Cry of Eagles (6 page)

Falcon and Hawk were up and on the trail before dawn. They rode slow, taking their time and watching both their back trail and the land in front of them.

The band of Indians they were following were headed generally due northwest, though they cut back and forth often, changing directions to make their tracks harder to follow.

Just before noon, as they approached the crest of a hill overlooking a valley below, Diablo's ears perked up and he gave a soft snuffle, wagging his head back and forth. Falcon quickly covered his nose to keep him from nickering, for it was obvious he either smelled or heard other horses.

“Yo, Hawk,” Falcon called softly.

At the sound of Falcon's whisper, Hawk immediately reined to a stop and picked his Sharps up from where it was resting on his saddle horn. He glanced back over his shoulder, and Falcon held a finger up to his lips and slipped out of the saddle to the ground.

Hawk did the same, anxiously peering back and forth, looking for whatever it was Falcon had heard.

Falcon got down on his belly and crawled to the top of the hillock and peered over. Entering the valley below, at a distance of about three hundred yards, were four braves. They were riding bareback, and two were carrying what appeared to be single-shot rifles, while one had an old musket cradled in his arms.

Falcon waved Hawk up beside him and pointed, a questioning look on his face.

“They must be some renegades on their way to join the ones we been trailin',” Hawk said in a low voice. “They're comin' from the wrong direction to be a part of Naiche's group.”

“You think you can pick one or two off with that long rifle of yours?” Falcon asked.

Hawk showed his teeth in a nasty grin, licked the end of his finger, and wiped off the front sight of the Sharps.

He spread his feet out, digging his toes in the sand, his elbows in the dirt holding the Sharps up to his eye to take aim while Falcon backed out of sight then sprinted to his horse.

He climbed into the saddle and got his Stevens shotgun ready, holding it in his left hand, the reins in his teeth, and his Colt in his right hand.

When Hawk's Sharps exploded, knocking the big man back against his braced feet, Falcon spurred Diablo into action, guiding the stud with his knees as he raced over the hill and down toward the valley floor below.

Another explosion from the Sharps, and he saw a brave go flying, knocked off his pony with his arms flung wide, to land next to the body of another buck.

The remaining two Indians leaned over their horses' manes and yelled and whooped as they kicked them into a gallop down the valley toward Falcon.

One put his rifle to his shoulder and fired, the bullet singing a death song as it buzzed by Falcon's head.

Falcon eared back the hammers on the Stevens with his left hand and fired from the hip, taking the lead buck full in the chest with a double load of buckshot. The molten pellets tore the man in two, flinging his lifeless body to the ground and splattering his companion with blood and gore as he rode by.

Falcon fired with his Colt, but missed as the brave waved a tomahawk and leapt from his horse onto Falcon, knocking them both to the ground.

Falcon's shotgun and Colt were knocked from his grasp, and he wrapped his arms around the Indian as they rolled over and over in the dirt.

He twisted his head to the side just in time and received only a glancing blow from the tomahawk as he frantically reached for his Arkansas Toothpick.

Falcon managed to wrap his fingers around the handle of his knife as the buck reared back for a killing blow, his eyes wide and reddened with killing fever. The twelve-inch blade of the Toothpick flashed in the sun as it slid under the Indian's ribs and pierced his heart, killing him instantly.

With a bloodcurdling scream he collapsed on top of Falcon, pinning him to the ground. Falcon lay there, every muscle in his body aching and his head pounding as he tried to catch his breath. That had been too close. He reminded himself not to underestimate the Apache. They were fearless riders and fierce warriors. It was not going to be easy to go to war with them and survive.

After a few moments, Hawk came riding up, his Sharps resting on his thigh.

“You alive under there, Falcon?” he called in a lazy voice, as if asking about the weather.

With a mighty heave, Falcon pushed the dead man off his chest and struggled to his feet. “Yeah, but just barely,” he answered.

Hawk grinned, leaning to the side to spit tobacco juice onto the dead Indian. “Good, ‘cause I was just gittin' used to havin' company along.”

Falcon picked up his Stevens and Colt, brushing dirt and grass off them before putting them away. “That was mighty good shooting back there,” he said, pointing to where the first two Indians lay.

Hawk patted the Sharps. “Hell, t'was easy with Baby here. She don't hardly ever miss.”

Falcon looked around at the dead bodies and pulled his knife. “Well, time to leave a little message of our own.”

Two hours later, he stepped back from their handiwork. One of the braves' heads was on a spear, stuck in the middle of the trail through the valley. The other three, minus their scalps, were hanging upside down from a cottonwood tree, with empty holes where their eyes should have been.

“You think them Injuns'll git the message?” Hawk asked, wiping his bloody blade on one of the bodies.

“Yeah. One of these boys is going to wander through the happy hunting ground without a head, and the others will be forever blind. For all their ferocity, Indians can't stand the idea of being mutilated after death, because they think that's how they'll stay in their afterlife.”

“Do you think it'll make any of the ones comin' to join Naiche change their minds?”

