Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Naiche watched with satisfaction in his dark eyes. The new rifles were surely a gift from the Great Spirit, a sign that the time had come to drive the white men from traditional Apache lands.

  Sitting beside Naiche, Nana spoke. “The young men are ready for war. I can see it on their faces.”

  “Geronimo promised all Apaches the time would come, when it is time for war.”

  “We have been like sheep on the reservation.”

  Naiche agreed. “There will be much suffering, and much bloodshed, but our Earth Mother’s skin will be red with the blood of the white man.”

  “Will Geronimo join us?” Nana asked.

  Naiche wagged his head. “He will fight his own fight. He is guided by a powerful spirit voice that tells him where to hit the enemy, and when to hide.”

  “But you are war chief of the Chiricahuas. It is The Way of the People that he must follow you.”

  Naiche knew Geronimo would never follow him into battle unless his spirit voice ordered it. “Geronimo has no chief. Since the white men killed his wife and children, he listens only to the Spirits. He seeks vengeance, and he will do it in his own way.”

  “Then we must strike the settlement near Tombstone quickly, and return to these mountains. After they find the remains of the wagons with the dead white-eyes, soldiers will be everywhere looking for us very soon.”

  “We will leave with the rising of the sun,” Naiche said. “Along the way, our young warriors can learn more about the rifles. Chokole will teach them.”

  Nana listened to the beat of the drums a moment. “It is good, like in the old days, to hear the war drums and the war chants. I am remembering now what it was like to be free of the reservation.”

  “We will never return to the fort, Nana. Some of us will die so the others may remain free Apaches, but this is the Way of our people.”

  More young warriors stood up with their Winchesters to join the dancing and chanting, shaking the rifles above their heads as they circled the council fire.

  Nana smiled. “My spirit is happy now. If I must die to keep our people free, then I am ready.”

  Naiche stood up, folding his muscular arms across his chest to watch the dancers. Deep inside, a feeling of pride began to swell within him. He longed to hear the screams of dying white men, to see their blood shed, to take their scalps.

  * * *

  It was a collection of adobe mud huts and corrals filled with goats and cattle and horses. At night, lantern light made golden squares of the windows across the settlement known to the white man as Bisbee.

  Naiche and twenty warriors moved silently toward Bisbee in the dark of a moonless night, spreading out, forming a circle from which no one could escape.

  A dog began to bark somewhere in the village when it heard the Apaches’ horses moving through the brush, and Naiche knew it was time.

  “Ayiii!” he cried, heeling his horse into a run.

  The other Apaches came toward Bisbee at a gallop, leaning low over their horses’ necks, readying their rifles.

  Chokole led five young warriors charging into the village, and in an instant the booming reports of Winchester .44s filled the night.

  White men and women came shouting and screaming from their adobes, some firing shots at fast-moving shadows darting among the houses.

  Naiche rode toward a white man firing a shotgun at the raiders, and when he was very close he pulled the trigger on his Winchester.

  The rifle stock slammed into his shoulder as the gun blasted its deadly load. The farmer with the shotgun was lifted off his feet and sent tumbling to the ground, yelling with pain, calling out a woman’s name.

  Naiche worked the lever, sending another cartridge into the firing chamber as his horse carried him swiftly toward another target, a man firing two pistols at the Apache intruders.

  Naiche fired again, and he was rewarded by another victim when the white man collapsed in front of his adobe holding a wound in his belly.

  The banging of gunfire sounded everywhere, along with the shrill war cries of Naiche’s warriors. It was like the time before the bluecoat soldiers defeated them and forced them onto the reservation, a good time to be an Apache.

  Naiche, thirsting for the feel of a white man’s blood on his hands, jerked his horse to a sliding halt and jumped down with his knife drawn. He raced over to the farmer who had been firing the shotgun and sliced off his scalp with a single motion of his blade.

  “Ayiii!” he cried again, shaking the steaming, bloody trophy above his head so all the other Apaches near him could see it. “Kill them all!” he shouted in the guttural Apache tongue. “Leave none of them alive!”

