Cry of Eagles (26 page)

The next morning Falcon woke up just before dawn. The air was frigid, and the sky was full of ominous looking clouds that bespoke of possible snow later in the day.

Falcon thought the desert must have been the last place God made, for it was filled with contradictions. Blazing hot and dry most of the year, it could turn freezing and have snow and ice at other times. He had seen the temperature in the day break one hundred and then fall to below freezing the same night.

He pulled on his fur-lined jacket and set about making breakfast. While the fire was starting and his coffee was heating, he used the time to bury Cal Franklin's body. With no wood available for a cross or other marker, he gathered a number of fist-sized stones and piled them over the grave to help keep scavengers from digging the remains up.

He didn't bother with the Indians' corpses, figuring coyotes and buzzards had to eat, same as worms.

Afterward, he sat next to the fire, enjoying for the first time in several days a period of relaxation where he could smoke a quiet cigar and a good cup of coffee. He had no supplies with him for a meal, so he chewed on some dried beef jerky and a few old biscuits that were as hard as rocks.
No wonder punchers call biscuits sinkers,
he thought, for they immediately sank to the pit of his stomach and sat there, waiting to cause mischief in his digestive tract later in the day.

As the morning sun rose he spied a dust cloud off to the north, coming from the direction he had traveled the night before.
I hope that's Hawk and Jasper with the army,
he thought.
If it's not, I can't afford to wait much longer. We've got to catch up with Naiche before he crosses the Rio Bravo into Mexico, or the army will be powerless to go after him.

He emptied the rest from his coffeepot into his cup and brewed a fresh pot, figuring the men coming would be needing some after their journey across the desert.

Less than thirty minutes later the calvary arrived, led by Hawk, Jasper Meeks, and a gnome-like man with flaming red hair and a face only a mother could love.

The captain in charge reined his horse to a stop and tipped his head at Falcon. “I'm Captain Buford Jones, Mr. MacCallister. Your . . . associates here tell me you've been tracking Naiche and his band of renegades.”

Falcon nodded, wondering why the red-headed gent kept staring at him so intently.

“That's right, Captain. They took off from here last night and headed straight south toward the Pedregosas and Mexico. I believe they're probably headed down there to try and join up with Geronimo, who I hear is on the warpath across the border.

As Jones opened his mouth to speak, the man who'd been staring at Falcon jumped off his horse and walked over to him.

“Ye be Falcon MacCallister, son of Jamie MacCallister?”

Falcon tensed. He never knew what such a greeting presaged. His father had many friends, but he'd also made his share of enemies also in his many years of traversing the west.

“That's right.”

“I'm Mickey Free,” the man said, breaking into a wide grin and sticking out his hand. “Your pappy saved my skin once, an' helped me out on some other matters a time or two. He was a real man, the kind you only run into once or twice in your life.”

Falcon took Mickey's hand and shook it.

“Thank you,” he said. “I was always pretty fond of him, too.”

As they shook hands, Mickey's eyes glanced over Falcon's shoulders and he saw the five Indian corpses lined up a short distance away. He looked at Falcon and cocked an eyebrow. Then his grin got even wider, a feat Falcon would have thought impossible just a minute before.

“I see you been busy, Falcon,” Mickey said, brushing by him to go take a closer look at the dead braves.

Jones and Hawk and Meeks dismounted as Jones told his sergeant to have the men dismissed for a meal break.

As they all walked to stand over the bodies, Jones's eyes widened and he stared at Falcon. “Mr. MacCallister, were these men killed by Indians? I notice they've all been scalped.”

Falcon wagged his head. “No, captain. I did that myself, both the killing and the scalping. I tied the scalplocks onto their ponies and sent them on ahead to deliver a message for me to Naiche.”

Jones drew himself up, a self-righteous expression on his face. “White men do not scalp their victims, Mr. MacCallister.”

Mickey snorted a short laugh through his misshapen nose. “Kind'a depends on the man, Captain, don't it?”

