Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  A man off to one side aimed a rifle and fired, the bullet catching Frank in the thigh, making him stumble and stagger a few steps until suddenly he was at the corral fence.

  He flung the gate wide, yelling, “Scatter the rest of the horses. Maybe it’ll keep ’em busy for a few minutes!”

  With no time to try to saddle the horses, Frank grabbed the mane of his favorite ride and swung himself up on the animal’s back, holding his rifle in his right hand.

  Johnny did the same. Then the two men flapped their arms and leaned low over the broncs’ necks and rode out the corral gate, sending the other five animals stampeding ahead of them.

  A young brave who looked to be no more than fifteen years of age stepped in front of the horses, an arrow cocked in his bow, and took aim.

  He was knocked to the ground and trampled by several of the crazed, frightened animals as they bolted out of the fenced area.

  Spurring his mount for all he was worth, Frank headed up the mountain away from the cabin while Johnny turned his animal south to ride down the trail toward Tombstone.

  Frank heard several shots ring out in unison and looked back over his shoulder to see Johnny go flying from his horse, his rifle spinning out of his hands. Frank saw three Indians, one of them a skinny female with wiry muscles who had a furious scowl on her face and a large knife in her hands, running toward his friend.

  “Aw, hell!” he muttered and jerked his horse’s head around. He rode as fast as he could toward the fallen man, guiding his mount with his knees as he sprayed rifle fire at the Indians. The two males went down, mortally wounded, and the woman stopped her advance and stood defiantly, waiting for him to kill her.

  Frank’s rifle clicked on an empty chamber, so he grabbed it by the barrel and swung at the woman’s head as he rode past. The butt of the gun took her on the shoulder as she threw herself to the side.

  An Indian wearing paint and a headdress of eagle feathers, showing him to be the leader, stepped into view and aimed a Winchester at Frank, shooting him in the chest at point blank range.

  Frank was knocked off his horse to land several feet from Johnny, who was lying dazed and bleeding from three separate wounds to his chest and abdomen.

  As a group of Indians ran toward them, Frank drew his pistol and took careful aim. “I’m sorry, partner,” he whispered hoarsely, “Adios.” He fired, hitting Johnny in the forehead and killing him instantly.

  The female Indian screamed something in Apache and rushed Frank, her knife held high and her eyes red with fury.

  He smiled, knowing he was going to disappoint the bitch, and put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Cal Franklin, from his hiding place in a small cave formed by the juxtaposition of several large rocks, lowered his head to his crossed arms and began to cry silent tears. He’d seen what had happened to his friends and partners, and knew that he could do nothing to help them. He’d crawled far back in the space last night, more drunk than sober, and fallen asleep.

  He’d only awakened when the sound of gunfire had startled him awake just an hour before. Armed with only an ancient Walker Colt and no extra ammunition, he knew he was as good as dead if he tried to fire at the overwhelming number of Indians surrounding the camp.

  He slowly pulled a small creosote bush tight to the entrance to the cave, deciding he didn’t want to watch what the Indians were going to do to the bodies. As he hunkered down in the damp earth on the floor of his hiding place, he gave a short prayer the heathens wouldn’t think to search for him.

  Chapter 13

  Falcon and Hawk slowed their horses to a walk as they got closer to the place where they’d heard the rifle shots coming from.

  Through the trees, they could make out clouds of gunsmoke hovering in the air like new morning fog off a freezing river. Falcon held up his hand and pulled Diablo to a halt, tying his reins to a nearby pinyon tree.

  He pulled his Winchester .44/.40 out of its saddle boot and motioned for Hawk to circle around the other way as he crouched down and moved to the right through heavy brush.

  At the edge of a clearing in the forest, Falcon stopped to peer though the leaves of a hackberry bush, careful not to let the thorns pierce his eyes.

  He could see what looked like the aftermath of a battle royal. There were at least five or six Indian bodies lying around small, cedar-sided cabin in the center of the clearing, and a makeshift corral stood empty, its gate hanging cockeyed by one hinge.

