Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “There are so many,” Sola whispered, helping Isa gather boxes of shells.

  “It will not be enough,” Isa replied. “We will hide the ones we cannot use in the cave where Naiche waits for us. When more of our people slip away from the reservation, they will have rifles and bullets.”

  One of the guards groaned outside, and the sound made Isa’s heart labor. He ran to the door, jerking his bloody knife from his belt, and made a slashing motion across the throat of the soldier making the noise.

  Isa gave the fort compound a sweeping glance. It was late and all, but a few soldiers would be asleep. It would be an easy thing to slip past the few who paraded back and forth in the night near the horse stables and kill two more who watched the back of the barns.

  He raced back inside to finish loading the rifles and sacks of cartridges.

  * * *

  Henry Peters was rolling a smoke, his rifle resting against the rear wall of the stable. He hated night guard duty, for the boredom often got to him. Dave Watkins was asleep inside the barn atop a mound of hay, a serious violation of regulations.

  In the flare of the match he held to the tip of his smoke he thought he saw a snarling face very close to his, and he blinked to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  Pulling the match away from his face, flicking it out so he could see clearly, he felt a powerful blow to his stomach.

  In a sudden rush of understanding he saw an Indian, an Apache, staring into his eyes as a white-hot pain shot through his belly, spreading like fire.

  “Jesus!” Peters grunted, feeling one of his ribs snap in two.

  The pain was more than he could take, and his vision clouded. He thought he heard Dave Watkins give a muffled yell from the hallway into the stable.

  Then all was black around him, and he felt no more pain and heard no more

  * * *

  Fifteen mounted Apaches under the leadership of Isa rode quietly away from Fort Thomas burdened with more than fifty Winchester .44 caliber rifles and three hundred cartons of shells. Isa led them south, often riding back and forth or in apparently meaningless circles until the desert floor provided a slab of rock where the iron-shod cavalry horses would leave very little sign.

  “It is good,” Isa told Sola. “Now we are ready for a war with the white-eyes.”

  “Naiche will be pleased,” Sola answered, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Yes. And word will reach Geronimo in Mexico that we have many-shoot guns. He will bring more Mimbres warriors across the mountains to join us.”

  “I do not think so,” Sola said. “Geronimo is like the big mountain cat. He prefers to fight with only a few warriors, to strike quickly and then disappear. I do not think he will come to our camp in the Dragoons.”

  Isa wondered if Sola could be right. It made little difference, for when it came to shedding the white man’s blood, Naiche had few equals.

  Heading toward the Dragoons by starlight, Isa changed directions often to throw off pursuit. No one must find them until they were fully prepared for the war that was sure to follow.

  Chapter 6

  Falcon put on his traveling clothes and walked to the Oriental Saloon. He found Doc still sitting at his favorite table playing poker. His friend looked like death. His face was pale and covered with sweat, the skin stretched taut over bulging cheekbones and sunken eyes that held only the tiniest spark of life. He had been playing poker steadily for over twenty-four hours, since the gunfight at the corral, his only sustenance, cigarettes and whiskey. Falcon could see the man was dying a little more every day. Perhaps that was why he refused to sleep until he passed out—fear that the man with the scythe would come to him in his slumber.

  Falcon looked into Kate’s eyes as she sat next to her man. The people in town called her Big Nose Kate, but Falcon no longer noticed her features. He saw only her love and devotion for Doc. She looked as if she had been crying—probably after trying to get him to eat or sleep, which always made him angry with her. He didn’t like to be babied.

  “Hey, Doc,” Falcon called as he approached the table.

  Tired eyes flicked his way, then seemed to come a little more alive as Doc smiled. “Hello and good morning, Master MacCallister.”

  Falcon stood there, his hands on his hips and a stern look on his face. “I’m fixing to head on down the road. Are you going to let a friend leave town without letting him buy you breakfast?”

  Doc’s eyes narrowed even as his lips curled in his everpresent sarcastic grin, as if he knew what Falcon was trying to do. “I would never be so rude as to do that, Falcon. Just give me a few more minutes to finish teaching these young men the rudiments of poker, and I shall join you at Campbell and Hatch’s.”