His gaze flicked to the pile of stones nearby. “Who's the gent in the ground, Falcon?” Mickey asked.

“Friend of ours, name of Franklin,” Falcon answered, drawing disbelieving looks from Hawk and Meeks.

“Ya mean ole Cal done got kilt by the Injuns?” Hawk asked.

“Yes, and he died hard,” Falcon answered. “They worked on him a spell before I was able to end it for him.”

Jones looked astonished. “You mean you killed your own friend in cold blood?” he asked.

Falcon's eyes got cold as ice. “I told you, Captain, he died hard. His eyelids were cutoff, and his belly was opened with his guts spread out on the ground all around him. There wasn't any way he was going to survive, so I did what he asked and helped him to some peace.”

“I cannot believe—” the captain started to say, when Mickey interrupted him.

“Believe it, Captain. If it ever happens to you, you'll be beggin' fer a blue pill just like Franklin did, an' you better hope there's somebody around to feed you one when you need it,” Mickey said with feeling.

Jasper Meeks spoke up. “There might be worse ways to die, but offhand I can't think of one.”

“Me, either,” Hawk added.

“All right, gentlemen, point taken,” Jones said.

“Would you men like some coffee?” Falcon asked.

“Only if it's strong enough to float a horseshoe,” Mickey said.

“Oh, it'll float a horseshoe,” Falcon answered, “but not the biscuits I ate this morning.”

Within a few minutes, they were all standing around Falcon's fire, warming their hands and drinking coffee. Hawk stuck a wedge of Bull Durham in his cheek and the others built themselves cigarettes or fired up cigars.

Buford Jones took a long drink of coffee and asked, “Falcon, you and Hawk and Meeks have had several run-ins with Naiche and his men and you've managed to come out on top every time. Evidently you have some feel for how to deal with these Apaches. What do you suggest we do next?”

Falcon could hardly believe his ears. He'd never once before met an army officer who didn't think he knew it all, and had certainly never had one ask him for advice. Of course, he knew nothing of Jones's previous encounters with Naiche's men that ended in Jones's terrible defeats.

“Well, Captain, the one thing I do know is you'll never defeat the Apache in a running battle or on horseback. Apaches, unlike most other Indians other than the Comanche, have no backup in them, and they won't stop fighting until the last man is dead. They don't have any word in their language for tomorrow, so all they live for is the here and now, unlike us whites who seem to think we're going to live forever. Thinking like that gives them an advantage in battle, 'cause they're not worried about surviving, as we are. They're only worried about dying with honor.”

Jones nodded. “So, what do you suggest, Falcon?”

“I think the best thing would be for me to try and flank Naiche and his group and come at them from the front. When they turn to try to avoid me, you and your men will be behind them, waiting.”

Jones looked skeptical. “And just what makes you think Naiche, with his many warriors, will turn and run from just one man?”

Falcon grinned. “ 'Cause I've gone to some trouble to make him fear me. So far, every war party he's sent out after my friends and me has come back to him dead. That'll be enough for him to take the easy way out and try to go around me if he can.”

“I'll ride along with him, Captain, just to make sure thing' go the way he figures they will,” Mickey said.

“I reckon Hawk and I'll do the same,” Meeks added.

Falcon shook his head. “No, Jasper, I need you and Hawk to stay with the captain here, and show him how we arranged our ambushes of the war parties.”

Jones frowned. “I don't need nobody to show me how to fight, Falcon.”

“I know you don't, Captain, for the normal sort of fighting the army does. I'm quite sure you are excellent at leading your men in calvary charges. But this is Indian fighting. That's something else altogether, and you won't find any better teachers than Hawk or Jasper.”

Somewhat mollified, Jones nodded. “All right, but just where do you think this is all going to happen?”

“If you've got a map showing the Pedregosas along the border with Mexico, I'll show you. The mountains in that region are quite steep with lots of ravines and box canyons. There's only a few places where Naiche can cross easily, where the trail is such that the women and children traveling with him will be able to walk through the terrain.”

