Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  When he suddenly leaned forward and spurred his horse into a gallop toward them, their expressions changed from astonishment to fury. If the crazy white-eyes wanted to die, they were ready to accommodate him.

  With war whoops and yells, they cocked their rifles and kicked their ponies into action, running right at Falcon.

  Reins in his teeth, his Greener in his right hand and a Colt in his left, Falcon heard the booming sound of the big Sharps fifty-caliber rifle as Hawk fired from the left side of the road. The lead brave was blown off his horse, his chest blossoming blood as he fell beneath the hooves of his friends.

  The lighter cracks of Cal’s and Meeks’s Winchesters followed, knocking another red man off his mount and doubling another over his pony’s neck. Then they were right in front of Falcon.

  He stretched his arm out and fired the shotgun, one barrel blowing the head off a brave and the other barrel cutting another almost in two as they passed close enough to spit on. The closeness of the action saved Falcon’s life. The Indians were so close, and Falcon was approaching so fast, that they didn’t have time to aim their rifles, and fired from the hip. The bullets sang by Falcon’s head like a swarm of angry bees.

  One of the remaining Indians jerked his pony to a halt, aimed, and fired his rifle at Falcon, cutting a groove in the meat of his thigh but missing the bone. He jacked another shelf into the rifle and kicked his mount into a dead run right at Falcon, firing again from the hip and missing.

  Falcon answered with his left-hand Colt. His first shot missed. The second hit the Indian’s horse in the forehead. As the pony fell the brave was thrown headfirst into a tree next to the trail, smashing his head into bloody pulp against the bark.

  The last two braves reined to a halt, uncertain what to do next. As they sat there, watching Falcon and trying to decide what to do, two shots from the forest rang out. The Sharps and the Winchesters sent them both to hell, knocking them out of their saddles to the frozen ground below.

  Falcon walked Diablo around the battle scene, looking at the crimson splotches dotting the sparse patches of melting snow, letting his battle fury calm down a mite.

  As his heart rate slowed, he took a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He sat and smoked, wondering why the Apaches were so different from other humans, even other Indians, as he waited for Hawk and Cal and Meeks to get down to him.

  When they rode up, Cal was grinning from ear to ear. “Goddamn!” he said, his eyes bright with excitement. “I never seen nothin’ like that, Falcon. You just charged right into the thick of them Injuns like it weren’t nothin’!”

  Falcon gave a tight grin. “It wasn’t as brave as it seems, Cal. The only way to fight the Apaches is to surprise them. If I’d sat on my horse and traded rifle shots with them, I’d be dead now. I had to do something they didn’t expect, and that was to charge them and get in close before they were ready for me. That’s why those rifles they were carrying didn’t do them any good. You need a pistol or shotgun for close-in fighting.”

  Hawk nodded and spat, his stream hitting a dead Indian in the forehead as he lay next to Hawk’s horse. “Still, you did go through them Injuns like Grant went through Richmond, Falcon,” he said, an approving look in his eyes. “No matter how you explain it, you got to have cojones as big as melons to do that.”

  “That’s right, Falcon,” Meeks added. “I never seen anyone charge a band of Injuns like that.”

  Falcon stepped down from his horse and slipped his Bowie knife out of his scabbard. “Come on, Hawk, Meeks. We’ve got work to do.”

  Cal raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean, Falcon?”

  Falcon didn’t answer, just knelt next to a dead body and cut its eyes out, then grabbed the hair and sliced it free of the skull, holding the bloody scalp lock up for Cal to see.

  “Oh Jesus,” Cal said, covering his mouth as if he were going to vomit again.

  Hawk looked up from nearby where he was doing the same thing. “It’s not like that, Cal. We’re gonna send a message to the men that ride with Naiche. Injuns have some funny notions ‘bout not bein’ able to see or find their way to their heaven—the Land of the Shadows they call it—if’n they eyes is cut out.”

  Meeks didn’t say anything. He was too busy peeling the scalp off a dead Indian.

