He reached up to press on the nostril to see if he could stop it from whistling, and the pain caused him to wince.
“I should’ve killed that son of a bitch,” he said aloud.
About a mile out of town, he saw what he had been waiting for, the approach of Fargo Ford and four other riders. He waited patiently until they drew even with him.
There were no greetings. Instead Fargo asked, “Did the shipment of money come in?”
“Yes, it’s down at the express office now,” Pete answered.
Fargo squinted at him. “Son of a bitch, you look like shit. What the hell happened to you?”
It wasn’t until then that the others noticed Pete’s condition. His nose was misshapen and his eyes were black.
“My horse kicked me,” Pete said.
Fargo laughed. “What kind of a damn fool would let his horse kick him?”
“It’s not funny,” Pete said, putting his hand to his nose and wincing in pain.
“No, I reckon not.” Fargo pulled his gun out, then looked at the others. “Okay, ever’body check your guns. Make sure they’re loaded.”
Pete pulled his rifle from the saddle sleeve.
“You don’t want to use a rifle here,” Fargo said. “We’re going to have to move quick. Use your pistol.”
“I’d rather use my rifle,” Pete said.
Fargo rode over closer, then reached down and pulled Pete’s pistol. “I said use your ...” He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw that the pistol was missing its cylinder. “What the hell happened to your pistol?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The cylinder fell out somewhere.”
“Mister, next time you agree to do a job with me, you make damn sure you got the right equipment,” Fargo said. “Never mind. When we get there, you stay mounted and hold the horses.”
“Whatever you say,” Pete said in submission.
CHAPTER 3
Just a few minutes before Fargo Ford and the others gathered at the edge of town, Falcon MacCallister came downstairs to the dining room of the Railroad Hotel. Looking around the room, he chose a table in the corner, then sat with his back to the wall so he could observe everyone and everything. He was carrying his small grip with him, and he put it down by his chair.
A waiter hurried over to him, carrying a menu. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning,” Falcon replied. He picked up the menu, which advertised the Railroad Hotel Dining Room as THE FINEST EATING ESTABLISHMENT IN CALABASAS, ARIZONA TERRITORY. What the menu did not point out was the fact that it was the only eating establishment in Calabasas. Though, to be honest, they did serve beans and tortillas at the Lucky Strike Saloon, because that had been Falcon’s supper last night after the card game.
Falcon put the menu aside without opening it. “I’ll have biscuits, a couple of fried eggs over easy, some fried potatoes, ham, and coffee,” he said.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter replied, picking up the menu and heading for the kitchen.
Shortly after buying the mine from Doc Holliday, Falcon had decided to come down and check on it. He was on his final leg now, but the last eighty miles would be by stagecoach to Oro Blanco, the location of his mine.
Oro Blanco.
The name meant “White Gold.” He didn’t know if the name was prophetic ... or just hopeful.
The stage would be leaving for Oro Blanco at seven this morning, and according to the schedule, would arrive in Oro Blanco by suppertime.
The waiter brought Falcon his breakfast, including a generous supply of butter and jam for the half-dozen biscuits.
“Thanks,” Falcon said, taking a bite of one of the biscuits as he surveyed his meal.
“I notice you are carrying a portmanteau. You takin’ the train out today?” the waiter asked.
“No, the stage. It leaves at seven.”
“Would you like to take a lunch with you? Only twenty-five cents.”
“It was my understanding that the stage would be stopping in Pajarito at noon.”
“Yes, but you never know what you’ll get in Pajarito. I can fix a ham sandwich for you that’ll be real tasty.”
“Thanks anyway, but I’ll take my chances at the stop in Pajarito,” Falcon replied.
“Suit yourself,” the waiter said, somewhat disappointed that he had not been able to make a sale. The sandwich arrangements were made strictly on his own, as he bought the makings from the restaurant and sold his products to passengers on both the train and the stagecoach.
“Waiter,” someone called, and the waiter excused himself to answer the summons.
With the waiter out of the way, Falcon managed to get into some serious eating.
Falcon was just buttering his last biscuit as Fargo Ford was leading his five men by outside. They were unremarkable in appearance, except for the fact that the six were riding together. However, because it was so early in the morning, even that didn’t arouse too much attention.
The six rode right down the middle of the street, keeping their horses at a slow walk.
“All right, we’ll dismount here,” Fargo said to the others, speaking authoritatively. “Pete, you stay mounted. You other fellas, give the reins to your horses to him. Hang on to ’em, Pete. If we have to get out of here in a hurry, I don’t want to have to be chasin’ down my mount.”
“I know what to do, Fargo, you don’t have to tell me,” Pete said.
“Yeah, well, from the looks of your face, you ain’t that smart around horses,” Fargo said, and the others laughed.
The men dismounted, then started walking toward a building about fifty yards away, Pete following on horseback with the other horses. A large sign on the front of the building read WESTERN EXPRESS OFFICE.
“Are we sure the money is here?” one of the men asked Fargo.
“Pete said it is,” Fargo answered. “So it damn sure better be, or he’ll be answerin’ to me.”
“I still don’t see why we’re robbin’ it here. Why don’t we just wait until it gets put on the stagecoach?”
“And go up against the shotgun guard and whoever else might be on the stage? No, thanks. We hit them this morning; the expressman will still be at breakfast and half the town will still be asleep. Just keep your wits about you, we’ll go in, get the money, and get out of here fast. By the time anyone figures out what happened, we’ll be ten miles from here.”
When they got within twenty yards of the building, the front door opened unexpectedly and four men came out.
“What the hell, Fargo? I thought you said nobody would be here. They’re wearing badges! That’s the law!”
“Pete?” Fargo hissed angrily. “What is this? What are these badge-packers doin’ here?”
“I didn’t know nothin’ about this,” Pete said. “You can’t blame this on me!”
“What are we goin’ to do, Fargo?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. Let me think,” Fargo said.
“I’m glad you and your deputies could come, Sheriff Ferrell,” George Snyder was saying to his breakfast guests as he walked out to the porch with them.
“I’ll tell you this, George,” the sheriff replied as he patted his stomach. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why you don’t weigh three hundred pounds. I mean, what with a wife that can cook like that. I do believe that is about the best breakfast I’ve ever ...”
“Who are you men, and what do you want?” one of the deputies shouted, interrupting the sheriff in mid-sentence. The deputy pointed to Fargo and the men who were approaching the express office in what the deputy perceived to be a suspicious manner.
“Sheriff ?” George said. Like the deputy, George was concerned by the determined approach of the men.
Sheriff Ferrell looked up, as curious as the others. That was when he recognized the leader.
“Son of a bitch! It’s Fargo Ford!” the sheriff shouted, going for his gun.
At this point neither Fargo, nor the men with him, had drawn their guns. But with the sheriff’s confrontation, the guns came out at about the same time and, within seconds, the street was filled with the explosive sounds of gunfire and billowing clouds of white smoke. George Snyder, who wasn’t armed, went down with the opening volley.