole. The bartender fell back into the hall, firing his shotgun as he fell back. The charge from the shotgun tore a hole in the ceiling.

By now the others, except for Ponci, were out in the hallway, guns in hand. All were in their underwear.

Casey walked over to look down at the bartender. The bartender was on his back, lying in a pool of blood. His eyes were open, but unseeing.

“Fargo, what the hell happened?” Casey asked. “What’d you shoot him for?”

Fargo turned toward Carmelita. “This bitch stole our money,” he said. He nodded toward the bartender. “He must’a been in on it, ’cause he come runnin’ in with that scattergun.”

“The whore didn’t steal the money,” Monroe said. “Don’t you remember?”

Fargo looked at Monroe. “Don’t I remember what? What do you mean, the whore didn’t steal the money?”

“You put all the money in Ponci’s saddlebags last night. You said bein’ as how he was the only one who wouldn’t be with a woman, it would be safer there.”

“That’s right, Fargo, that’s what you done,” Dagen said.

Fargo looked at them for a moment. Then he chuckled. “I’ll be damn,” he said. “You’re right. That is what I done.” He looked over at Carmelita, who was using the edge of the sheet to wipe the blood away from her face. She was weeping quietly, joined now by Rosita, who sat on the bed beside her, trying to comfort her.

“Look, I’m sorry about all this,” Fargo said to her. “I forgot I gave all the money to Ponci. I thought you stole it.”

“Usted bastardo. Usted es el hijo del Diablo,” the woman spat.

“Yeah, yeah, well, I guess you got a right to be mad,” Fargo said. He looked at the others. “Where is Ponci?”

“Well, since we was all goin’ to be busy, he got a room by hisself,” Dagen said. He pointed to a closed door. “He’s in that room there.”

Fargo walked over to the room Dagen indicated and tried to open the door. It was locked.

“Ponci,” Fargo called, knocking on the door. “Ponci, you still alive this morning?”

When he didn’t get an answer, he tried the door again. “Ponci?” He looked at the others and chuckled. “Well, what do you know? Ole Ponci must’ve died during the night.” He kicked the door open, then walked inside. “What the hell?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“Come look for yourself.”

The bed in the room was not only empty, it showed no signs of ever having been slept in.

“Son of a bitch,” Casey said. “Where’s Ponci? You think he wandered off somewhere and died?”

“No,” Fargo said. “I think the son of a bitch has skedaddled! The son of a bitch has run off and he took our money!”

“How the hell could he do that?” Dagen asked. “The bastard could hardly sit up on his own, let alone take our money and run.”

“Fargo, you ain’t behind this, are you?” Monroe asked.

Fargo looked shocked at the accusation. “What? Are you saying I took the money?”

“I’m just saying we’re wondering about it,” Monroe said.

“Yeah,” Casey added, and Monroe breathed a sign of relief that he wasn’t issuing the challenge alone. Though Dagen didn’t say anything, he stepped over to stand beside the others.

Fargo could handle any one of them by himself. That was why he was the leader. But even he couldn’t handle all three if they turned against him.

“Look, fellas,” he said, less belligerent now than he had been. “I don’t know how Ponci pulled this off. Maybe he wasn’t near as bad as he let on to be. Or maybe he was just soused down with that laudanum and figured to take his chance. But I didn’t have nothin’ to do with this.”

There was a long beat of silence before Dagen answered.

“I believe you,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” Monroe added.

“So, what do we do now?” Casey asked.

“Now? We run the son of a bitch down, kill him, and take the money. I mean, faking it or not, he’s more dead than alive. How damn hard can it be to find him?”