Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Falcon had his left hand on the Indian’s wrist holding the knife, while his right hand was trying to get a grip on the brave’s throat.

  After two rolls, the Indian ended up on top, and slowly pushed the knife down towards Falcon’s face. He strained, but couldn’t stop the knife’s slow progress.

  Suddenly there was a loud blast and the savage’s head seemed to explode, completely disappearing above the eyes, showering Falcon with blood and brains.

  He rolled and threw the Indian’s dead body off him, and saw Jasper Meeks standing twenty feet away, smoke curling from the barrel of his Winchester.

  “Thanks, Jasper,” Falcon gasped, aware of how close to death he’d been.

  “Think nothing of it, Falcon. All in a day’s work.”

  “Have we got all of them?” Falcon asked as he got to his feet and bent to retrieve his pistols.

  “Yep. Twelve are dead, and one’s wounded pretty bad.”

  “Take me to him,” Falcon said, sleeving sweat off his forehead.

  Meeks walked back toward the trail and stopped next to a body lying on its back, arms flung out, eyes closed.

  Falcon nodded, a slow smile curving his lips. “We’re in luck, Jasper. That’s the leader of this little party, the one we let get away to carry the message to Naiche that we were after him.”

  Meeks leaned his head to the side, staring at the face of the man on the ground. “If you say so, chief. They all look the same to me.”

  Falcon pulled his bandanna from around his neck and wrapped it tightly around the bullet crease on Cuchillo’s skull, stopping the bleeding.

  “I want to keep this one alive if we can. He’ll have some mighty interesting things to say to Naiche when they find him.”

  Hawk and Cal Franklin walked out of the bushes, Hawk holding three scalps in his hand. “You want we should dress what’s left of the rest of them up like we did the others, Falcon?” he asked.

  Falcon nodded. “Absolutely. It’s time we sent Naiche another message. I want him to be convinced that the hounds of hell are on his trail, and won’t give up until he’s dead. If we can keep him thinking about us, maybe he’ll pay less attention to raiding the countryside.”

  Meeks nodded. “That’s so. A man who’s worried overly much ’bout his back trail don’t always keep his eye on what’s up ahead of him.”

  Chapter 28

  Naiche was worried. He had heard thunder in the distance, coming from the direction where he’d sent Cuchillo to find and kill the white-eyes who were following his band. As he glanced skyward, he saw only stars and a half-moon in a clear sky. There were no clouds to account for the sounds he’d heard. He was familiar with the thunder-sticks of the whites, having seen them used to clear tree stumps when he was incarcerated at the fort, and feared it meant Cuchillo and his men were in trouble. He wondered briefly if perhaps Cuchillo might have run into a squad of soldiers, for he couldn’t make himself believe for a moment only four whites could give Cuchillo and his twelve braves much of a battle.

  He caught Chokole’s eye and inclined his head toward a spot near a Juniper tree where they wouldn’t be seen by the others milling around the fires.

  When she came up to him, a puzzled look in her dark eyes, he bent his head down and spoke in a harsh whisper. “Chokole, I fear Cuchillo may have failed in his mission to kill the white-eyes that murdered Tao and Ishton.”

  Chokole’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, nodding her head to show she understood.

  “I want you to take Juh and follow Cuchillo’s trail. Find out what has happened.” He stopped speaking and looked over her shoulder at the young braves dancing around the fires, smearing their faces with the colored clays and dyes they used as warpaint, laughing and crying out what they were going to do to the bluecoats in their upcoming war.

  “I do not want the young ones and the new ones to know of this. I fear it will hurt their spirit if we find Cuchillo’s war party has been defeated by only four white-eyes.”

  Chokole reached out her hand and lightly touched Naiche’s shoulder. “Perhaps you are mistaken in your feelings, Chief Naiche. It may be that Cuchillo is merely late in returning and has successfully killed the intruders to our lands.”

  “I hope you are right, Chokole. But if there are men on our trail who are skilled in the ways of war enough to vanquish a war party that far outnumbers them, then plans will have to be made to remove them from Earth Mother. I will be unable to send out any more raiding parties until this matter is taken care of.”