  As Falcon turned to go, he caught Kate’s grateful smile of relief. She gave him a quick wink before she turned back to Doc and the poker game.

  Campbell and Hatch’s Saloon was a combination bar, dance hall, billiard parlor, and eating establishment. As such, it was just as busy at this time of morning as it was at night. The crowd consisted mostly of businessmen getting a bite to eat prior to opening their doors, red-eyed cowboys trying to get some coffee into them before riding back out to punch cattle, and a few dance hall women taking a break before going to bed for the rest of the day.

  Falcon grabbed a table and sat facing the room, as was his habit. When the waiter came he ordered two breakfasts and told the man to keep the coffee coming when his guest arrived.

  Doc walked in a few moments later, and Falcon noticed he was limping slightly from the bullet wound in his right hip. He could still see the bullet hole in his pants and the bloodstains on the cloth. Evidently Doc hadn’t even changed clothes before he began his nonstop poker playing.

  Doc took a seat next to Falcon, so he, too, could watch the other men in the bar. When the waiter brought their cups of coffee, Doc took out a silver flask and poured a dollop of amber liquid into them.

  Doc held up his cup toward Falcon. “A toast,” he said, a strange look in his eyes. “A toast to the man behind the scenes.”

  Falcon clinked his cup against Doc’s. “What do you mean?”

  A sly smile crossed Doc’s lips. “Don’t think you went unobserved in your little altercation with Johnny Ringo.” He took another drink, and added, “Your timely interference was much appreciated. The man might have gotten lucky and actually hit one of us with that rifle.”

  Falcon laughed. These last few years, there had not been many men he enjoyed being with. Billy the Kid had been one, and Doc Holliday was another. The man’s sense of humor, and his loyalty to his friends, caused Falcon to feel a kinship with him that was rare for a man who spent most of his time alone.

  “What are you going to do now, Falcon?” Doc asked, as the waiter piled plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, tortillas, sliced tomatoes, and potatoes in front of them.

  Falcon shrugged. “Mosey on down the trail, I guess. I’ve still got a lot of country to see.”

  “Why not stay here in Tombstone? It is a growing town, and given enough time I might be able to teach you how to play poker.

  “That’d be the day,” Falcon said. “In the little time I’ve watched you, I’ve noticed you have a tendency to go against the odds. In the long run, that’s a no-win strategy.”

  “Ah, but that is the key, my friend. For me, there is no long run, only the here and now.”

  Doc bent his head and began to nibble at his food, but Falcon could tell his heart wasn’t in it. He knew consumption took away the appetite, but he wished Doc would at least try to take better care of himself. Of course, he didn’t say that, for he respected him too much to try to tell him how to live what was left of his life.

  After they finished eating, Doc said he was going home to take a nap, and Falcon went to Morgan Earp’s house, where both he and Virgil were recovering from their wounds.

  Wyatt answered the door, a pistol in his hand. “Oh, it’s you, Falcon. Come on in.”

  “Expecting trouble?
” Falcon asked as he took his hat off and entered the room.

  Morgan was lying on a sofa, propped up on several pillows, bandages on both shoulders. Virgil was across the room with his wounded leg stuck out in front of him on an ottoman, a shotgun cradled in his arms.

  Wyatt peered out the door for a moment, then closed and bolted it. “Yeah. Sheriff Behan has been making noises about arresting us for murder.”

  “But he has no authority in Tombstone. He’s the county sheriff,” Falcon said.

  Virgil nodded. “That’s correct, Falcon, but he still has plans to haul us in to stand trial.”

  “How do you think it’ll play?”

  Morgan gave a short, harsh laugh. “There’s no tellin’. Half the people in Tombstone make a lot of money off The Cowboys’ trade. They’re gonna be plenty pissed off that we’ve shut them down.”