  Off to one side, two white, naked bodies lay next to each other. Both had been scalped, and their abdomens were torn open and entrails pulled out to form a grisly portrait of suffering and death. The sand had soaked up enough blood to make the area around the bodies soggy with scarlet-tinged mud.

  Most of the Indian bodies had no moccasins or weapons, and it looked as if the remaining attackers had stripped their corpses of anything that might be useful as they fled the scene.

  The smell of blood and excrement and cordite was heavy in the air, and Falcon heard Diablo’s nervous whinny behind him as the stud caught the scent.

  Falcon gave a low trilling whistle such as a whippoorwill might make, his and Hawk’s prearranged signal that all was clear.

  He levered a shell into the chamber of his rifle and slowly, eyes flicking back and forth for any sign of movement, walked into the clearing.

  Hawk could be seen doing the same from the opposite edge, a bulge in his cheek from the tobacco he was chewing furiously—the only sign of his nervousness.

  They met in the center of the open space and stood together over the white men’s bodies.

  Hawk squatted on his haunches and examined the dead men closely. “One good thing. Looks like they was already dead when the Injuns went to work on ’em.”

  Falcon agreed. “Yeah. It appears this one shot himself in the face as they approached. You can see the powder burns on what’s left of his cheeks.”

  Hawk stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Cain’t say as I blame ‘em much. There ain’t no worse way to die than at the hands of an Apache, ’specially if’n he’s pissed off. ”

  As a cry and sounds of footsteps came from a small group of boulders across the way, both Hawk and Falcon whirled around, their rifles cocked and aimed.

  “Hold your fire ... hold your fire!” a disheveled man screamed as he came running down the slight incline from his place of concealment.

  Hawk leaned to the side and spit a stream of tobacco juice on the forehead of a brave lying near the two dead white men.

  “Looks like we got a survivor,” he drawled.

  Falcon wagged his head. “That’s not like Apache, to leave someone behind still breathing.”

  The man stopped in front of them and leaned over, breathing heavily, his hands on his knees. “My name’s Calvin Franklin,” he gasped, his chest heaving. “Thank God you’ve come.”

  Falcon eased the hammer down on his Winchester and laid it back over his shoulder. “What happened here, Mr. Franklin?” he asked.

  Franklin ran his hands over his face, then his eyes widened and his face paled as he saw what lay on the ground behind Falcon. He brushed by Falcon and staggered over to stand above the bodies of his friends. He stared down for a moment, swaying as if he might faint, then he leaned over, gagging, and vomited on his boots at the sight of what the Indians had done to his partners.

  When he was done retching, Falcon took him by the shoulder and led him away from the bodies.

  Again he asked the man what had happened.

  “I don’t rightly know,” Franklin mumbled, his eyes shifting from corpse to corpse. “I was sleepin’ in a little cave over there,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to a group of boulders near the cabin, “after a mite too much red-eye last night, when I woke up to the sound of gunfire.”

  “What did you see when you looked out?” Hawk asked.

  “Billy was lyin’ dead over yonder with an arrow through his eye,” he said, pointing tow
ard where a body lay that was so mutilated it was hard to tell if it was a white man or an Indian “and Frank and Johnny were holed up in the cabin, grin’ back at a whole bunch of redskins that had surrounded the place.”

  “Why didn’t you help them?” Falcon asked, his voice soft, not accusatory.

  Franklin held up the pistol he was carrying. “You see this? It’s all I had. Six shots, an’ no cartridges to reload with.” He hung his head, looking at the ground as he mumbled, “It would’ve been suicide.”

  “I see your point,” Hawk said, spitting again into the dirt.

  “I was wondering why the Indians left you alive,” Falcon said. “I guess they didn’t notice your hiding place in all the excitement.”

  He stepped over to the cabin and examined the many holes in the walls. “Hawk, take a look at this.”

  “Yeah?”

  “From the number of bullet holes, I’d say the Indians had at least one or two repeating rifles. Otherwise there’d be more arrows used.”

  Hawk nodded, chewing slowly as he thought over the implications of Falcon’s discovery. “It’s gonna make trackin’ the bastards a mite more dangerous if they got Winchesters or Henrys.”