  Apaches began jumping off their horses to scalp their victims, and now the shrieks of women and children grew louder. Fewer gunshots echoed through Bisbee as its citizens died in a hail of bullets.

  Chokole was off her horse, dashing among the fallen whites, taking one scalp, then another. Naiche saw Nana’s shadow move to a door into one of the adobes where he lifted a fallen white man by the hair and cut off his scalp.

  Toza came running up to Naiche, his Winchester in one hand, a pair of bloody scalps in the other. “It is the magic of the many-shoot rifles, Chief Naiche!” he gasped. “See how easily the white-eyes die when we have their magic guns?”

  “The power of the Spirits is with us now,” he told the boy as he turned for his horse, tucking the farmer’s scalp into his belt.

  Toza threw back his head and gave the Apache war cry, holding his scalps and rifle high above his head.

  Across Bisbee, more war cries answered Toza and Naiche, and soon the entire village resounded with whoops and yells.

  Naiche swung over his horse’s withers, filled with satisfaction. Before they left the settlement they would leave their mark upon every dead body ... disemboweling the men and women, taking every scalp before they looted the houses for food and weapons. And when the bloodletting and looting were finished they would drive off all the livestock. The cattle and goats could be hidden in high mountain canyons. Their meat would make plentiful food for many moons, and their skins could be made into blankets and coats against the winter storms.

  Nana rode over to Naiche as the last victims of the raid were being scalped and gutted.

  “They are all dead, Naiche, and not a one of us has suffered any injury. It is a sign from the Spirits that this will be a good war. We will defeat the white soldiers and drive them back to the east.”

  Naiche glanced at the dark horizon. “Open the gates of all the corrals and drive the cattle and goats and mules to the south. We must be careful to hide our tracks, for the soldiers will hear of this and they will come after us.”

  “Let them come!” Nana said savagely, shaking his rifle. “They will all be killed, for now we have their magic!”

  Chapter 19

  It was just after dawn, and Falcon and his men were breaking camp, a light snow fall obscuring the rising sun.

  Hawk rummaged in his saddle bags as he prepared to mount his horse. “Yo, Falcon. I’m gettin’ a mite low on provisions, how about you?”

  Falcon checked the canvas sack he had tied to his saddle and looked up. “Me, too. Now that there are three of us to feed, it might be wise to see about stocking up before we head farther into the mountains. Is there any place close by where we could buy some supplies?”

  Hawk shrugged, “I don’t know right offhand. How about you, Cal?”

  Cal scratched his beard for a moment, thinking. “There’s Bisbee Corners. It ain’t much, just a few settlers and goatherders, but there’s a store there that my partners an’ I used to use when we didn’t want to go all the way into Tombstone.”

  “How far is it?” Falcon asked.

  Cal thought for another moment, then pointed off to the west. “I figger it’s ’bout six, maybe seven miles in that direction.”

  Falcon glanced at Hawk. “It wouldn’t hurt to make a run over there and get some more food and cartridges. If we’re going
to make war on the Apache, we’re going to need all the ammunition we can carry.”

  “Could be they might have some news from somebody whereabouts the ’Pache were last seen, too,” Hawk added.

  “Cal, why don’t you lead the way to Bisbee? I wouldn’t mind a hot bath if they have one,” Falcon said.

  Cal grinned. “Don’t get your hopes up, Falcon. It ain’t all that big a place, an’ from what I seen of the settlers there, don’t none of ’em appear to have much of a cravin’ for bathing.”

  After the three men had been traveling for about an hour, Cal held up his hand and reined his horse to a stop.

  Falcon rode up next to him. “What’s going on, Cal? Why’d you stop?”

  “You hear that?” the miner asked, cupping his hand to his ear. “Sounds like a bunch of riders coming this way.”

  “Get off the trail, quick!” Falcon said, jerking Diablo’s reins to the side and spurring the big black bronc into the forest to the side of the path.

  Hawk and Cal followed him, just barely managing to get out of sight before a band of twenty or thirty Apache braves came galloping over the ridge. They were driving a few head of cattle and horses in front of them, and all were carrying Winchester rifles in their hands.

