“Save me a place, troopers,” Falcon said, making a half-salute. “It’ll be a lifetime for me, but only a drink or two for you.”
Turning away from the hasty grave, Falcon mounted his horse and started out in pursuit of the Indians who had done this.
The Indian trail was surprisingly easy to follow. Falcon was certain that the Indians he sought were being led by Chetopa, and Chetopa either didn’t think there were any white men capable of trailing him ... or he was so confident in the strength of his band that he didn’t care if anyone trailed him or not.
Falcon caught up with them in late afternoon, then stayed well back of them so that they were totally unaware of his presence. He stayed on their trail for the rest of the day, actually enjoying the chase almost as if he were playing a game of chess—move and countermove. And what made this particularly enjoyable to Falcon was the fact that he was controlling all the moves.
When night fell, Falcon became much more careful in his tracking. That was because he knew that Chetopa would not travel at night, and he didn’t want to suddenly ride in on them. In order to prevent that, Falcon decided to dismount. He led his horse through the darkness, picking his way very carefully so as not to dislodge any stones that would give him away.
Then, on the desert floor in the darkness ahead, he saw the glow of a campfire.
He smiled.
If they had known they were being trailed, they would have made a cold camp. So far, he still had the advantage of secrecy.
As Falcon ground-hobbled his horse, he thought of Diablo, who had served him faithfully for so many years. Diablo was old, and enjoying a well-earned retirement on Falcon’s ranch back in Colorado. He found himself wishing he had Diablo with him now, rather than the horse furnished him by the sheriff in Oro Blanco. He and Diablo were simpatico. He could get the response he needed by just thinking things, and that had gotten him through some very tight spots over the years.
This horse was not Diablo, but Falcon had to admit that it had served him well, and he patted his mount affectionately on its face a couple of times.
“You’ve done a good job, and don’t let anyone ever say otherwise. Now, what I want you to do is stay here and be quiet until I get back.”
Falcon looked around, marking the position so that he could find his way back in the dark. Then, he started toward the Indian camp.
The moon was full, and there were a few clouds in the sky. From time to time one of the clouds would pass over the moon, and when it did so, it would shine silver during its transit. At those times a shadow would fall across the desert floor, and Falcon utilized those opportunities to advance forward.
Whenever the moon was out, he would try to remain in the shadows of a saguaro cactus or a rock outcropping. Sometimes he would find a depression and move forward in defilade.
As he approached the camp, he could smell something cooking over the fire. He didn’t know whether it was a rabbit, a snake, or some bird they had killed. Whatever it was, he was glad they were cooking, because the smell of cooking would mask any scent the Apache or one of their horses might get of Falcon as he approached.
He heard one of the Indians say something, and the others laughed. He was surprised by how close it sounded, and he stopped, remaining perfectly still, barely breathing, for a long moment.
Standing there, still and quiet, gave Falcon the opportunity to look around. That was when he picked out a shadow within a shadow, noticeable only because it was even blacker than the surrounding darkness.
The shadow moved, then coughed.
The shadow was an Indian, a guard perhaps, though Falcon knew that Indians rarely posted guards.
The Indian guard stood up and blew his nose onto the ground. That gave Falcon the opportunity to move forward several feet. He advanced through the night as silently as the clouds overhead. As he came closer to the Apache on guard, he pulled out his Arkansas toothpick.
The Indian shouted something toward the camp, and one of the ones around the fire lifted a chunk of cooking meat and looked at it, then shouted back. Evidently the Indian was hungry.
Well, Falcon would take care of that.
Falcon moved closer, ever closer, until he was but inches behind the rock the guard had chosen to use as his backrest. The guard sat back down, then leaned back against the rock.
The rock only came halfway up the Indian’s back, which was very good for Falcon’s purposes. Falcon raised up, put his arm around the Indian, and clamped his hand down on the Indian’s mouth.
The Indian tried to shout something, but Falcon had him so clamped down that only a very muted sound escaped.
Falcon drew his knife across the Indian’s neck in one quick slice, severing his jugular. Falcon jerked his hand away as blood gushed from the wound. The Indian fell back, flopped a few times like a fish out of water, then died.
Falcon cut around the base of the Indian’s scalp, then turned him over on his belly. Putting his foot in the middle of the Indian’s back, Falcon grabbed the Indian by his hair, then jerked. The scalp came off cleanly.
Falcon debated for a moment or two as to whether he should take the scalp with him. Then he decided against it. Instead, he cut a coup stick, put the scalp on the stick, then rolled the Indian over on his back and forced open the dead man’s mouth. He then stuck the bottom of the coup stick into the open mouth, using it as a support mount for the stick.
Falcon left then, creeping away as quietly and as carefully as he had arrived.
Let them find their brother, neatly and expertly scalped, with no sign of who did it.
CHAPTER 18
The sun was high overhead, a brilliant white orb in a fixed blue sky. It beat down mercilessly on the four men who rode slowly across the desert floor.
“Hey, Fargo, are you sure you know where we are?” Casey asked.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You sure? ’Cause I don’t want to get lost out here, maybe have somebody find our bones about a hundred years from now.”
Dagen laughed.
“What you think’s so funny?” Casey asked.
“Somebody findin’ our bones a hunnert years from now,” Dagen said.
“I don’t think that’s funny. I don’t think that’s funny a’tall.”
“Will you three shut the hell up? It’s too damn hot to be listenin’ to the three of you palaverin’ all the damn time,” Fargo said.
“Well, I’d like to know just where the hell we are. I mean, we was headin’ north when we left town; next thing you know we started curvin’ aroun’, we was going west for a while; now damn me if it don’t seem we’re goin’ south. If you ask me, we’re just ridin’ in circles. And when a fella starts ridin’ in circles, that means we’re lost.”
“We ain’t lost,” Fargo said. “We’re doublin’ back is all.”
“Doublin’ back? Doublin’ back for what? If you hadn’t shot that son of a bitch back in Mesquite, we wouldn’t have to be out here and we wouldn’t be hot. We’d still be sittin’ in a nice, cool saloon,” Dagen said. “Drinkin’ beer and talkin’ with the women ...”
“And eating,” Monroe said, interrupting Dagen.
“Yeah,” Dagen agreed. “And eating.”
“What the hell did you shoot that son of a bitch for anyway?” Casey asked.
“I told you why I shot him. I thought it was Ponci,” Fargo said.
“What if it had been Ponci and he had hid the money somewhere?” Dagen asked. “Then he would be dead and we wouldn’t have no money, or no idea where it was. Did you think of that?”
“No, I reckon I didn’t,” Fargo admitted. “All I could think of was that the son of a bitch stole money from us and I wanted to kill him.” The four men rode on for a while longer before Dagen spoke again. “Hey, Casey, you got ’nything left to eat? Jerky or somethin’?”