Cry of Eagles (17 page)

Cuchillo held up his hand, stopping the twelve riders behind him. “Here is a good place for our ambush,” he said, looking left and right at the heavy forest of pine trees on either side of the trail. “The white-eyes who killed our brothers will be coming this way soon. We must seek revenge for the spirits of Tao and Ishton, so they may hunt and fish in the Land of Shadows forever.”

Cuchillo had one of the braves lead the ponies off deeper into the forest so their nickering wouldn't alert the whites to their presence. Then he and his band settled in to await the coming of their prey.

* * *

Behind Cuchillo and his men, lying flat on their stomachs upslope of the trail, Hawk and Falcon watched the ambush being set through their binoculars.

They had allowed Cuchillo's band to pass by them, knowing it would be easier to surprise them if they came from an unexpected direction.

“How many did you count?” Falcon asked.

“I got it 'bout twelve or thirteen, give or take one or two. How 'bout you?” Hawk answered.

“The same.” Falcon took the glasses from his eyes and looked at Hawk. “What do you think? Should we take them out now, or wait and do it later?”

Hawk shrugged, but his eyes were fierce as he replied, “No time like the present. I figure that'll mean twelve less of the bastards to have to worry about later.”

Falcon smiled. “A man after my own heart.” He hesitated, then asked, “What do you think about Cal and Jasper? Do you think they'll be able to hold their own in a fight?”

Hawk pursed his lips, thinking. “Yeah, if the situation's just right. I know Jasper's had plenty of experience, but Franklin's another matter entirely. I s‘pect he'll be all right if the advantage is ours, an' he don't have to do no thinkin'.”

Falcon nodded and turned to crawl back up the ridge toward where they'd left Cal and Jasper. Once they got there, Falcon gathered the three men around him as he outlined their plan of attack.

“The Apache are spread out, six men on either side of the trail. Their attention is back toward the east, where they think we'll be coming from. Jasper, I want you and Cal to stay upslope, and have some dynamite ready. Hawk and I will go in silently and take out as many as we can with our knives. When they realize what we're doing and raise the alarm, I want you two to drop a couple of sticks right in amongst them.”

“What about you and Hawk?” Cal asked. “Won't you be in danger from the dynamite, too?”

Falcon shook his head. “No. Throw the dynamite as close to the trail as you can. Hawk and I will stay well back from the path, and as soon as we hear any commotion, we'll hit the dirt and get behind something. Any questions?”

Jasper nodded. “Yeah. Why do you and Hawk get all the fun? I'm gettin' kind'a tired of always being on the outside during a fracas.”

Hawk glared at him. “Your history in combat don't exactly inspire confidence, Meeks. Last time you had a chance at ‘some fun', as you call it, you turned tail and ran. ”

“Why you—” Meeks began. Falcon stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Settle down, Jasper. It's just that I know Hawk can kill without making any noise. Believe me, you'll get your chance to kill some Indians. Just be patient.”

The scout nodded, his face still red from the insult Hawk had given.

Ten minutes later, Falcon was crawling on hands and knees toward the ambushers. He slipped his Arkansas Toothpick from its scabbard and slipped silently around the trunk of a pinyon tree. He threw his left arm around a brave's neck and plunged the knife into the middle of his back, severing the spinal cord and shutting down his brain so fast he didn't have time to make a sound. He lowered the body gently to the carpet of pine needles on the ground, then crept through the brush toward the next Indian.

While moving silently toward his third kill, Falcon heard a scream from the other side of the trail. Evidently one of Hawk's victims managed to yell for help as he was being killed.

Falcon was still five feet from his intended victim when the brave turned at the sound of the yell from nearby. His eyes widened and his face blanched in surprise as he raised his rifle to aim at Falcon.

Falcon reared back and threw his knife as hard as he could, then dived to the side. The Arkansas Toothpick turned over three times and embedded itself in the breastbone of the Indian, knocking him backward and throwing off his aim just enough to miss Falcon. Though the wound was painful it was not mortal, and the brave levered the Winchester to try and get off another round.

Falcon hit the dirt and rolled once, coming up on his knees with his hands filled with iron. He put his first bullet in the brave's forehead, snapping his head back and flinging him backward into a small bush.

Two more Apaches appeared side-by-side, both firing at the same time at Falcon. He snapped off a shot, but missed as he dove behind a small boulder, the Indians' bullets ricochetting off the stone and showering him with fragments.

Seconds later, a tremendous double explosion shattered the air, the concussion almost rupturing Falcon's ear drums and flattening him to the moist earth below.

An arm and part of a leg landed on the ground next to where Falcon lay, and a fine scarlet mist splattered his clothes. With his ears still ringing from the blast, he peeked over the top of the boulder and saw remnants of the two Indians scattered all over the landscape, next to a large hole in the ground.

He whirled at the sound of a scream from behind him and turned in time to see a yelling Apache running at him with a knife in an outstretched hand.

Falcon had no time to aim his pistol and barely got his hands up in time to block the knife thrust. The two men collided, chest to chest, and went backwards over the rocks. Each grabbed the other's throat and squeezed as they rolled around on the ground.

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.”

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.