  Cal jacked a shell into the chamber of his rifle, his face a mask of hate and fury when he saw the bloody scalps hanging from the manes of the Indian ponies.

  Falcon reached over and put his hand on the rifle, shaking his head. “They’ve got us outnumbered eight to one, Cal. We wouldn’t stand a chance in a face-to-face fight now.”

  “But they’ll get away.”

  “No they won’t. They’ll be easy enough to trail if they keep those cattle with them.”

  “Damn! Most of those bastards’ve got blood all over their bodies,” Hawk said in a hushed tone.

  After the Indians rode out of sight over the next ridge, whooping and hollering to drive the beeves ahead of them, Falcon and the others came out of hiding.

  Falcon could see Cal’s hands shaking, his knuckles white as he gripped his rifle.

  “Cal, the only way we’ve got a chance against the Apaches is to pick our fights. We have to hit and run, picking them off a few at a time. They’re too good fighters for us to go up against a superior force and hope to come out on top,” Falcon said.

  “I know,” Cal said, his voice husky with hate. “It’s just that when I saw them all covered with blood, I couldn’t think of nothin’ ’cept what they done to Billy and Johnny and Frank.”

  “It looks like they were coming from the direction of Bisbee. You don’t think they had the nerve to attack an entire town, do you?” Hawk asked.

  “Apaches have never been accused of not having nerve,” Falcon answered. “We’d better ride on over there and take a look.”

  “Yeah, there might be somebody left alive who needs our help,” Cal said.

  Falcon gave Hawk a look, both knowing if the Apaches had indeed hit Bisbee there’d be no one left alive to tell the tale.

  * * *

  As they rode through what was left of the small settlement, Falcon could feel his stomach turn at the grisly sights that surrounded them. After finding a small female child with her stomach sliced open and her entrails in her hands, her bloody skull gleaming in the sparse sunlight, Cal leaned to the side in his saddle and emptied his stomach on the ground, retching in disgust.

  Falcon turned his head from the gruesome sight, and saw a figure riding slowly down the street toward them on a roan horse. The man had long, flowing silver hair and was wearing buckskins. His Winchester was cradled in his arms, the barrel pointing toward Falcon and his men.

  “Looks like we’re not alone after all, boys,” Falcon said in a low voice.

  Hawk twisted in his saddle, his hand automatically moving toward his pistol.

  “Hold on, Hawk. He’s just riding in, like us. He didn’t have anything to do with this massacre.”

  “No white man could do anything like this,” Cal added in a husky voice.

  The man walked his gelding up to them, his eyes narrow and suspicious. “Howdy, gents,” he murmured, his eyes darting back and forth as he surveyed the carnage all around them.

  “Hello,” Falcon answered. “My name’s Falcon MacCallister, and this is Hawk Hawkins and Cal Franklin.”

  “I’m Jasper Meeks,” the stranger said. He waved his hands. “Looks like the Apache got here ahead of me.”

  “Oh?” Falcon said.

  “Yeah. Two day ago I was leadin’ a wagon train across the desert an’ we was hit by a bunch of Apache renegades. They had repeatin’ rifles an’ ambushed us in a mountain pass.” He lowered his eyes and added, “we didn’t stand a chance.”

  He pulled an almost empty bottle of whiskey out of his saddlebags and took a deep drink.

  Hawk spat on the ground and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You say you was leadin’ this group?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Then how is it you managed to escape an’ the others didn’t?”

  “Just what do you mean by that, mister?”

  Hawk shrugged, but his face looked as if he was tasting something bitter. “Don’t mean nothin’ by it, stranger. Just wonderin’, is all.”

  “The first volley spooked my horse an’ I was throwed to the ground. By the time I was able to chase ’em down, it was all just about over, so I climbed on an’ rode like the devil hisself was after me.”

  “You mean you left the others to be killed?” Cal asked, his expression incredulous.

