Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s personal, Kid.”

  “Personal? You’ve tangled with those same renegades before?”

  “Not the same bunch, but they’re renegades off a reservation, and that makes ’em fair game.”

  “Fair game for a killin’? Mind tellin’ me why you feel so hard-line about it?”

  Falcon took a deep breath, gazing toward the open prairie where the renegades still sat their ponies watching the trees where the shooting had occurred. He was remembering the worst moment of his life, when a band of redskins had come down on his place while he was away, slaughtering his wife, Marie, butchering her like a fatted calf, cutting her open, scalping her, leaving her alive to suffer miserably until she died slowly.

  “You ain’t gotta talk about it if you’d rather not,” the Kid said.

  “A band of renegades attacked my ranch while I was off on business. They took my wife with ’em. They had their way with her and then cut her open. Sliced off her scalp. My father told me when he found her she’d bled all over the place, so I know she suffered something awful.”

  “Was she . . . dead when he found her?”

  Falcon merely nodded, turning away from the dying gunman from Santa Fe to walk to his horse.

  “You’re goin’ after the others, ain’t you?” the Kid said just as Roy Cobb let out his final breath.

  “Sure as hell am,” Falcon replied.

  “I’ll go with you,” the Kid offered, hurrying to catch up to Falcon’s longer strides.

  “Nope,” Falcon remarked. “This is my affair. Stay put until I’m done with ’em.”

  “You’re gonna take all of ’em on by yourself?”

  “Now you’ve got the idea,” Falcon told him as he untied Diablo’s reins and swung into the saddle.

  He began thumbing cartridges into the loading tube of his Winchester rifle. Then he booted it and pulled one pistol at a time to check their loads.

  “I’ll damn sure ride out there an’ help you,” the Kid said again.

  “I appreciate the offer,” Falcon replied, reining Diablo away from the tree. “But this is my personal score to settle. It’s been haunting me all these years. I can’t sleep sometimes, picturing what my Marie must’ve looked like when Jamie found her.”

  “An’ now you’re out to kill every Indian renegade you run across. It don’t matter what breed they are.”

  Falcon halted his horse just long enough to answer the Kid’s question. “Those are renegades, son. The law says we don’t fight each other any more like we did in the old days, before the big treaty at Medicine Lodge. These Mescaleros broke their word to keep peace between us. They ran off looking for a fight with white men, and I aim to oblige ’em. Those renegades who killed my Marie ignored the treaty and went to war against me, against a defenseless woman. I’ll make every redskin renegade I can find pay for what happened to my wife until I go to my grave. It’s something I have to do.”

  At that, Falcon had heeled Diablo through the pinyons toward the open valley, where nine Apaches were gathered in a low spot with rifles balanced across their ponies’ withers.

  Falcon rode to the edge of the forest. He jerked his rifle free, jacked a load into place, twisted Diablo’s reins around his saddlehorn so he could guide the trusty stud with his knees. At the last Falcon pulled the Colt pistol from his left holster, fisting it, then bringing the Winchester to his right shoulder.

  “Move out, Diablo,” he said soft and low, urging the big stallion into a run straight toward the Apaches.

  The Indians did not move, watching him gallop toward them out of a setting sun as if they couldn’t believe their eyes—one man charging toward nine armed warriors. Falcon knew they must believe he was crazy.

  Hell, he thought, they may well be right.

  The smooth running gait of Diablo did nothing to bother his aim when Falcon drew a bead on one Indian and pulled the trigger on his rifle, a shot of almost three hundred yards, impossible for all but the best marksmen.

  A shrieking Indian twisted off his pony, flinging his rifle high above his head as he fell head-first beneath the hooves of the other ponies.

  Falcon gave the Winchester’s loading lever a road agent’s spin, twirling it around his outstretched hand, sending another brass-jacketed shell into the chamber. He was still too far out of range to use his Colt pistol, but he was sure the opportunity to use it would come.

  Three Indians fired back at him, yet Falcon had anticipated their move by kneeing Diablo to the left and right so the big horse changed leads with every stride. A zigzagging target was virtually impossible to hit without a stroke of luck, and if Falcon had anything to say about it, the Indians were plumb out of luck today.