  “Well, I just came to say good-bye, and good luck,” Falcon said, walking around the room and shaking hands with each of the brothers. “But if you need some help—”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No, Falcon, you’ve done enough. This is our battle now, and we’ll see it through.”

  Falcon took Wyatt’s hand. “I’ll keep watch in the newspapers. If I see that the trial is going against you, I’ll be back.”

  “Thanks Falcon. Vaya con Díos, partner,” Wyatt said.

  * * *

  Falcon climbed on Diablo and began to ride to the southeast out of town. Just as he got to the city limits he saw three men on horseback followed by two buckboards coming toward him.

  As he pulled abreast of the wagons, he glanced inside and his stomach went cold. There were several bodies laid out in a row. All had been scalped, and one’s head looked as if it’d been cooked in a fire, then its skull split open.

  “Hold on, there!” Falcon called as he wheeled Diablo in a tight turn. “What’s happened here?”

  One of the men—they were miners by their looks—shook his head. “We found these poor folk at a cabin up in the foothills of the Dragoon Mountains. Looks like the Apaches had quite a time with them.”

  Falcon climbed down off Diablo, his heart aching at the sight of the slaughtered settlers. There were two women, their naked bodies covered with blood-soaked blankets. Falcon pulled back the blanket and felt his gorge rise at the sight of the gutted woman, her entrails hanging loose. Noonday sun glinted off her bare skull where the scalp had been hacked off. Her face, even in death, still wore a look of horror at what had befallen her.

  Falcon brushed flies off her face and gently closed her eyes with his fingers. Then his fist clenched as he felt the familiar killing rage sweep through his body. In his mind’s eye, the woman’s face became that of Marie, his wife, who had been crucified by renegade Indians in the not too distant past.

  He forced his voice past the knot in his throat. “Do you know who did this?” he asked.

  The miner shrugged. “Some soldiers came by our claim the other day and said Naiche and a small band of followers was on the warpath in this area, but the blue-bellies was havin’ trouble locatin’ ’em.”

  “Naiche, huh? I’ve heard of him. Some people call him the human tiger, because of his thirst for white man’s blood,” Falcon said, turning away, unable to look at the woman’s body any longer.

  “Yeah,” one of the men on horseback added, “they also said another band of ‘bout twenty or so Injuns escaped from Fort Thomas last week with over fifty Winchester repeatin’ rifles and a whole load of ammunition.” He leaned to the side and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto a cactus beside the road. “I plan on stayin’ in town fer a while to give those soldiers a chance to catch them redskins.”

  “That’s fer sure,” another of the miners said. “They bad enough with bows an’ arrows, but they gonna be plumb hell with repeatin’ rifles in they hands.”

  “Looks like they took off with some horses and mules belongin’ to these folks, an’ whatever weapons they had. There wasn’t much left of the cabin that hadn’t been trashed,” said the man driving the buckboard.

  “There was blood everwhere,” another said, shaking his head. “Poor devils must’ve suffered somethin’ fierce. ’Couple of ’em looked like they’d been scalped while still alive, and we never did find one of the heads that’d been cut off.”

  Falcon slammed his fist into the side of the wagon, making the driver jump and almost swallow his cud of chewing tobacco. As he choked and spit, Falcon turned to him. “How do I find this cabin?”

  “Take the north fork of the road headin’ up into the Dragoons, ’bout three mile up ahead. You can’t miss it. But mister, I gotta tell ya, yore crazy if you go up there.”

  Falcon climbed into the saddle and rode off, his back stiff and his neck thick with anger. He’d be damned if he was going to let this happen to anyone else’s wife. Not if he had any say in the matter.

  Chapter 7

  On the trail up into the mountains, Falcon tried to calm himself down. He knew he was traveling into dangerous territory, and he needed a clear head. It was a strange fact, but true, that the surest way to get killed in battle was to be angry. The mind had to be calm and settled, or the body would die.

  He took a deep breath of the cool, crisp autumn air, glancing around at the mountain forest he was heading into. The pinyon trees were a deep emerald green, while some other trees Falcon didn’t recognize had already started to change their leaves into brilliant patterns of gold and scarlet. It was the best time of year in some of the prettiest country God ever made.

