Sandy added, teasing Curley, “How’d you get to be so ugly, Curley?”
Curley was short, round, freckled, and without a hair on his head.
“My mama says she was scairt by a bear when she was carryin’ me, and some of that bear’s ugly wore off,” Curley replied.
The others laughed.
“But speakin’ of Jennie,” Curley continued, “better not nobody be messin’ around with her unless they’re wantin’ to tangle with Tucker.”
“Tangle with who?”
“Tucker Godfrey,” Curley said. “You know, that bandy-legged little shit from the Flying J Spread? He’s got his cap set for Jennie and he sees anyone sniffin’ around her, why, he runs ’em off.”
“Ha! You think I’m scared of Tucker? I could break that little pipsqueak over my knees like a piece of kindlin’ wood,” Arnie said.
“Hell, any of us could, if we could ever catch the little son of a bitch without his gun. But he’s damn good with that gun, and he has it with ’im all the time. Folks say he even has it with him when he goes to take a shit.”
The others laughed again.
At that moment, four riders stopped on a little hill overlooking the line shack. They ground-tied their mounts about thirty yards behind them, then moved to the edge of the hill at a crouch and looked down toward the little building.
“Can you see anybody inside the shack?” Fargo asked.
“Yeah, I can see three men sittin’ at a table, just inside the window,” Casey said.
“When I give the word, everyone start shooting at the same time,” Fargo said, raising his rifle to his shoulder. The others raised their rifles as well, and waited for Fargo.
“Now! Shoot!” Fargo shouted, squeezing the trigger that sent out the first bullet.
Arnie died instantly, a bullet coming through the window to crash into the back of his head. Sandy and Curley heard the little tinkle of glass as the window broke; then they watched in surprise and shocked horror as blood and gore exploded out of the top of Arnie’s head. By the time the sound of the shot reached them, other bullets were flying through the little cabin.
As Arnie flopped forward across the table, Curley felt a blow to his chest, as if he had just been kicked by a mule. His chair went over backward, and he fell to the floor.
Sandy went next, a bullet in his neck.
By now Shorty, who had remained on the bunk, had rolled onto the floor.
“Jesus!” he said. “What is it? What’s happening?” Shorty called.
“Shorty!” the wounded man on the floor called. “Shorty, I’m hit bad!”
Shorty crawled over to Curley, then saw the blood on his chest. The wound was sucking air and Shorty knew it would soon be over for his friend. He put his hand on the wounded man’s forehead. That gesture of comfort was Shorty’s last mortal act because the next bullet hit him right between the eyes.
Less than a moment later, all four men were dead.
“Hold your fire,” Fargo said, holding up his hand to stop the others.
The men quit firing.
“See any movement?”
“No,” Casey said.
“Casey, how about you go up and see if anyone is still alive?” Fargo said.
“What do you mean go up and see if anyone is still alive?” Casey replied. “Hell, you go up.”
Fargo glared at Casey, then got up and, upright and without caution, walked straight toward the shack.
“What’s that dumb son of a bitch trying to do? Show off?” Casey asked with a growl.
Casey, Dagen, and Monroe watched as Fargo kicked the door open and went inside. They waited to hear some sign of a struggle or, barring that, for him to come out and tell them it was all right to come in.
A long minute went by.
“What do you think happened?” Casey asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You think Fargo’s dead?”
“Did you hear anything?”
“No.”
“Then he probably ain’t dead.”
“How come he hasn’t come out and told us anything?”
“’Cause the son of a bitch has found the food and he’s eatin’ it all himself,” Dagen said in a sudden realization.
Dagen started toward the line shack and after only a moment’s hesitation, the others went with him. When they got to the shack they saw Fargo inside, eating beans straight from the pot. He was sitting at the table, totally oblivious of the dead man whose head was leaking blood and brains right beside the pot of beans.
There were three other men in the room and they lay dead on the floor.
“What the hell has been keeping you?” Fargo asked around a mouthful of beans. “Hurry up and eat. We’re goin’ back after our money.”
“Going back? To Mesquite?” Casey asked. “You think that’s the smart thing to do? I mean, seein’ as you kilt that man an’ all.”
“Hell,” Dagen said as he opened a biscuit and filled it with beans. “What are you worried about, Casey? You didn’t kill that fella. Neither did Monroe or me. If the sheriff is goin’ to be after somebody’s ass, it’s goin’ to be Fargo’s, right, Fargo?”
Fargo glared at Dagen across the top of the bean pot. “So I figure,” Dagen said, taking a bite of his biscuit and letting beans and juice dribble down either side of his mouth, “if there’s a chance of getting the money back by goin’ back to Mesquite, then let’s go.”
CHAPTER 19
“Natanke, there is food!” Kwazi called to his friend. Kwazi pulled a stick with skewered rabbit from the fire. It was roasted brown and from it curled a wisp of aromatic smoke. “Food!” he called again.
“Why does he not come?” one of the others asked. “Did he not say he was hungry?”
“Maybe he has fallen asleep,” Kwazi called.
“Give the meat to me,” Chetopa said. “I will take it to him, and if he has fallen asleep, I will send him back. We have no place for anyone who cannot remain awake when he is keeping watch.”
Kwazi gave the meat to Chetopa, though he did so reluctantly because he did not want to be the cause of his friend getting in trouble.
“Natanke!” Chetopa called, holding the meat up. “Are you a child going to sleep when you should be awake? Natanke, answer me!”
Because it was dark, Chetopa didn’t see Natanke until he almost tripped over him. Then, he was so shocked by what he saw, that he wasn’t sure he was actually seeing it.
“Kwazi! Mensa! Turq! Everyone, come!” he called loudly, and the others, some of whom had just started eating, hurried through the dark toward their war chief.
Chetopa pointed.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“I see ...” Kwazi began. Then, letting out a shout of anger and grief, he dropped to his knees beside the prostrate form of his friend.
“Natanke!” he shouted.
But Natanke didn’t hear him, because he was lying on his back, his head scalped. His mouth was open and a stick stood in his mouth. At the top of the stick was Natanke’s scalp.
“Ayiieeee!” Chetopa shouted. He ran back to the encampment, followed by the others. There, he grabbed his rifle and fired into the desert; the others did as well, and for a long moment, the night was lit by the lightning-like flashes of the muzzle blasts.
Then, as if suddenly realizing what they were doing, Chetopa quit firing and held up his hands.
“No, no!” he shouted. “Do not shoot!”
The shooting ended raggedly with one or two late shots being fired, followed by echoes coming from the nearby hills and mountains.
“To shoot is to waste ammunition,” Chetopa said.
“Chetopa, who did this thing?” Kwazi asked.
“I believe it was Dlo Binanta,” Chetopa said.
“Dlo Binanta? Has the Bird Man come for us?” one of the others said, the fright in his tone obvious.
“Let him come for us,” Chetopa said. “Yes, let Dlo Binanta come for us. We will kill him and then our medicine will be strong.”