“What the hell?” a man’s voice shouted as he rose up in the bed.
“Ponci, you son of a bitch!” Fargo shouted. “Did you think you would get away with it?”
Fargo pulled the trigger twice. The gun boomed, and the muzzle flash lit up the little room. The sound of the gunshots drowned out Suzie’s screams.
Fargo hurried over to the bed and jerked the sheet down.
“Holy shit!” he said, looking down at the body of the man he had just killed.
It wasn’t Ponci.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
By now, Suzie had recognized Fargo, and her screams stopped.
“Fargo, what the hell has gotten into you? What are you doing?” she shouted at him, hitting him angrily. “Why did you come in here shooting like that?”
“Stop it! Stop hitting me!” Fargo replied, covering up from her blows. He pushed her away, then using his still-smoking pistol, pointed it at the body of the man he had just shot.
“I thought that was Ponci.”
By now several dogs were barking outside.
“That’s it? You thought it was Ponci, so you came in here shooting?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? You break into my crib, kill the man who is in my bed, scare me to death, and all you can say is you are sorry?”
“I told you, I thought it was Ponci. Where is Ponci anyway?” Fargo asked.
The dogs continued to bark, and now, from a nearby house, a baby added its crying to the noise.
“Why are you asking me where Ponci is? How the hell am I supposed to know?” she asked. “I haven’t seen Ponci in nearly a year. I thought he was with you.”
“No, Ponci isn’t with me,” Fargo said angrily. “If he was with me, I would have already killed the son of a bitch, instead of coming here to do it.”
“Yeah? Well, you didn’t do it. You killed poor Mr. Thompson.”
“Who is Mr. Thompson?”
“That’s Mr. Thompson,” Suzie said, pointing to the body in her bed. “He works in the general store. What made you think it was Ponci?”
“One of the Mex whores down at the cantina told me the man you were with has a limp. Does this man have a limp?”
“He doesn’t have anything now, you ignorant bastard,” Suzie said. “You just killed him.”
“All right, before I killed him, did he have a limp?” Fargo asked.
“Yes, he did have a limp. One of his legs was deformed.”
“Yeah, well, then you can see that it was an honest mistake. She said he had a limp, so I thought it was Ponci.”
“What are you talking about? Ponci doesn’t have a limp.”
“He does now.”
“What was that shooting?” a man’s voice called from outside.
“I don’t know, it come from down that way,” a muffled voice answered. “And I think I heard a woman scream.”
“Listen, you’d better get out of here,” Suzie said, shoving him toward the door. “And if I were you, I would leave town.”
“How are you going to handle this?” Fargo asked.
“What are you going to tell the sheriff when he finds a dead man in your bed?”
Suzie sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll just tell him what happened, that someone broke in here and shot him.”
Fargo’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell him who did it. I’ll just say I don’t know who it was.”
“What if they blame you?” Fargo asked.
“They aren’t going to blame me,” Suzie replied. “As soon as you are out of here, I’m going to start screaming bloody murder. And anyway, do you really give a shit if I get blamed for this?”
Fargo shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t give a shit.”
“I didn’t think you would. Now, get the hell out of here.”
Fargo left the house, then ran back up between the two buildings.
“Hurry, there’s some people comin’,” Casey said, handing the reins back to Fargo. “I can see ’em comin’ this way from the other end of the street.”
“Did you get the money?” Monroe asked.
“No,” Fargo answered, swinging into the saddle.
“What the hell, you killed the son of a bitch and you didn’t even get the money?”
“Look, down there!” someone shouted from the darkness at the far end of the street. “There’s riders in front of Armbruster’s!”
“This is the sheriff!” a voice called. “You men hold it right there!”
“Throw a few shots their way, then let’s get the hell out of here!” Fargo said.
Fargo, Casey, Monroe, and Dagen began shooting toward the approaching crowd. The muzzle-flame patterns lit up the building fronts like flashes of summer lightning, and the sounds of gunshots filled the street.
The shooting had the desired effect, because the crowd screamed and scattered, just as Fargo thought they would.
“Let’s go!” Fargo shouted, and he and the other three galloped out of town.
“You didn’t get the money?” Monroe shouted over the sound of the galloping horses. “Why did you kill him without getting the money?”
“It wasn’t Ponci!” Fargo yelled back. “I killed the wrong man!”
CHAPTER 15
Falcon had seen scores of Army posts just like Fort Lowell all over the West. But unlike the forts of the Northwest, this one did not have a palisade. Instead, it had a low-lying rock fence, more as a means of marking out the property than providing any protection. But there was a front gate, from which hung a sign denoting this as the Fort Lowell Military Reservation, and the gate was manned by an armed guard.
As Falcon and Sheriff Corbin approached the gate, the guard, a young private, stepped out to meet them. He held his rifle at the high-port position.
“Halt!” he ordered.
Falcon and Sheriff Corbin complied.
“Dismount,” the guard ordered.
Falcon and Corbin swung down from their horses and, holding the reins, approached the guard.
“Who are you, and what is the purpose of your visit?” the guard asked.
“Private, I’m Sheriff Corbin from Oro Blanco,” Corbin said. He pointed to Falcon. “This is ... my deputy,” he added, cutting a quick glance toward Falcon and asking him silently to go along with the ruse.
Falcon said nothing to dispute the sheriff.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” the guard asked.
“We are here on official business. I need to speak with the fort commander.”
“Wait here,” the guard ordered. He stepped back a few paces, then turned his head to shout. “Corporal of the guard! Repair to post number one!”
His call was repeated by the next-nearest sentry to him.
“Corporal of the guard! Repair to post number one!”
They heard it repeated three more times, each call becoming less distinct than the preceding call as the relaying guards grew farther away. Then they heard the returning call, repeated several times until it reached the guard nearest this one.
“Corporal of the guard is repairing to post number one!”
“The corporal of the guard will be here shortly, sir,” the private at the front gate said.
Falcon chuckled. “Yes, we heard.”
A moment later, the corporal arrived. He was overage for his grade, and the corporal’s corpulent body and patchy red face suggested that his lack of rank might be related to his love of drink. “What is it, Private Wilson? What’s the problem?” he asked.
“These men are here to speak with Colonel Dixon,” Private Wilson answered.
The corporal looked at Falcon and the sheriff. “I’m Sergeant ...” he started, then corrected himself. “That is, I’m ... Corporal ... Gibson. You are here to see the colonel?”
“We are.”