  He let Diablo find his own pace up the mountain, while he sat back against the cantle and lighted a cigar, letting his mind roam back to happier times.

  After a while, he felt better. His heart had slowed to its normal beat, and his mind was focused. As he neared the spot where the cabin was supposed to be located, he began to search the trail and surrounding brush for Indian sign.

  Finally, he came to a small clearing in the trees off to the side of the trail. He could see a wooden cabin about fifty yards into the forest, with a cleared area around it containing a couple of corrals and outbuildings.

  He eased out of the saddle and pulled his Colt, holding it ready at his side. There was a chance the Indians might have come back for something they missed, and the smell of blood could have drawn wolves or a bear to the spot. In any case, it was wise to be prepared for anything.

  In front of the cabin door he found where two or three people had died. Their blood had soaked into the already reddish-brown dirt, making it a deep crimson, almost black, color. From the way the ground was torn up, he could see they hadn’t died easy.

  Earing back the hammer on his pistol, he slipped in the door of the cabin, standing with his back against the wall until his vision adjusted to the gloomy interior.

  His nostrils dilated, and his stomach churned at the smell of dried blood, excrement, and seared flesh that still hung on the air like a malevolent fog. Blood and body fluid stains were splattered on walls and floors and wooden furniture all about the cabin. The place had the appearance and odor of a slaughterhouse.

  As he walked through the tiny room he found two dresses, one adult and one child size. They had been torn off the females of the family. In the corner against a far wall was a reddish clump of meat. Falcon squatted before it and poked it with his Arkansas Toothpick, a knife with a long, stiletto-type blade ten inches long and razor-sharp. He almost lost his breakfast when he realized it was a human liver.

  He whirled away from the grizzly find and searched the rest of the cabin, finding nothing of interest except that all of the cabinets were emptied of foodstuffs and supplies and a crude gun rack nailed to the wall was bare, with two empty crushed boxes of .44 cartridges on the floor nearby.

  As he stood there, hands on hips, looking at the empty cupboard, the door behind him gave a tiny creak. He whirled, bringing his pistol up.

  “Hold on there, Sonny Jim,” said a man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in buckskins, with knee-high leathe
r moccasins on his feet, a bushy beard on his face, and he held what looked like a Sharps .50 caliber rifle cradled in his hands pointing at Falcon.

  “Just what’re you doin’ in this here cabin?” he asked.

  “I’m looking around,” Falcon answered, his pistol still pointed at the man’s gut.

  The figure leaned to the side and spit a wad of tobacco out of his mouth onto the floor. “What say we both put these guns up and palaver fer a spell?”

  Falcon holstered his Colt. “All right, but outside if you don’t mind. I need some fresh air.”

  “It is a bit ripe in here, ain’t it?” the man said as he backed out the door of the cabin.

  Outside, Falcon took a deep breath, trying to clear the stink of death from his lungs.

  The man in buckskin walked to a fallen tree on the edge of the forest and sat, resting his Sharps on his lap. Falcon sat next to him and stared at the cabin, trying not to think of the unendurable agony the settlers must have gone through a few nights ago.

  “My name’s John Henry Hawkins, but most just calls me Hawk,” the man said, also staring at the cabin.

  “I’m Falcon MacCallister.”

  Hawk glanced at Falcon, his eyes narrowed. “What’s yore interest in this cabin, Falcon?”

  Falcon’s eyes clouded, his mind returning to the story his father, Jamie Ian MacCallister, told him about the death of his wife. Marie Gentle Breeze, as she was called, was 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 axe, raped her many times, and threw her body in the Colored River. Jamie MacCallister rode and walked for 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.

  Jamie gathered what was left of Marie’s body and buried it nearby, piling a mound of rocks over the grave and marking it carefully. He rode over to the mining town of Georgetown and got himself a room at Louis Dupuy’s fancy Hotel De Paris and sent word to Falcon. (Scream of Eagles)