After Jones pulled out his map and Falcon showed him the area they were assuming Naiche would be in, Falcon took Hawk and Jasper aside.

“I'm counting on you men to keep Jones out of trouble.”

Hawk frowned. “He's green as a two-foot high willow tree, Falcon. What the hell's the army thinkin', sendin' a man like that out to fight Injuns?”

Falcon grinned. “They don't have much choice, Hawk, 'cause men like you and Jasper are too smart to join the army and fight Indians for a living.”

Jasper nodded. “I reckon that's true, Falcon. Men like us who've lived out here long enough to know which end of the porcupine to pet don't exactly take to takin' orders from some stuffed shirt from Washington. We'll try to keep Jones and his men alive until you flush Naiche our way.” He shrugged, “After that, it's every man for hisself.”

“Fair enough,” Falcon said. He stuck out his hand. “In case for some reason I don't see you gents again, it's been a pleasure riding with you.”

The three men shook hands. Then Falcon climbed on Diablo and he and Mickey Free headed south-southeast to flank Naiche while Hawk and Jasper led the army troops south-southwest to come at him from behind.

The Pedregosas lay in a long, uneven line, reaching southward to Agua Prieta across the border in Mexico. It was a mystery to Naiche and many Apaches how an imaginary line stopped the bluecoat soldiers from chasing them beyond a simple fence. It seemed senseless to a people who moved from place to place wherever they chose to go—fearing nothing but an enemy who might block their pathway to better hunting grounds by putting up a fight—but the white-eyes had many strange customs, like fences, which Naiche's people did not understand. It would not keep him from taking advantage of it—the most important one of all, the fence—now that they were on the run from soldiers and the three men who had an uncanny ability to track down and kill Apaches the way another Indian might.

After the skirmish with the three white men when they set their fire in the desert brush, Naiche found he had fewer than fifteen able-bodied fighting men. If Mickey Free led the soldiers to them now it would be a short fight unless Naiche could take his people to a fortified place higher in the mountains where rocks, scattered trees, and narrow trails would give them the advantage of cover.

He recalled the carnage done to his three rear scouts early today . . . their scalps missing, bellies cut open, and their eyes poked out as if someone had done it with a sharp pointed stick—a sure sign the men following them understood Apache customs and ways.

Nana, a veteran of many battles, was worried, too. Juh was preoccupied with watching their backtrail, while Chokole had said nothing since she cut the white prisoner's eyelids off and left him staked out across the ant bed. A curious silence gripped the women and younger warriors as they made their way higher into the Pedregosas. There were no more war chants, no celebrations of their freedom as there had been before. Everyone was waiting to see if the five warriors Naiche left behind to ambush the three whites were successful when the white Apache hunters were drawn to the shrill cries of pain from the prisoner Chokole gutted.

It was a gamble, that these cautious white men would ride up to the man staked across the bed of red ants, but Naiche felt it was a risk worth taking. His warriors were well hidden near the ocotillo grove, armed with repeating rifles, their horses tethered over a mile away in a second stand of ocotillo. If the white-eyes even came close to investigate the dying man's screams, they would make perfect targets for the Apaches' Winchesters in open desert surrounding the sandpit.

Off to the north, blanketing the desert flats they'd crossed to reach the mountains, a veil of smoke hung like a dark pall over the land. Naiche knew what the smoke meant. It was a way to draw the soldiers to their trail, a telltale sign of their passing and the direction they were taking. No doubt the fire was set by the three white men hounding their trail, seeking help from the bluecoats led by Mickey Free.

Nana rode over, after a long look at the smoke-filled desert behind them.

“It is a signal to the bluecoats,” he said needlessly, for every member of Naiche's band understood the smoke sign which was visible for miles, and why it was there.

“Mickey Free does not need smoke to tell them where we are and where we are going,” Naiche said. “He reads our tracks and he knows we are headed for the mountains to make our escape to Mexico.”