  Falcon fired his rifle again as two slugs whistled past him into the night sky, while a third plowed up dirt and grass many yards to the right of Diablo’s run.

  The shot from Falcon’s Winchester found another mark when a Mescalero in a fringed buckskin shirt yelped like a scalded dog and rolled, ball-like, off the croup of his prancing pinto pony to land hard on the ground behind it.

  Again, Falcon gave the rifle a one-handed spin, a practiced move he accomplished so smoothly it seemed like a fluid motion, not the working of a steel mechanism in a man’s hand.

  Four more shots thundered from the swale in Falcon’s direction, and all were wide misses. The Indians’ ponies were hard to control with all the shooting going on, rearing on hind legs or plunging against the pull of jawreins.

  Falcon aimed for an Apache and blasted him off his dappled gray. Blood flew from his ribs and back, and it seemed the big .44 slug had all but torn the Indian in half.

  Diablo continued his charge toward the milling Indians as the powerful horse dodged back and forth under the signals from Falcon’s knees.

  The remaining Apaches suddenly panicked, as if they realized this crazy white-eyes meant business, and swung their ponies away from Falcon’s headlong rush, drumming their heels into the ribs of their mounts.

  Their retreat did nothing to discourage MacCallister’s grin determination to blast the Mescalero renegades to their happy hunting ground. He asked Diablo for more speed and singled out one Indian to ride down and kill. Six Mescaleros remained, and if he had his way he meant to slaughter the entire bunch.

  He fired at the escaping Apache and blew the back of the warrior’s skull apart, with blood and hair and bone fragments flying high above the dappled pony until the dead Indian fell limply to the valley floor.

  Turning Diablo after another target, Falcon aimed and fired twice with his Colt. Another warrior screamed in agony and went down hard.

  Changing directions again, the scattering Apaches wanted no more of Falcon. Remembering Marie, he gave a mirthless grin. “Time for paybacks, you red bastards,” he growled, asking Diablo for all he had.

  * * *

  Falcon rested aboard the big black stud on a hilltop to survey the scene below. Diablo was blowing hard, covered with a thick coating of sweat and foam. Falcon leaned forward to pat the big stud’s neck, for he had run as if he were chasing the devil for Falcon—which, in a sense, he had been.

  Spread across a starlit valley, lying in patches of dark blood, nine Mescalero Apache renegades decorated the north Chisum pasture. Men who had found all the excitement they could handle when they decided to leave the reservation and make some extra money by stealing.

  He heard the Kid riding up the hill. As soon as the Kid got there he spoke.

  “Never saw nothin’ like it, Falcon.” Kid removed his hat and sleeved off his face. Then he shook his head in awe. “You killed every one of ’em like it was all in a day’s work. ”

  He glanced sideways at Falcon. “You know, I used to think I was a pretty bad hombre, but you just showed me something. There’s always somebody over the next hill who’s just a little bit badder.”

  Falcon gave the Kid a lopsided grin. “Now you know why I keep telling you to get off the hoot owl trail and go straight. That trail only leads to one
conclusion, and it’s always the same, being stood up in a pine box for folks to take pictures of and stand around gawking at.”

  Kid nodded.

  “You plannin’ on goin’ up to Santa Fe to have a talk with Catron?”

  Falcon’s thirst for revenge had lessened after the bloodbath, and he turned to the Kid. “Maybe later, but right now I’m heading on down to John Chisum’s to tell him what happened.”

  He stared out across the field, almost completely covered in darkness now. “He’s probably heard the shots and is wondering who’s gone to war out on his spread.” He stuck out his hand, “It’s time you started that long ride to the Mexican border.”

  The Kid leaned out of his saddle, taking Falcon’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure to know you, Falcon MacCallister. Thanks for all you did to try to help me an’ my friends. We lost the war in Lincoln County, that’s for sure, but we damn sure made ’em pay in blood to get it done.”