  Naiche’s head jerked around as a distant coyote howl was heard barking five times, the signal for extreme danger. He turned from Chokole and sprinted to his wickiup, grabbing his Winchester rifle and levering a shell into the chamber as he turned toward the sound.

  A young brave could be seen running down the path from the sentry post as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder as if the devil himself were after him.

  Naiche walked rapidly to intercept the brave, having to reach out and grab his arm as he tried to run past.

  “Kumo, what is the matter?” Naiche asked, his voice rising in anger at the show of cowardice from his man.

  “Up there ... Jaba has been killed!” the young man shouted, his voice squeaky with fright.

  Naiche’s eyes narrowed, and his nose dilated at the fear-stink exuding from the frightened brave. “Our sentry has been killed, and you left your post unattended?”

  Kumo’s face blanched at the tone of Naiche’s voice. He suddenly realized he had done the unthinkable: he’d left the camp unguarded.

  Naiche backhanded Kumo, knocking him to the dirt. “I will see to your punishment later, Kumo.”

  Quickly shouting orders, Naiche assembled a group of ten warriors who leapt on their ponies, Winchesters in hand, and galloped up the trail toward the lookout area.

  When they arrived at the spot, Naiche posted two warriors to keep watch for intruders, and he walked to the boulder where the sentry was stationed. His stomach lurched at the sight awaiting him, and he realized why Kumo had been so upset.

  The young brave known as Jaba was sitting on the ground, his back to the boulder and his legs stretched out in front of him. His head had been cut off, and he was holding it under his arm as one would a melon. The freshly scalped skull gleamed in the weak moonlight. Jaba’s empty eye sockets were staring at Naiche, as if berating him for starting the war that had gotten him killed.

  Juh stepped to the side of the body and knelt down, examining it closely. After a moment, he stood up and walked to stand next to Naiche. “Jaba’s Winchester and ammunition pouch are missing, as is his knife,” he whispered in a low voice, watching the other braves as they stood in a small group, eyes wide at the sight of their friend butchered like a beef cow.

  Naiche stifled an impulse to scream at the moon, feeling the first stirrings of fear in his breast. What manner of white-eyes could so stealthily approach and kill and mutilate one of the People only a hundred yards from his camp and not be heard? There were a handful of whites, men famous as Indian scouts and trackers, that Naiche had heard of who were capable of such a feat. None of these men were known to be in the area.

  It was a mystery, and one that must be solved soon, or the tales of mutilated, butchered warriors would sow the seed of defeatism among his people. They must believe that the white-eyes and bluecoats were inferior fighters if they were to remain committed to making war on the intruders. If his followers ever began to think mighty Apache warriors could be killed as easily as this, it would signal Naiche’s defeat before the war even started.

  He grabbed Juh by the arm and pulled him aside. “Take Chokole—I have already spoken to her—and find Cuchillo. Do not let the others see you leave.”

  Juh opened his mouth to speak, but the fury in Naiche’s eyes stopped him.

  “No questions. Go!” Naiche spat.

  * * *

  A little over two hours later, Chokole and Juh were riding to the east, Juh bent over on his
pony’s back as he followed the small signs of Cuchillo’s passing.

  Chokole, who was watching the trail ahead of them, sucked in her breath and reined her pony to a halt.

  Juh, hearing the sound, looked up, and felt the hair on the back of his neck stir at what he saw.

  In the middle of the trail, hanging spread-eagled on a cross, was Cuchillo. His head flopped forward with his chin on his chest, blood slowly dripping from a wound on his clean-shaven head.

  Juh looked at Chokole, and saw for the first time what he took to be fear in her eyes. They both levered rounds into their Winchesters and kneed their ponies slowly forward along the trail, watching the bushes to either side closely for signs of an ambush or trick.

  When they got to Cuchillo, they could see he was still alive, though unconscious. While Juh kept watch, Chokole slipped to the ground and walked to Cuchillo.

