“Yes, I guess I am that man.”
“Your given name is Falcon. I have been to the white man’s school now, so I know what they mean when my people call you Dlo Binanta. That means the ‘Leader of the Birds.’”
Falcon smiled. “Yes,” he said. “My name is Falcon.”
“That is why I am confused. If you hate Indians, why did you come to my defense?”
“Yaakos Gan, I don’t hate Indians,” he said. “I was married to an Indian. Her name was Marie Gentle Breeze.”
“Where is your wife now?”
“She is dead,” Falcon said. “Killed by renegade Indians.”
“So that is why you killed so many of my people? To avenge the death of your wife?”
“I’ll admit that played a role in it,” Falcon said. “But only a role. The main reason I killed so many Apache was because they were renegades on a killing spree. And killing them was the only way to stop them.”
“Folks, the food is on the table,” Mrs. Foster called to them. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“After you,” Falcon said, holding out his arm in invitation.
“Thank you.”
Cloud Dancer sat at the table, directly across from Timmy and his mother. Falcon sat beside her and seeing her there, the drummer made a point of moving down to the farthest end of the table.
“Mr. Johnson, why are you sitting down there all alone?” Mrs. Foster asked.
“I prefer to sit here, thank you,” Johnson replied in clipped words.
“Well, suit yourself.”
Outside, Gentry was overseeing the changing of the team. Mr. Foster, the depot manager, was leaning back against the fence with him as they watched the hostlers go about their business.
“Hear anything new about Keytano and his bunch?” Gentry asked.
“No, nary a thing,” Foster answered. “As far as I know, there ain’t nothin’ happened since them three prospectors come up dead ’n scalped here couple weeks or so back.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think they’re likely to come down onto the road and attack a stagecoach,” Gentry said. “Still, I don’t mind tellin’ you, from here on to Oro Blanco, the hair will be standin’ up on the back of my neck.”
“The hair on the back of your neck, huh? Tell you what, Gentry. If it was me ’stead of you makin’ this trip, why, it sure wouldn’t be the hair on the back of my neck that I’d be a-worryin’ about,” Foster said, laughing and running his hand across the top of his head.
Gentry took his hat off, and ran his hand through his own hair. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I reckon I see what you mean.”
“Go on in and get yourself somethin’ to eat,” Foster said. “Don’t worry none about the team. I’ll see to it that all the connections is done right.”
“Thanks,” Gentry replied. “I’ll just do that. What do you say, Kerry?” he called to his shotgun guard. “Let’s me’n you go get us somethin’ to eat. I smelled apple pie and I aim to make sure I get me a piece.”
Nodding, Kerry picked up the canvas bag and followed Gentry toward the front of the depot.
When Gentry and Kerry came inside, Kerry was carrying his shotgun in one hand and the canvas bag in the other.
“Oh,” Timmy said. “Does that mean we have to go? Mama, I haven’t had my pie yet.”
“We haven’t either, young fella,” Gentry said. “And we don’t plan to leave until we do, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
Timmy smiled. “Good,” he said.
Gentry and Kerry drew up a couple of chairs; then Kerry put the bag down in front of him.
“Eat up, folks,” Gentry said. “We’ll be pullin’ out of here in ...” He looked over at the clock that stood against the wall. “Thirty-two minutes.”
CHAPTER 7
No more than five miles away from where the stagecoach passengers were taking their meal, Fargo Ford and the four men with him waited at the top of Cerro Pass. Fargo walked over to the rock overhang and looked down into the valley, some 3500 feet below.
“You think we got here afore the stage?” Ponci asked.
“Yeah,” Fargo said.
“How do you know?”
“You see any tracks on the road?”
“No.”
“Then we beat the stage.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Now? We wait,” Fargo said. He walked back over to the shade of a rocky ledge, sat down, and pulled his hat