  Falcon didn’t want more conversation right at the moment. “Best you start riding, son. And good luck to you. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you won’t ever show your face in New Mexico Territory again. Let ’em all think you’re buried up at Fort Sumner.”

  The Kid nodded and swung his horse off the hilltop, hitting a trot to the south. Crossing the dark valley, he glanced to his left and then his right when he rode past the bodies of some of the Apaches Falcon had killed.

  Falcon watched the boy ride off, deciding the Kid’s secret would always be safe with him.

  He heeled Diablo off the grassy knob and headed for Chisum’s South Springs ranch, with a tale to tell.

  Just once, he turned to watch the Kid ride out of sight over a ridge.

  “Good luck down in Mexico, Kid,” he said to himself as Diablo carried him toward John Chisum’s headquarters, “Vaya con Díos, Chivato. ”

  * * *

  Falcon tossed and turned as his dreams caused him to sweat, and his heart to beat faster. He relived in his mind his hatred for renegade Indians, and all that they had cost him. Not a bigoted man by nature, Falcon judged most people by their actions, not the color of their skin. Indians who were peaceable and obeyed the law had nothing to fear from him. It was the ones who flaunted the law, who declared war on the white man, that he hated with all his heart. The Indians had no honor about war. They killed women and children and civilians as well as soldiers who were on their trail, and they did it in the most brutal manner imaginable. For that reason, he would not rest until Naiche and his followers were captured, or were in their graves.

  Chapter 37

  “Dammit, Free,” Captain Buford Jones shouted, “when are we going up in those mountains after Naiche? You’ve had us out here in the desert for two days doing nothing but riding around in circles.”

  The scout looked up from where he squatted on his haunches looking for tracks and signs only he could see in the hard-packed desert sand. He was a short man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, but with his white, glossy, gouch-eye and his long shaggy hair that he let fall down over his face to hide the eye from view, he could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty years old.

  One thing was certain, Captain Jones thought, though he didn’t dare say it out loud, the man sure enough had a lot of miles on him. He looked like he’d been rode hard and put up wet.

  “Cap’n Jones,” Mickey Free said in his Irish tenor voice, his brogue, normally thick as molasses in January, made even deeper by the evident sarcasm in his tone, “I would think after your last couple’a ventures up against Naiche, ye’d be a mite more careful ’bout rushin’ into places ye ain’t sure of.”

  Jones glanced around at the men in his command to see if they heard what Mickey said. He knew he wasn’t the most popular commander since he’d lost almost all his men on his previous two outings, but he didn’t appreciate a lowlife like Mickey Free impugning his abilities in front of his men.

  Free had a terrible reputation among the officers of the army, and the only reason he got away with his insubordination was there wasn’t a better tracker in the whole United States army. It was said that Mickey Free could smell Apaches from miles away even if there weren’t any tracks to be found, and would follow his nose to where they were hiding. Unlike other scouts, who dropped back when fighting began, Free was always in the forefront, a maniacal grin on his ugly face as he drew down on and killed Indians. It was as if he had a driving need of some sort to kill every red man in the country.

  “Just what do you mean by that remark, Free?”

  Mickey shrugged. “Take it any way you like, Cap’n. But long as I’m scoutin’ for this here soiree, we’ll go about it my way. Do you understand, Cap’n?”

  As Jones’ face turned red and he sat straighter in his saddle, Mickey shrugged and spread his hands wide, an insolent smirk on his ugly face. “’Cause if it’s not all right, I’ll just shag my butt on back to the fort and let you carry on in your usual manner.”

  Jones clamped his teeth shut, trying his best to resist a sudden urge to pull his revolver and shoot this smart-talking sonofabitch right in the face. His resolve to do nothing was bolstered by Mickey’s reputation as a cold-blooded killer, and Jones had a feeling that if he did go for his gun he’d be dead before he could clear leather.

  He was saved from making a reply when a soldier rode up in a cloud of dust, his gelding covered with a thick coat of sweat and foam.

  “Hey, Captain Jones, sir! I got a message for you from the telegraph at the fort,” the young man called.

  Jones reached out his hand without speaking, still fuming over the lack of respect for his rank shown by Mickey Free.