  Slipping her knife from its scabbard, she cut the ropes holding him to the cross and caught him in her arms as he fell forward, gently laying him on the ground.

  Finally convinced there was no one waiting to ambush them, Juh jumped down and knelt next to Cuchillo as Chokole shook him awake.

  As his eyes opened, he gasped and began to thrash around, trying to get to his feet, a terrified expression on his face.

  Chokole grabbed his shoulder, pressing hard into the flesh with her fingers to get his attention.

  “Cuchillo, what happened here?” she asked.

  “They came out of the night! There was no warning.”

  “They attacked you while you were riding after them?” Juh asked.

  “No,” Cuchillo said, shaking his head but continuing to look over Chokole’s shoulder, as if afraid the white men would return. “We were hidden on either side of the trail, waiting in ambush for them to ride into our trap, when suddenly they were there among us.”

  “You and the other warriors heard nothing of their approach?” Chokole asked.

  Cuchillo shook his head. “I do not believe these men walk on the earth as we do. No one could get that close without making a sound.”

  “What are you saying?” Juh whispered, casting a worried glance at Chokole, as if he feared his friend might be delirious or out of his head.

  Cuchillo reached out and grabbed Juh by the arm. “These men who are following us are demons from the underworld. That is the only explanation. They appear without warning and kill without mercy, and then disappear into the night as if they were never there. They do not fight like the other white-eyes and bluecoats.”

  Juh gently took Cuchillo’s hand from his arm and stood up. I go to find the rest of the warriors with Cuchillo.”

  “See if you can find a pony for Cuchillo to ride back to camp,” Chokole said. “I will get him up on his feet.”

  Twenty yards up the trail, Juh smelled blood and death nearby. He stepped into the brush next to the path and stopped, his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring. All of Cuchillo’s warriors were lined up on the ground, their arms outstretched and their fingers touching, as if holding hands. The eyes and scalps had been removed, and their throats had been cut. Several sets of body parts from braves who had literally been blown to pieces in the battle were arranged nearby.

  Juh wondered briefly why Cuchillo had been spared, and why the whites had taken the time and trouble to merely shave his head and not scalp him. White-eyes didn’t think like Apaches, and Juh knew no one who could understand the strange ways of the intruders.

  He glanced over his shoulder toward where Chokole was holding Cuchillo on his feet. He did know one thing. By the time Naiche was finished with Cuchillo, he would probably wish the four white-eyes had killed him like the others, for he was sure to be branded an incompetent warrior or worse, a coward.

  Juh shook his head as he looked at what was left of his friends. He didn’t believe for a minute what Cuchillo said about these white men being monsters from the underworld, but he knew one thing Cuchillo was right about ... they certainly fought like demons.

  Chapter 29

  Falcon and his small band lay on their stomachs in heavy brush less than a hundred yards from the cross where the female Apache and the brave with her found Cuchillo.

  Falcon propped his elbows on the ground and watched them through his binoculars as they cut him down. Though he couldn’t hear what they were saying, he could read body language well enough to know they were worried, as he had hoped they would be, by what they’d found.

  The woman warrior kept looking over her shoulder, her hard face glancing to and fro as if searching for imaginary enemies about to come out of the dark and pounce on them.

  The young brave walked stiffly, carrying his rifle at port arms, and even from where Falcon lay he could see the man’s knuckles were white where he gripped the long gun as if it were going to jump out of his hands.

  Falcon smiled to himself. His plan seemed to be working. The usually imperturbable Apache, people who were generally thought to not know the meaning of fear or trepidation, were beginning to realize there were forces after them they could not escape, forces that could defeat them as easily as they were accustomed to defeating the white man’s army. It was just what he wanted them to think.

  After the brave managed to find and catch one of the ponies belonging to the war party, he and the woman helped the wounded Indian up on the back of the animal.

  They slowly rode off back down the trail, both of the newcomers looking continuously back over their shoulders to make sure no one was there.