“He may try to convince the soldiers to cut us off, to get in front of us,” Nana warned. “We will be caught between the bluecoats and the three white men . . . only I do not believe they are whites, not after what they did to Delgada and Boishta and his brother. These white-eyes kill like Apaches . . . marking their victims. Like the smoke covering the desert behind us, the way Delgada and Boishta and Sonsi were blinded is a message, telling us what they plan to do to us if they are able to find us.”

“We are Apaches,” Naiche said. “We fear no enemy on the face of Earth Mother. Only the Comanches are our equals in combat. These men are not Comanches. The prisoner Chokole left to die said one was from the north country where it snows.”

“Perhaps they are Utes,” Nana suggested, but it showed in his voice he did not truly believe it.

“They are white-eyes who have lived among some of the north tribes. Like Mickey Free, they have learned our ways, and we must expect them to think and act like Apaches,” Naiche said, sure he was right about these white men. They were not members of any plains tribe he had ever seen or heard of, not Indians with white skin. There were times when he wondered if they were human, or if they could be spirit warriors from the Land of Shadows, for they seemed invincible at times, a thought he wouldn't share with the others, for it would instill fear in them.

Spirit warriors were the ghosts of dead Indians, according to Apache legend, and Naiche had never seen one. Most of his life, he had believed they did not truly exist except in the minds of the Old Ones.

Nana looked down at his wrinkled, battle-scarred hands for a moment. “It does not matter,” he said. “They have killed half our number, and yet they keep coming. We must try to find a way to stop them if the ambush at the ocotillos fails.”

Naiche had been considering it—another trap of some kind to stop or delay the three white-eyes if the ambush at the sandpit somehow went wrong—but very few among his warriors were clever enough to engage an experienced enemy like the men who followed them now.

“It might be best for us to send the others onward to join Geronimo while we pick a place, and a time, to halt them,” he added, hoping it would not be necessary if they could be killed approaching the screaming man tied across the ant bed. He had given his five warriors careful instructions where to hide and wait in ambush. Isa led the ambush party, and Isa knew how to make himself seem to disappear.

“You and me and Juh are the most experienced when it comes to fighting a dangerous enemy,” Nana said.

“Chokole is wise in the ways of war,” Naiche told him, as the lines of Apache women passed him leading heavily laden pack animals. “The four of us could kill them easily, if we choose the time and the place.”

“Chokole is brave,” Nana agreed.

“Send for her. And bring Juh. The smoke gives us away to the bluecoats and Mickey Free. We must not allow them to catch us, or let this happen again.”

“I will bring the others. Juh and Chokole will know what we must do if the trap at the sandpit fails.”

Naiche gave the sign of agreement, still watching the smoky desert floor behind them for any sign that columns of soldiers were moving toward them.

Nana rode away to bring back Juh and Chokole, while Naiche considered a plan. The three whites were proving to be more troublesome than the bluecoats, or Mickey Free. If they could be stopped, Naiche was sure they could make it through the Pedregosas to Mexico. There was still a chance the ambush might work, but he'd been listening closely all day for the echo of rifle fire and heard nothing. Perhaps the distance was too great now.

Chokole came riding toward him, her face a mass of worry lines. She halted her pinto in front of him, yet she waited a moment to speak.

“Nana says we will go after the three whites,” she said, her voice even, hard. She glanced over her shoulder. “This will not be easy, Chief Naiche. We should wait to see if Isa and Nednah and the others kill them. Or do you have another plan of attack that will be certain to take them off our trail?”

He did, although it would involve great danger for whoever was placed close to the white invaders. “Yes. The lessons I learned from Geronimo will work. Three or four of us will dig shallow pits in the desert sand. We will hide with our rifles under the flat leaves of the agave plant and lie in wait. They will follow our tracks, as they have since they came into the Dragoon Mountains. We hide in the small pits we dig, covered with brush and then we wait for them to ride close.”

“This will be dangerous,” Chokole said.