  Falcon nodded as he walked toward another corpse. “When Naiche sends a scout back to see why the cattle didn’t arrive, we want him to see this and carry the word back to his chief that some crazy killers are on his trail. He’ll know from what we do to the bodies that we’re not army, and he’ll wonder just who the hell is after him.”

  Hawk paused from tying a pair of bloody scalps in his horse’s mane and called to Cal. “Why don’t you round up those ponies, take their rope halters off, an’ use ’em to string these bodies up in some nearby trees? Wouldn’t want coyotes or wolves to get at ’em ’fore Naiche’s scout sees ’em.”

  Cal nodded, sweat forming on his forehead in spite of the cold, crisp fall air that blew in from the north. “I’ll do it, but that don’t mean I approve of what you’re doin’.”

  Falcon, scalping another Indian, didn’t look up. “You’ve got to look at this like it is, Cal. This isn’t a nice duel between a couple of gentlemen on a riverbank, or a gunfight in the middle of a dusty street. This is war, plain and simple. When we took out after Naiche and his band of killers, we set out on a course that has only one possible ending. Their death, or ours. There is no in-between. So, I’m going to do anything that might give us an edge, that might make Naiche look over his shoulder when he rides, that might make his warriors a little fearful or hesitant when they go into battle against us. I want them all to know what’s going to happen to them if they lose, and I want them to think about that when they see us coming.”

  Meeks looked up, his arms bloody all the way to his elbows. “My old pappy would say it’s givin’ ’em a taste of they own medicine.”

  Cal tied a rope around the neck of a brave, threw the rope over a branch, and hoisted him up off the ground until his feet were dangling in the air. “Okay, Falcon, I understand, but that don’t mean I gotta like it.”

  Hawk spat, making a field mouse break from its burrow and run along the ground. “Don’t none of us like it, partner. It’s just somethin’ we gotta do.”

  Chapter 20

  Colonel Thomas Grant surveyed the grisly scene from the back of his sorrel horse. Buzzards circled high above the sun-bloated corpses of Major Wilson Tarver’s command. Dead troopers were lying all along the bottom of a ravine, and to the west on the rocky slopes of an incline leading up to the rim of the canyon where more bodies lay.

  He spoke to Captain Buford Jones. “Worst damn thing I’ve ever seen. Hell, it wasn’t enough that they killed them, but the way they mutilated them. It’s senseless.”

  “It’s that damn Naiche an’ the bunch that run off with him. You can be sure of that, Colonel.”

  “How can a human being do such butchery to another? These men are cut to pieces.”

  “Sir, there’s some in this army who don’t think a goddamn Apache is a human bein’.”

  Grant took a deep breath. “After seeing this, I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Do you want me to form a burial detail, sir?”

  Grant thought a moment. “It seems a shame to bury them way out here, without proper grave markers or any type of ceremony over their bodies.”

  “Only other thing we can do is ride back to the fort an’ send back wagons so we can bury ’em in the post cemetery at the fort.”

  “That sounds more humane, Captain. Send a messenger to Fort Thomas with orders to bring back three wagons and a squad of men to load the bodies.”

  A sergeant by the name of Skinner came riding back from the slope where twenty more troopers had died. He rode up to Colonel Grant and halted his horse. “We found Major Tarver, sir. Like the others, he was scalped and his belly was cut open. Found him over near this big rock pile.”

  Grant shook
his head in disgust. “That accounts for all of them, I think. Too bad about Sergeant Boyd. He was a good soldier with plenty of Indian fighting experience. I’m a bit surprised they got him, although it appears they were ambushed from above.”

  “I’ll send for the wagons,” Captain Jones said, turning his horse away to summon a messenger.

  Grant glanced over to Sergeant Skinner. “See if those half-drunk Pawnees have picked up any of the Apaches’ tracks. I have my doubts they’re sober enough to find a pair of railroad tracks at the moment, but ask them anyway.”

  Skinner rode off up the canyon to look for the two Pawnee scouts accompanying the detail. Grant felt helpless, and let his shoulders droop. Finding Apaches out in these wilds was like trying to grab a feather in the wind. They knew how to disappear without leaving a trace.

