Revenge of Eagles

—“and we are told we can only speak the white man’s tongue. If they caught us speaking in our native language, they punished us.”

“But you can still speak Apache, can’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Say something in Apache for me,” Timmy asked.

Cloud Dancer pointed to Timmy’s mother. “That is your mother. Mother is shimaa.”

“Shimaa,” Timmy repeated.

Cloud Dancer pointed to her head. “Head is bitsitsin. Hair is bitsizil; eyes, bidaa; ears, bijaa; hand, bigan; feet, bikee. It’s easy. Just remember that each part of your body starts with the ‘bi’ sound, as in the word bit.”

Timmy repeated each word several times, until he was able to say them.

“Very good!” Cloud Dancer said, clapping her hands enthusiastically.

For the next few hours, Cloud Dancer taught Timmy her language while his mother looked on. Johnson stared out the window, his disapproval evident but not spoken.

Watching the interplay between Cloud Dancer and Timmy, Falcon MacCallister thought of his own wife, dead now for many years. Had she lived, it might be her sitting next to him now, and Timmy could be his own son, learning the language.

Marie Gentle Breeze, as she was called, had been captured by a band of Indians who tried to take her north with them as a slave. She fought them all the way, until they killed her. They crushed her head with a war ax, raped her many times, and threw her body in the river. Jamie MacCallister, Falcon’s father, rode and walked for many miles on either side of the river, searching for Marie. He finally found her body wedged between a large rock and a tree, a few feet away from the west bank of the river.

Falcon stared across the coach at the drummer. Johnson’s obvious Indian bias had triggered Falcon’s memories of his own wife, and what happened to her. It was the memory of his wife’s murder that had caused him to throw Johnson from the stage, and he had to fight against the urge to do it again.

Up on the driver’s seat, Gentry and his shotgun guard were talking.

“As many times as Johnson has made this trip with us, you’d think he’d have better sense than to fall out the door,” Kerry said.

Gentry chuckled. “He didn’t no more fall out that door than the man in the moon.”

“What do you mean? He got off the stage somehow. You seen him come runnin’ up alongside.”

“Well, think about it, Kerry. Has he ever fallen out the door before?”

“No.”

“No, and he didn’t this time neither. Come on, you know him. You know how he can get on a person’s nerves. If you ask me, that big fella MacCallister just threw Johnson’s ass out.”

Kerry laughed. “Damn me if I don’t think you’re probably right.”

In order to get to Pajarito from Calabasas, the stage had to follow the road south for a while, then cut back west through Cerro Pass.

By horseback there was no need to follow the road, so Fargo Ford and his band started straight across the Sonora for Cerro Pass.

When they reached the Santa Cruz River, they stopped to fill their canteens, and to let the horses drink. Ponci stood at the edge of the river and started relieving himself.

“Ponci, what the hell are you doing pissing in the river like that? Can’t you see we are filling our canteens, you stupid shit?” Monroe asked.

“I’m pissin’ downriver,” Ponci answered.

“Get away from the river or I’ll kick the shit out of you,” Monroe said menacingly.

“You want to try me?” Ponci replied, his hand hovering over his gun.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and a bullet hit the ground between the two men, then ricocheted off, the boom and whine bouncing back as echoes from the nearby mountains.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Fargo asked angrily. “Would you rather fight each other, or get your hands on that money?”

Ponci and Monroe stared at each other for a long moment.

“Look, if you two sons of bitches want to kill each other, be my guest. But do it after we get the money, okay? Hell, I hope you do kill each other, then ... it’ll be more money for the rest of us.”

“We’ll finish this later,” Monroe said.

“I’ll be here,” Ponci said.

“Whichever one of you sons of bitches kills the other, you don’t get his whole share. We’ll split it up amongst us,” Fargo said.

Ponci and Monroe stared at each other for a moment longer. It was obvious by the expressions on their faces that they had no intention of letting the argument get that far.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think so,” Fargo said, reading their expressions. “Come on, get mounted,” he ordered. “If we want to get our hands on that money, we’ve got to get to the pass before the stage.”

The coach had been under way for about four hours when, from the driver’s seat, came the blare of a trumpet.