The third man was staked out on the ground, his arms and legs spread out. His penis had been cut off and, from the amount of blood that had pooled between his legs, it had happened while he was still alive. His eyes were cut out, and his scalp had been lifted, but Falcon was more than reasonably sure that this was Corporal Gibson, the corporal he had encountered on that same visit to Fort Lowell.
“What were you three doing out here?” he asked. “I’m sure Colonel Dixon did not send out a three-man patrol.”
Looking around, Falcon saw a shovel, a pretty good-sized hole, and a few rocks that had been broken into smaller pieces. That told him all he needed to know.
“I’ll be damn. You three men were deserters, weren’t you?” he said. “Figured you’d come out here and dig yourself up some of that gold you heard people talking about.” He sighed. “You should’ve thought about it a little more.”
Picking up the shovel, Falcon enlarged the hole enough to be able to take all three bodies. Then he cut the corporal loose and dragged him and the others over to where he had been working. He pushed them down into the hole, covered them with dirt, then moved a few rocks over the top of the grave.
When he was finished, he looked down at the grave.
“Corporal Gibson, you were an asshole, but you deserved better than this. You others as well,” he said aloud.
Then recalling a legend that brought comfort to cavalrymen, he recited a poem:
According to the legend, no man who had ever served in the cavalry could have possibly lived a life that was good enough to earn him a place in heaven. On the other hand, the cavalrymen had all served enough penance on earth to keep them from going to hell. The alternative to heaven or hell was Fiddlers’ Green, a place where the water was cool, the beer was plentiful, there was always bacon with the beans, and the dance-hall girls were friendly.
“Save me a place, troopers,” Falcon said, making a half-salute. “It’ll be a lifetime for me, but only a drink or two for you.”
Turning away from the hasty grave, Falcon mounted his horse and started out in pursuit of the Indians who had done this.
The Indian trail was surprisingly easy to follow. Falcon was certain that the Indians he sought were being led by Chetopa, and Chetopa either didn’t think there were any white men capable of trailing him ... or he was so confident in the strength of his band that he didn’t care if anyone trailed him or not.
Falcon caught up with them in late afternoon, then stayed well back of them so that they were totally unaware of his presence. He stayed on their trail for the rest of the day, actually enjoying the chase almost as if he were playing a game of chess—move and countermove. And what made this particularly enjoyable to Falcon was the fact that he was controlling all the moves.
When night fell, Falcon became much more careful in his tracking. That was because he knew that Chetopa would not travel at night, and he didn’t want to suddenly ride in on them. In order to prevent that, Falcon decided to dismount. He led his horse through the darkness, picking his way very carefully so as not to dislodge any stones that would give him away.
Then, on the desert floor in the darkness ahead, he saw the glow of a campfire.
He smiled.
If they had known they were being trailed, they would have made a cold camp. So far, he still had the advantage of secrecy.
As Falcon ground-hobbled his horse, he thought of Diablo, who had served him faithfully for so many years. Diablo was old, and enjoying a well-earned retirement on Falcon’s ranch back in Colorado. He found himself wishing he had Diablo with him now, rather than the horse furnished him by the sheriff in Oro Blanco. He and Diablo were simpatico. He could get the response he needed by just thinking things, and that had gotten him through some very tight spots over the years.
This horse was not Diablo, but Falcon had to admit that it had served him well, and he patted his mount affectionately on its face a couple of times.
“You’ve done a good job, and don’t let anyone ever say otherwise. Now, what I want you to do is stay here and be quiet until I get back.”
Falcon looked around, marking the position so that he could find his way back in the dark. Then, he started toward the Indian camp.
The moon was full, and there were a few clouds in the sky. From time to time one of the clouds would pass over the moon, and when it did so, it would shine silver during its transit. At those times a shadow would fall across the desert floor, and Falcon utilized those opportunities to advance forward.
Whenever the moon was out, he would try to remain in the shadows of a saguaro cactus or a rock outcropping. Sometimes he would find a depression and move forward in defilade.
As he approached the camp, he could smell something cooking over the fire. He didn’t know whether it was a rabbit, a snake, or some bird they had killed. Whatever it was, he was glad they were cooking, because the smell of cooking would mask any scent the Apache or one of their horses might get of Falcon as he approached.
He heard one of the Indians say something, and the others laughed. He was surprised by how close it sounded, and he stopped, remaining perfectly still, barely breathing, for a long moment.
Standing there, still and quiet, gave Falcon the opportunity to look around. That was when he picked out a shadow within a shadow, noticeable only because it was even blacker than the surrounding darkness.
The shadow moved, then coughed.
The shadow was an Indian, a guard perhaps, though Falcon knew that Indians rarely posted guards.
The Indian guard stood up and blew his nose onto the ground. That gave Falcon the opportunity to move