  Falcon opened the cabin door and led the other two men in. Inside, it looked as if a wild bear had been there. The contents were scattered around the room, all of the foodstuffs were gone from the shelves over the sink, and the furniture had been hacked at with tomahawks and knives until it was all useless. Muddy red footprints of moccasins were all over the floor, and a fragment of half-eaten liver was lying against one wall.

  “Jesus,” Franklin whispered as he looked around at the mess. “They’re like wild animals.”

  “Worse,” Hawk opined. “Animals only kill for food, not for fun.”

  “How many weapons did your friends have here?” Falcon asked.

  Franklin rubbed his stubbled face as he thought for a moment. “Three rifles, two Winchesters, an’ an old Henry. An’ three or four pistols, single-shot Colts, as I recall.”

  “Damn,” Falcon said.

  Franklin walked to a far wall and bent down, removing a section of board that’d been cut. “I wonder if they found our stash of gold.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if they did,” Falcon said. “Indians don’t have any use for gold or silver, other than as decoration. They wouldn’t take it even if it was lying on a table right in front of them.”

  Franklin sighed as he removed several canvas sacks of gold dust, and turned, holding them up. “You’re right. Here it is.”

  Hawk snorted. “I hope it was worth it,” he said, turning and walking out of the room.

  “What are your plans now, Mr. Franklin?” Falcon asked.

  Franklin shrugged. “I guess I’ll mosey on down to Tombstone and winter over, then git me some more partners an’ come back in the spring to finish minin’ this here creek.”

  Falcon pointed at the bags of gold dust. “You’re already a rich man, Franklin. Why come back here?”

  The man turned feverish eyes on Falcon, “ ’Cause there’s still gold here to be found. I ain’t leavin’ ’til I’ve gotten it all.”

  Falcon shook his head, wondering at the greed the yellow metal instilled in men, causing them to risk everything to attain more than they could ever spend.

  “Do you fellows think you could take me down to Tombstone?” Franklin asked, holding up the sacks of gold. “I’d be willin’ to pay you for your trouble.”

  Falcon shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help you. We’re on the trail of the Indians that attacked your place. But you shouldn’t have any trouble making it there on your own. ”

  “But what if they come back?”

  “They took off up into the Dragoons,” Falcon said as he walked out of the cabin. “You’ll be safe if you stay on the main trail into town.”

  “I’ll give you one piece of advice,” Hawk said as the two men approached where he was standing staring up into the mountains. “When you get to Tombstone, don’t go flashing that gold around too much. There’re men there who’d cut your throat for half of what you got in them sacks.”

  After helping Franklin bury his friends, leaving the Indian bodies where they lay, Falcon and Hawk got their horses and climbed into the saddles. “Adios, Mr. Franklin,” Falcon said “You take it easy when you get to town. Don’t try to spend all that money the first night.”

  Franklin grinned. “Thanks, fellas. I’ll be seein’ you.”

  As they rode off Falcon said to Hawk, “I wonder how many lives have been lost in the search for gold and silver?”

  “Too many to count, I reckon,” Hawk answered. “It seems some men just cain’t get enough money an’ riches, an’ sooner or later the gettin’ takes over their lives ’til it’s more important than the havin’.”

  “Greed can be a sickness, all right,” Falcon said. “And like with most illnesses, a severe case can be fatal.”

  Chapter 14

  Isa darted among lengthening shadows spread across the floor of the ravine, picking up pistols, woolen army coats, ammunition pouches, anything of value. All around him the shapes of his warriors moved among the dead and dying soldiers. A few were high on the canyon rim keeping watch in case the bluecoats returned.

  A soldier screamed.

  “I take his scalp,” Nana said, looking down the arroyo at the distant bluecoat survivors assembled in a tight circle to talk things over.

  “Take all their scalps,” Isa told him. “Make sure you take all their guns and bullets.”

  Off to the south a wounded horse floundered in the sandy bottom of the dry stream. An Apache warrior quickly silenced the bleeding horse with his knife.