  He took the telegram and unfolded it, squinting a little to make out the writing—he didn’t intend to give Free any more ammunition to use against him by putting on his reading spectacles.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat. “It says here, Mr. Free, that a group of cowboys up in the Dragoons have found out where Naiche is hiding his main force. They say if we’ll meet them under Indian Head Peak at noon today, they’ll lead us right to him.”

  “Uh huh,” Mickey muttered, an expression on his face as if he’d tasted gall.

  “What is the matter with you, Mr. Free?” asked Jones.

  “It’s just that I don’t believe any cowboys could’ve just stumbled upon Naiche’s camp and been allowed to ride away to summon us to them. Naiche ain’t that careless, or that stupid. Does that telegram say who it is we’re dealin’ with?”

  Jones glanced at the bottom of the paper. “It does mention a name here . . . Falcon MacCallister.”

  “The hell you say! MacCallister?”

  “That’s right. Why? Do you know him?”

  Mickey rubbed his beard stubble for a moment, his eyes vacant as he thought back a few years. He’d been trailing an Indian for what seemed like months when he pulled up at a stage stop cantina to replenish his fading supply of Irish whiskey, or whiskey of any kind, for that matter. As he approached the cantina door, the Indian he’d been trailing stepped out with a pistol in his hand and a grin on his face. Mickey was sure he had only seconds to live, when suddenly a tall man appeared behind the Indian and grabbed him by the hair. The stranger yanked the brave’s head back and slid a Bowie knife gently across his throat. He released the Indian and let him fall to the ground to die strangling on his own blood. When Mickey managed to make enough spit to talk, he asked the stranger’s name. “MacCallister, Jamie MacCallister,” he’d answered. When Mickey offered to split the reward with MacCallister, he refused. Then the man bent, and quick as a rattler striking he’d sliced off the brave’s face, rolled it up in the dead man’s shirt, and handed it to Mickey. “Here’s the proof you need to get your reward,” MacCallister had said. Then, he’d winked and added, “An’ bringing the man’s face back wrapped up like a birthday present won’t do your reputation any harm, either.” He’d been right. That act of foolish bravado had made Mickey Free a legend in his own time, and gotten him any number of free drinks
in bars all across the west.

  Mickey looked up, snapping out of his reverie. “Know him? No, but I knew his paw. Hell of a man!”

  Jones stared at Mickey with narrowed eyes. “So, you think we should trust this MacCallister to lead us to Naiche?”

  “If he’s anything like his father, I’d follow him through the gates of hell,” Mickey said, a grin on his face.

  He took two quick steps and jumped up on the back of a pinto pony he was riding. “Let’s make dust, Cap’n. We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  Jones had no choice but to follow Mickey’s lead, so he waved hand in a circle and shouted, “Follow ho!” as he spurred his horse into the dust cloud left by Mickey’s pony.

  * * *

  Hawk and Meeks were sitting next to a small fire they’d built under the overhang of a rock to hide the smoke. Hawk paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth and cocked his head.

  “Horses!” he said, jumping to his feet and walking rapidly to. He pulled out his Winchester and levered a shell into the chamber.

  “Indians?” Meeks asked as he climbed onto the boulder and shaded his eyes as he looked down the mountain.

  After a moment, Meeks smiled. “It’s the cavalry, come to rescue us from the redskins.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Hawks said, a smirk on his face as he lowered the hammer of his rifle with his thumb.

  It wasn’t long before Captain Jones and his men rode into the clearing under the outcropping of rock that resembled an Indian Chief’s head.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Jones said.

  Hawk and Meeks looked at each other as if they didn’t know which of them was being addressed as a “gentleman”.

  “Howdy, Colonel,” Hawks said.

  “It’s captain, not colonel,” Jones said.

  “Which of you two is MacCallister?” Mickey asked, peering at them with his head cocked to one side as he looked out of his good eye.

  Meeks stared at Mickey for a moment, then smiled. “Neither one of us is. He went on ahead to keep an eye on Naiche an’ make sure he didn’t move his camp. Would you be Mickey Free?”