“Yes, but they know too many of the Apache ways of war, and they are killing us off a few at a time. We wait in the holes until they are very close, and then we kill them when our rifles will not miss, the way Geronimo killed the Mexican soldiers on the feast day of Saint Jerome. With an old Spencer rifle he was able to kill twenty Mexican soldados. ”

“We only need to kill these three white-eyes, and the most important one is the big man who rides the black horse named MacCallister. He is the one who must die soon, or he will lead the bluecoats to us.”

Chokole had spoken the truth. According to the white man they took prisoner, the man called Falcon MacCallister was the one responsible for so many Apache losses. “Yes,” Naiche said bitterly. “This Falcon MacCallister must be the first white man to die.”

Nana rode up with Juh, and they halted their horses in a half circle around Naiche.

“Tell us what you want us to do,” Juh said. “Nana says we will go back to kill these three white-eyes. There have been no gunshots from Isa and his warriors. Either the white-eyes knew it was a trap and rode around it, or they may be waiting for the soldiers to join them.”

Naiche watched his people moving up a steep mountain trail into the Pedregosas. “Come with me,” he said to the others, after making sure the pack animals made it over the next rise. “I will show you how we will kill them. Send someone to the front to tell the women to keep moving. Tell them not to wait for us. The border into Mexico is only a few hours away, and there, they will be safe.”

“Wait!” Chokole exclaimed, pointing north into the worst of the smoke. “Five horses come. It will be Isa ... to tell us the white men are dead.”

Naiche and Juh stared at the five darker shapes of horses moving through the curtain of smoke, for they were hard to see so far away through the smoke at such a distance.

But when Naiche got a closer look at the horses, anger began to well inside him. “The horses have no riders,” he hissed, his teeth tightly clenched to fight back the rage building in him. “Isa and the others have been killed. The white men send back the horses as a message to us. Our warriors are dead.”

Juh swallowed. “But we heard no guns,” he said with his gaze still fixed on the riderless cavalry horses stolen from Fort Thomas.

“There are other ways to kill,” Chokole told him darkly, a deep frown pinching her face.

Naiche's anger slowly changed to a touch of fear. Who were these white demons who killed Apaches without shooting a gun or making a sound? He had tried everything to halt them, and still they kept coming after him and his people. Were the three white men spirit warriors from another tribe?

“It is not possible,” Juh said. “Isa picked four of our most trusted fighters.”

“It is said spirit warriors can kill with a look . . . they do not need weapons,” Nana murmured, his eyes downcast as if he were afraid to look at the horses coming toward them lest some magic take his soul, too.

“They were young and lacked battle experience,” Chokole reminded him. “The years in prison at Fort Thomas made some of our young men careless. There was no chance to give them proper training as warriors.”

Nana agreed hesitantly, though it was evident he still favored the spirit warrior idea. “Chokole speaks truth, Chief Naiche. There are only a few of us who were given a warrior's difficult training.”

The five horses came toward them at a trot, drawn to the scent trail of the other horses climbing into the peaks carrying the Apaches' food supplies and guns. Naiche watched the geldings approach, wondering how the three whites could have known about the ambush awaiting them.

Juh voiced Naiche's concerns. “These white-eyes are far too clever for our younger warriors. The four of us remember what it was like to make war against the mighty Comanches . . . the Arapaho, and the Kiowas. We can kill these white men ourselves. Give us the word.”

Naiche was torn by indecision . . . to keep on running toward Mexico, or stand and fight these white-skinned fiends . . . unless a bullet could not kill them. More and more, he was beginning to believe these men might be spirits without flesh or blood. He could find no other explanation for every attempt they made to escape them.

“Aiyee,” Nana moaned as if to himself when the ponies finally came to them. Five bloody scalp locks could be seen hanging from the horses' manes.

He glanced at the others, his eyes wide with fear.

“There can be no doubt. These white devils are mighty warriors, be they man or spirit. We must be very careful when we confront them.”

Chokole grasped her Winchester and held it high over her head. “I swear to whatever spirits are listening, I will kill these men for what they have done to my brothers!”

Naiche nodded, but his eyes betrayed his doubts as he looked out over the smoke-covered desert and wondered just who—or what—was coming to meet them.