  A soldier with a gaping hole in his chest struggled up on his elbows. “You red bastards!” he cried, reaching feebly for his empty holster.

  The words had no sooner left his lips then Isa was standing over him with a knife.... he made a slashing motion across the soldier’s throat and then there was a gurgling sound like that of a brook after heavy spring rains.

  “Here is one with many stripes,” a voice cried out in the tongue of the Apache. “He still lives.”

  “Kill him,” Isa commanded. “Take his scalp and his coat with many stripes. Wear the blue coat as a sign of our victory here today!”

  An Apache boy named Watoso seized the soldier by his hair and sliced his scalp lock away, and as the soldier fell back on the sand Watoso sliced the unfamiliar buttons off the front of the trooper’s tunic and jerked it over his shoulders.

  Nana came running over to Isa. “It has been a good day for war against the white-eyes!” he said, holding a bloody scalp lock in one hand.

  “Yes, it is good,” Isa agreed. “The many-shoot rifles give us their magic.”

  Nana looked north. “The bluecoats are talking. They will come back.”

  “Let them come,” Isa hissed, glaring angrily at the shapes of mounted men on the desert beyond the arroyo. “We will be gone to take the rifles to Naiche.”

  “Let the great war between red men and white men begin soon,” Nana growled.

  “Yes,” Isa said, taking a cartridge belt off a dead soldier. “We are ready for them now.”

  “We must send word to Geronimo in Mexico.”

  “Naiche will send someone. Naiche is war chief of the Chiricahuas.”

  “We are still so few,” Nana said, pulling the boots off a dead cavalryman.

  “More will come,” Isa assured him, tucking a pistol into the belt around his waist. “The others are afraid of the many-shoot rifles.”

  “And now we have them,” Nana said as Watoso pulled a rifle from a boot below the saddle of a dead cavalry horse. The boy’s arms were laden with weapons and ammunition and three pairs of stovepipe cavalry boots.

  “The Spirits are smiling now,” Isa told Nana. “See how easily the bluecoats die?”

  “Their magic is in the rifles,” Nana said, cradling three Winchester repeaters. “Now we have the white man’s magic
ourselves.”

  “Yes,” Isa said quietly, giving the arroyo a last look as his warriors began a climb back to the rim where their horses were tied. “Let the great war begin between us now, for we have their deadly rifles.”

  “They will never defeat us,” Nana said, starting his own climb up the rocky sides of the ravine laden with weapons and ammunition. “They are not brave warriors, only men who fight us when they are many and we are few.”

  “Word will reach the others at Fort Thomas,” Isa said, scrambling toward the lip of the canyon. “Many more will leave the reservation soon to join the fight with Naiche.”

  “Geronimo will come also, with Mimbres hiding south of the great river.”

  “Perhaps,” Isa said. “Geronimo has counsel with the Four Spirits. If they tell him to join us, he will, and if their voices are as one that we should fight alone, it is his way and he will not come.”

  “He has the heart of the mountain lion,” Nana said, making slow progress around a rock slide.

  “And so does Naiche. We follow Naiche, for he has been given the power of war chief. If Geronimo joins us it will be because the Spirit Father wishes it.”

  Nana and Watoso crawled over the arroyo rim with their burdens of weapons and bullets and boots. Other warriors who guarded the entrance into the ravine rushed over to help load the bounty onto the backs of their stolen cavalry horses.

  Watoso came over to Isa with blood dripping down both arms after scalping three soldiers. “Tell us how far we must ride to reach the hiding place where Naiche waits,” he said, out of breath from a steep climb.

  “Two suns,” Isa answered, tying the rifles and pistols he carried into bundles that could be placed across a horse’s withers.

  “The bluecoats will follow us,” the boy said as though he was certain of it.

  “We will cross the rocks higher up, and only another Apache will be able to see our tracks.”

  “What of the old Shoshone? Should we follow him and kill him?”

  “No. He has given us the gift of these dead bluecoats by leading them into our trap. We owe him a great debt, but he will not return.”