  Meeks lowered his eyes and looked at the bottle in his hand, but he didn’t take another drink. “It wouldn’t have made no difference. Like I said, they had us outnumbered three to one, an’ they had repeatin’ rifles. Most everybody was already dead by the time I got back in the saddle.”

  “How come it took you so long to get here?” Falcon asked.

  Meeks looked at him like he was crazy. “After that, I didn’t dare to ride on the trail. I went into the brush and heavy forest and kept to the back side of the mountains, where there wasn’t no chance of another ambush. It was slow goin’, but a lot safer than ridin’ out in the open.”

  “An’ a hell of a lot safer than stayin’ an’ fightin’ side your friends,” Hawk added.

  “Listen, Hawk, or whatever your name is, I tried to warn those crazy pilgrims not to go through that pass, but they wouldn’t listen to me ... I tried to warn ’em ...” Meeks said, his voice choking with emotion and shame.

  “You don’t have to explain anything to us, Mr. Meeks,” Falcon said. “It’s not up to us to judge you, especially since we weren’t there. Now, let’s separate and comb the town,” Falcon said, giving a warning glance to Hawk to lighten up on Meeks. “There might be someone they missed, hiding somewhere waiting for help to arrive.”

  Two hours later, the men met back at the general store in the center of town. Their faces were grim. They’d found not a living soul in the entire settlement.

  Falcon got down off Diablo and walked into the store. The shelves and cabinets were destroyed, and foodstuffs were scattered all over the floor, but many were still in good enough shape to eat.

  “They must have been in a hurry. They didn’t ruin what they didn’t take with them. Let’s gather up what we can salvage and get on our way,” Falcon said. “I have a feeling the army’s going to be coming this way, and I don’t particularly want to have to explain what we’re doing out here.”

  “Why not?” Cal asked.

  “Because they’ll order us back to Tombstone. Army officers like to throw their weight around, in spite of the fact that most of them are political appointees who don’t know the first thing about Indian fighting and are too dumb to listen to men who might help them win against the Apaches.”

  Hawk tipped his head to the side and spit a brown stream onto the muddy ground. “That’s fer damned sure!” he echoed.

  After they’d loaded up as much food and extra ammunition as they could carry, Meek
s asked, “What are you gents gonna do now?”

  The muscles in Falcon’s jaw tightened as he answered, “On the way here, we passed the band of Indians that did this on the trail. They were driving some cattle and livestock they rustled from the town. I figure they’ll spread out soon, leaving a few braves to drive the cattle while the rest of them hurry back to their main camp with the rifles and guns they stole from the town. I don’t plan on letting them get those cattle to the camp.”

  He hesitated a moment, then asked, “How about you?”

  Meeks pursed his lips, then took a deep breath. “I was plannin’ on headin’ on into Tombstone, but if it’s all the same to you men, I think I’d kind’ a like to come with you.”

  Hawk spat again, his eyes on Meeks. “You sure? It ain’t exactly the safest thing to do.”

  Meeks nodded. “I’m sure. I ain’t felt so good ‘bout myself since I left those pilgrims an’ lit out. Maybe if I kill some of the Injuns that done it to ‘em, I’ll be able to sleep without seein’ their faces in my dreams.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Falcon said, jerking Diablo’s head around and spurring the big stud into a gallop down the main street of Bisbee.

  * * *

  It took them until just before dark to catch up to the Indians driving the cattle and to ride around their flanks and get ahead of them on the trail.

  Falcon positioned Hawk and Cal and Meeks on ridges on either side of the road while he prepared himself for a frontal assault. He loaded both barrels of his express shotgun with 00-buckshot, unhooked the rawhide hammer thong from his holstered pistol, and stuck an extra Colt in his belt where he could grab it with either hand.

  He walked Diablo to a spot in the middle of the path just around a bend, and waited.

  As the Indians rounded the curve in the road, they pulled on their rope halters and halted their ponies at the sight of a lone white man waiting for them.

  They talked among themselves for a moment, letting the cattle walk on ahead. From their mannerisms, it was apparent they couldn’t understand why the white man didn’t turn tail and run when he saw the seven braves coming toward him.