Revenge of Eagles

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Fifty miles south of where Falcon was at this very moment was the small town of Sassabi Flat. Sassabi Flat was less than two miles from the Mexican border. The town, which had its beginnings in the days when Arizona was a part of Mexico, was considerably more Mexican than American.

Like many of its counterparts south of the border, Sassabi Flat consisted of two-dozen or more adobe buildings, perfectly laid out around a center square. One end of the square was anchored by a church, the other end by a livery stable.

As Fargo Ford led his band of riders into the town, Father Rodriguez and a young altar boy were at the well in front of the church, drawing up a bucket of water. They looked up as the men rode by.

“Father,” the boy said. “Did you see those men as they rode by?”

“Si,” Father Rodriguez said. “I saw them.”

“What sort of men are they?”

“Creo que ellos son malos. Ellos tienen sobre ellos el olor de azufre, ” Father Rodriguez said.

“Yes,” the boy said. “I too think they are evil and have about them the scent of sulfur.”

Father Rodriguez crossed himself as he watched the men ride toward the center of town, and seeing his priest make the sign of the cross, the altar boy did the same.

There was no saloon as such, but there was a cantina, and Fargo Ford led his band directly there.

All dismounted except for Ponci.

“Hey, Fargo, Ponci is still mounted,” Casey said as the others started toward the cantina.

“You goin’ to stay out here?” Fargo asked.

“What?” Ponci had been hitting the laudanum pretty hard, and he was having a hard time focusing on what was going on around him.

“Are you going to stay out here, or come inside and have a few drinks ... maybe get something to eat?” Fargo asked.

“Oh,” Ponci said. He took another drink of the laudanum. “I think I’ll come in,” he said. He made an effort to dismount, but couldn’t.

“Help his sorry ass down,” Fargo said with a dismissive wave of his hand. As Monroe and Casey went to Ponci’s aid, Fargo stepped up onto the low wooden porch. Dagen followed him as he pushed through the dangling strings of beads that hung across the door of the cantina.

Because it was so bright outside and darker inside, the cantina managed to give the illusion of being cooler. But that was an illusion only. It was out of the direct sunlight, but it was also without any flow of air, so it wasn’t any cooler, and might even have been a little warmer than outside.

Once the two men stepped through the door, they moved to one side for a second, keeping their backs to the wall as they looked around the room. This was always the most critical time because if there was anyone here who intended to harm them, that person would have the early advantage until their eyes adjusted to the darkened interior.

“Do you see anyone?” Fargo asked.

Fargo’s question didn’t have to be any more specific. Dagen knew that he was asking if there was anyone in here who posed a threat to them.

“No, it looks clear,” Dagen answered.

“There’s a table back there,” Fargo said, pointing to the far corner of the room.

The two men started toward the table Fargo had pointed out.

“Fargo, he’s going to die,” Dagen said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Fargo was quiet for a long moment before he answered. “Yeah, I know it,” he finally said.

“Well, what are we keeping him with us for?”

“What do you mean, what are we keeping him with us for?”

“I mean, look at him, Fargo. Right now he’s more dead than alive. If you ask me, all he’s doin’ is just slow-in’ us down.”

“Hell, Dagen, if you want to shoot the son of a bitch, go out there and shoot him,” Fargo said. “I ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ to stop you.”

Dagen shook his head. “It ain’t my place to shoot him. You’re the leader. It’s your place.”

“Now, what kind of leader would I look like if I went around killin’ my own men?” Fargo asked.

By now they had reached the table and, deferring to Fargo, Dagen let him be the first to choose where he wanted to sit. After Fargo was settled, Dagen sat down. Then he looked around the room again, this time making a more careful observation.

There were about a dozen people in the cantina—ten men, counting the bartender, and two women. Not one of the people in the place looked American.

“Damn,” Fargo said. “Are you sure we’re still in America?”

“Yes,” Dagen said. “That is, I think so.”

“You think so? Look around. Do you see one American in here?”

Dagen called over to the bar. “Senor, es esta Norteamerica o Mexico?”