down upon the bodies of Chetopa, Mensa, and Tarq.
“No!” Keytano said.
“But the whites have done this thing! Can we let this go unavenged?” Caiche asked.
“Do you see the scalps?” Keytano asked, pointing to the bodies. “This was not done by the whites. It was done by one white man.”
“One white man? Five warriors were with Chetopa. And you say that one white man did this?”
“Yes.”
“What one white man could best Chetopa and five warriors?”
“Falcon MacCallister,” Keytano said. “The one we call Dlo Binanta.”
“How do you know it was Dlo Binanta?” Caiche asked.
Keytano pulled the knife from Chetopa’s body, then held out the scalp.
“Dlo Binanta has sent us a message,” Keytano said. “He has told us that, as he promised, he will take the scalps of his enemy.”
“We should go after him,” Caiche said. “Then, after we kill him, we will make war with the whites for what they have done.”
“No,” Keytano said sharply. “If more of our young men go after him, more of our young men will die. Falcon MacCallister has said that he will kill and scalp the evil ones who killed my daughter. I say we will let him do as he promised he would do.”
“And I say we should go after him and kill him,” Caiche insisted. He turned to face the others. “I will lead you! Who among you is not afraid to die? Who among you will ride with me to find and kill Dlo Binanta? Come with me, all who are brave of heart!”
Caiche stepped to one side in an invitation to the warriors of the village.
“Come with me if you would avenge the death of our brothers!” Caiche shouted.
He waited.
Kinte started toward him, but he was grabbed by his father and pulled back. Another, even younger boy started toward Caiche, and the Indians, seeing that only young boys were joining him, laughed.
Caiche glared at them for a long moment, then, in humiliation, stormed out of the circle.
“Go back to your wickiups,” Keytano said to the others when he saw that the immediate crisis was over. “Go back to your wickiups and prepare for the burial of these brave but foolish men.”
The sun was a red orb just above the eastern horizon when Fargo and the others arrived in Mesquite. Although the sun was producing light, its orange disk was not yet too bright to look at.
Although the smell of frying bacon and coffee indicated that a few people were awake and preparing breakfast, the streets were empty, except for an old red dog that was sleeping on the front porch of one of the buildings.
Seeing the riders come into town, the dog got up and ambled across the street in front of them, then took a position under another porch. Since the saloon was not open at this early hour, there was no question about anything getting in the way of the task at hand. The riders went directly to the house of Fargo’s sister.
This time, Fargo checked the lean-to behind Suzie’s house. There, tied to a hitching bar and nibbling contentedly on some hay, was a familiar horse.
Fargo got down from his own horse and patted the animal a few times.
“He’s here!” Fargo said quietly to the others. “This here is his horse. The son of a bitch put one over on us!”
“You think he’s in the house?” Casey asked.
“No, I think he’s somewhere doin’ the fandango dance on one leg,” Fargo replied.
“I was just askin’.”
“Hell, yes, the son of a bitch is in the house,” Fargo said. “Where else would he be?”
Fargo went around to the front of the little house and felt for the key.
The key wasn’t there.
“Damn!” he said.
“What is it?”
“The bitch has moved the key.”
Stepping back, Fargo raised his leg, then kicked hard. The door popped open and Fargo, Dagen, Monroe, and Casey dashed in.
Two figures sat up in the bed, surprised by the sudden entry. This time there was no mistake. The man in bed with Suzie was Ponci.
“Fargo!” Ponci shouted in alarm.
“Give us our money, Ponci,” Fargo said.
“It ain’t here.”
Fargo pulled the trigger, and a bullet slammed into the bedstead just beside Ponci’s head.
“I said give us our money!”