  A trooper struck a gallop on his bay gelding, heading north toward the fort to bring back burial wagons. Grant knew his report to his superiors regarding this affair would look bad on his record. As commanding officer at Fort Thomas, the men and their safety was his responsibility.

  From the looks of things, despite having the old Shoshone scout with them Major Tarver had led his men blindly into this canyon where a death trap awaited them. Grant wondered idly what had happened to the old Indian ... no one had reported finding his body among the others.

  A young cavalryman trotted his horse up to the colonel and saluted. “They even took most of their boots an’ shirts, sir. Every pistol and rifle is gone, too, along with all the ammunition pouches. The buzzards have been eatin’ on them for a couple of days, an’ even with the cold the stink sure is hard on a man’s belly. I was wonderin’ what you wanted us to do with the bodies.”

  Grant’s stomach was also a bit queasy after seeing the end result of the massacre. “Bring down the bodies that are up on the side of the canyon. I’ve sent for wagons. Place all the bodies in a row so they can be loaded in the wagons. I fully understand it won’t be a pleasant chore, Corporal, but it must be done, anyway, out of respect for our fellow soldiers, so they can be given a decent burial.”

  “Yes sir,” the corporal said, urging his horse around to ride up the canyon with the colonel’s orders.

  Grant swallowed back bitter bile as Captain Jones returned from dispatching the messenger. He gave Jones a sideways look. “We’ll make those red bastards pay for what they did here. If it takes every man under my command, we’ll scour the countryside until we find Naiche and his runaways and bring them to justice. I intend to give the order to have all of them hanged.”

  “We gotta find ‘em first, Colonel. That ain’t gonna be no easy job in the Dragoons. This is their home range. They’ll know every back trail, every cave, every hidin’ place there is to be had.”

  “We need to find competent scouts, Captain,” Grant replied. “Those Pawnees are utterly useless. If we could find just one man who knew what he was doing, he could track these savages down for us.”

  Jones scowled a moment, thinking. “Somebody told me there was this feller who rode into Tombstone right about the time they had that shootout at the OK Corral. He’s supposed to be some sort of expert on huntin’ and killin’ Indians, or so they say.”

  “What was his name? Do you remember?”

  “Seems like he was named after some bird, like an eagle, maybe. When we get back to the fort I’ll ask old man Sudderth. He was the one who told me about him.”

  “One good tracker can save us valuable time, and we won’t have to put up with these-drunken Pawnee scoundrels. Remember to ask who the fellow is who showed up in Tombstone. I’ll make him an offer he probably won’t refuse.”

  As the bodies were being arranged in a row to await the arrival of the wagons, a soldier on a badly lathered chestnut gelding came riding at a gallop toward Colonel Grant’s temporary campsite.

  He saw the colonel standing in the meager shade of a slender mesquite and rode over to him, jerking his winded mount to a halt.

  “More bad news, Colonel,” he said, sounding as out of breath as the horse he rode.

  “Speak up, Private,” Grant demanded, growing impatient with the soldier’s hesitation.

  “The entire population of Bisbee’s Corner has been wiped out, slaughtered by Indians.”

  “The women and children, too?” Grant asked, dismayed.

  “Every last one of them, sir. They were all scalped and cut up something awful.”

  “Did you see this for yourself?”

  “No sir, but an old prospector who hangs around the Sutler’s store sometimes came upon it, and he headed straight for the fort to report it.”

  Grant’s stomach was in knots. “How many lives were lost? I haven’t been to Bisbee’s Corner since last spring.”

  “Thirty-four in Bisbee, sir, includin’ the women and kids.” The man hesitated, as if fearful of imparting even more bad news. “There’s more, sir.”

  “Out with it, man,” Grant snapped.

  “On the way to the fort, the prospector came across another massacre. A wagon train filled with settlers and their wives and children was also hit by Indians. There were no survivors there, either.”

  “Naiche,” Captain Jones said needlessly. “He’s gone on a killin’ spree, now that he an’ his bucks have Winchester rifles an’ fresh horses. He’s killin’ us and every white man, woman, and child he can find with guns they stole from our armory, and they’re ridin’ some of our best remount horses they took from the stables.”