  When they were out of sight around a bend in the trail, Jasper Meeks slapped Falcon on the shoulder. “I never would’a believed it was possible, Falcon,” he said, sitting up and sticking a long, black cheroot in his mouth. He struck a lucifer on his pants leg and applied it to the cigar, puffing out clouds of evil-smelling smoke. “I never thought I’d see the day Apaches were spooked.

  “It was a good idea you had, Falcon. Killin’ them Injuns in the same manner they kill whites seems to have stuck in their craw. They don’t seem to know what to make of it all.”

  “That’s the plan, Hawk. Throw something different, something they’re not used to, at them, and see how they react,” Falcon answered.

  “Well, it may be workin’ like you said, an’ it may be causin’ the Injuns some troubles, but I still don’t like it,” Cal Franklin said in a low voice. “It just ain’t Christian, doin’ what we done to them bodies. They may be Injuns, but that don’t mean we should cut ’em up like they was cattle being butchered.”

  Hawk glanced at Cal, his eyes hard. “Maybe you just don’t have the stomach for this little war we got goin’ on, Franklin.”

  Franklin turned his head to stare into Hawk’s face, not giving an inch. “I got as much stake in this as you do, Hawkins. They killed my friends and partners, an’ I came along to get vengeance. The Good Book don’t say nothin’ against vengeance.”

  “The Bible, if that’s what you believe in, also says ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,’ my friend,” Meeks said. “I personally don’t believe in no God, but if’n there was one I can’t hardly see how He’d object to doin’ to the Injuns what they been doin’ to white folks for years.”

  He took a deep puff of his cigar, lay back against the grass, and blew smoke at the stars overhead.

  “Besides,” he added, “what difference do it make what happens to your body after you’re dead and gone? It’s not like we was torturing those braves while they was still alive.”

  Hawk took out a plug of Bull Durham and sliced off a thick piece with his knife. He popped it in his mouth and began to chew as he talked. “Any time it gets too rough out here for you, feel free to hightail it on back to your mine, Franklin. We can get along just fine without you.”

  Before Cal could answer, Falcon interrupted. “Hold on, gentlemen. We need every gun we have, Hawk, and every man has a right to his own beliefs and feelings. If Cal doesn’t feel right about the way we’ve been treating the dead Indians, he doesn’t have to help
with that part of it.”

  Hawk turned his head and spat, the brown liquid steaming in the chilly night air. “If’n you say so, Falcon,” he said grudgingly, not looking at Franklin.

  Falcon glanced at Franklin. “Cal, you have to realize why we’re doing this. Cutting up those dead men has confused the Apache and made them stop and worry about what is going on. If they’re confused and worried about us, they don’t have time to go running around the country killing other people like they did your friends. Do you understand?”

  Cal hung his head, looking at the ground as he made circles in the dirt with a stick. “Yeah, I guess so. I was just sayin’ it bothered me, that’s all.”

  “It bothers all of us, too, Cal. None of us likes doing that sort of thing. But we’re in a war here, and sometimes in war you have to do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”

  “I s’pect so.”

  “What’s next, Falcon?” Meeks asked, still lying on his back and looking at the sky.

  “I’m going to trail those three back to the Apache camp and keep a lookout on them. I want to make sure Naiche doesn’t move his camp before we can get some help up here to clean them out.”

  “What about us?” Hawk asked.

  “I’d like you to head on back to Tombstone and send a telegraph to Fort Thomas. We need to let the army know we’ve found Naiche’s main base camp.”

  “Why can’t Meeks and Franklin go to Tombstone an’ me come with you?” Hawks asked.

  Falcon looked at him. “Because it’s going to be hard enough for one person to watch the camp without being seen. After what I did to their sentry last time, they’re sure to have doubled the lookouts. Hawk, there is just no way two of us, no matter how careful, could escape being caught.”

  Hawk spat again, his face sour. “Well, all right, but that don’t mean I got to like it.”

  “I figure it’ll take the army two or three days to get a sizable force from the fort to here. Try to get them to agree to meet me here at this location early in the morning of the third day from now, and I’ll let them know what the situation is at the camp.”