  “Dear God,” Grant sighed. “There’s no telling where this will end unless we find Naiche and his Apaches quickly. He could go on raiding and killing for months.”

  The newly arrived messenger glanced at the row of soldiers’ bodies. “Looks like he took a mighty heavy toll on Major Tarver and his troops.”

  “They’re all dead,” Grant said, his mind racing, thinking of what this would look like when his superiors heard about the Bisbee massacre. Grant could envision himself being relieved of his command in short order.

  “What shall I tell Major Evans, sir?” the messenger asked, sensing Grant’s growing anger.

  Grant had left Major Carl Evans in command of the fort while he rode out to look for Major Tarver’s missing troops. “Tell him I will be back tomorrow, and to prepare every able-bodied man and horse for a major campaign against the runaway Apaches. Take a fresh horse from one of ours and return to the fort immediately with my message.”

  “Yessir,” the private said, saluting smartly before he wheeled to find himself another mount.

  Jones toed the soft sand with his boot. “There’s another thing to think about, Colonel, an’ it could be the worst news yet.”

  “And what might that be?” Grant asked, mopping his sweating face with a neckerchief.

  “Naiche, now that he’s got maybe twenty or thirty fightin’ men and twice that many rifles, might join up with Geronimo. If that happens, we’re in for a helluva fight.”

  “Geronimo seems to have disappeared since he left the San Carlos reservation. No one has heard of him or seen him since, and until now, things have been quiet.”

  “Word is, Geronimo is down in Mexico raiding rancheros for horses and attacking small Federale patrols to get their rifles and ammunition.”

  “Where did you hear this?” Grant asked.

  “Same place . . . old man Sudderth. He heard it from a vaquero who works cattle in Sonora for one of the big ranchers. They say Geronimo is hidin’ out in the Sierra Madres, buildin’ himself an Apache army.”

  “That is troublesome news, if it’s true, Captain. If Geronimo comes across the river to join forces with Naiche, we’ll have a full-fledged Indian war on our hands.”

  Jones nodded. “Apaches are hard to kill or capture, because they break up into small groups after a raid. Our scouts never know which tracks to follow, and when they do find several sets of tracks, the Indians split up again into twos and threes. It gets mighty damn frustratin’.”

  “We simply must find a good scou
t, a man who understands the ways of these savages.”

  “I’ll inquire about that feller up in Tombstone as soon as we get back to the fort. Sudderth will remember his name, an’ maybe somethin’ about his past.”

  “Make that your top priority, Captain. Leave now for the fort, and find out who this newcomer is. I want to know his name and where to find him.”

  Jones saluted and wheeled his horse, then he pulled back on the reins. “Seems like Falcon was his name. He isn’t from this country. Up north, I think. Maybe Colorado Territory is where he’s from.”

  “Find out where he is,” Grant said impatiently, listening to the buzz of swarming blowflies hovering over the decaying corpses at the mouth of the ravine. On the eastern rim of the canyon he saw the pair of Pawnee scouts riding back and forth, studying the ground. One of the Indians was holding a pint bottle of whiskey as he went about searching for tracks. “As you can see, we’ve got a pair of drunks serving as our guides out here. We might as well give up.”

  “I’ll talk to ole’ Sudderth as soon as I get to the fort, Colonel. He’ll remember the stranger’s full name.”

  “Get going,” Grant said, turning his attention away from the Pawnees. “I’ll be back at the fort by noon tomorrow, unless we run into difficulties. I plan to ride over to Bisbee’s Corner on my return trip to see the carnage Naiche left for us there. And tell Major Evans to send a burial detail to Bisbee so those poor settlers can be buried.”

  Jones rode away at a hard gallop. Colonel Grant felt a chill run down his spine in spite of the warmth of the desert sun. A huge Indian war was in the making, and he would be squarely in the middle of it, by the looks of things.

  Chapter 21

  Naiche listened to the wailing women as they prepared the body of Yapo for burial in the cave high on a mountain overlooking the valley. The white man with silver hair had killed the boy with a single shot from the back of a running horse, proof that he was a skilled fighter. There would be more burial ceremonies before the war against the whites was over, and every warrior in Naiche’s band knew this.