“I doubt it, but it will send a message to Naiche that someone's coming after him. He'll know the army didn't do this, so it'll give him something else to think about, maybe even worry him a little until he knows just who it is on his backtrail.”

Hawk looked up from tying the four scalps to his horse's mane. “Well, I think it must be gittin' on toward noon. How 'bout we make a noonin'?”

Falcon glanced over his shoulder. “All right with me, but do you mind if we head on up the trail for a ways first? I don't particularly relish the view here while I'm eating.”

* * *

Falcon made a fire of very dry wood, putting it next to a large boulder under a slight overhang so the smoke would be dispersed by the time it rose into view above them. While he brewed coffee in a pot and fried some fatback and beans, Hawk gave him his first lessons in finding the hidden springs and underground water in the high desert regions of the Dragoons.

“First, you look for any kind of bird activity, ‘cause they knows where the water is. If'n you see some doves flying toward a particular spot, 'specially at dusk when they come in to drink after feeding all day on grain, you can be fairly sure they's water somewhere's nearby.”

Falcon used a fork to turn the bacon in the skillet, paying close attention to the pearls of knowledge Hawk was sharing with him. He knew it might well mean the difference between life or death in the coming days.

“Now, to find the underground water, you look fer a place that has some shade to it, like near some rocks or in the bottom of an arroyo or dry wash. If'n you see some green to the weeds there, or a small tree or brush, chances are there's water not too far 'neath the surface.”

“I've heard, though to tell the truth I've never had to try it, that some of the cactuses have a lot of liquid in them that's drinkable.”

Hawk nodded as he plucked a still sizzling chunk of meat from the skillet and bounced it back and forth between his hands until it cooled enough to pop it into his mouth. He spoke around the mouthful of food as he chewed. “That's correct, partner. The one you want to try is the barrel cactus. They's short and squatty and round on top. Best way to get the water out of 'em is to cut 'em off at the base and hold 'em up over your head and let it run right on down your gullet. Got to be careful, though. Them thorns is murder on your hands.”

Finally the meal was ready, and Falcon piled heaping helpings of beans and fried bacon onto plates while Hawk poured them both coffee into tin mugs.

They sat on the ground, leaning back against their saddles, and enjoyed the first hot meal they'd had in several days. Neither talked until their plates were picked clean.

Hawk scrubbed his plate with a handful of sand and wiped it dry with a dirty bandanna. He leaned back and took out a cloth sack of tobacco and built himself a cigarette, then offered his fixin's to Falcon.

As they smoked, Falcon asked, “What do you plan to do after we finish with the Indians, Hawk?”

Hawk shrugged, as if he hadn't given it much thought. “I dunno. Go back to minin', I guess.” He looked up from his cigarette to stare at Falcon. “To tell you the honest truth, I really don't 'spect to come out of this fracas without attracting some lead.”

“Oh?”

“I just don't think it's in the cards for us to go up against this many redskins an' come out of it with our skins intact.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Injuns ain't like white men. They don't think like us, an' they sure as hell don't act like us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if'n a white man is up against long odds, 'specially if his fight is with someone armed a lot better'n he is, he'll most likely run away and live to fight another day.”

As he smoked, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Hawk absentmindedly picked up a stick from the ground and began to whittle on it while he talked. “A redskin, on the other hand, thinks it's a mark of bravery to go up against a superior force. Hell, I've seen a lone brave armed only with a tomahawk charge a squadron of men with repeating rifles, an' never flinch 'til he was blown outta the saddle.”

He shook his head. “Won't see no white man doin' nothin' like that.”

Falcon laughed, “No, and I don't blame him, either.”

“My point is, Falcon, that once these Injuns find out we're on their backtrail, they ain't gonna just go on about they business and pay us no nevermind. They is gonna come lookin' for us with a vengeance, an' they won't stop 'til either we're dead, or they is. There just ain't no backup to Injuns. It ain't in they character.”

“I know what you mean,” Falcon said. “My father, who was out here before most other white men, told me a story once about an old mountain man friend of his, man named Preacher. Seems this Preacher was once taken prisoner by some Indians—Pawnee, I think. These Indians took turns torturing him with what they called games. Making him run across hot coals barefoot, passing him between a line of braves who all took little swipes at him with their knives until he was bleeding from a hundred cuts, and then burying him up to his head and rode by at full speed, throwing spears at him.”

Hawk stared at Falcon, interested in his story. “What ever happened to the old man?”

“The story goes, they couldn't make him scream or cry out for help, and that so impressed them with his courage they let him go.” Falcon flipped his butt into the fire. “Of course, they couldn't make it too easy for him, so they set him free naked as the day he was born, without boots or shoes, and he had to walk across twenty miles of mountain peaks that were covered with snow, without any weapons or food.”

Hawk looked dubious. “And you mean to tell me the old codger made it?”

Falcon nodded. “Yeah. My father said he saw the scars from the knife wounds and the stubs where some of his toes froze off, but he made it. The old man must have been tough as an armadillo's hide to survive that trek through the mountains.”

“Heck, they's lots of stories ‘bout Injuns, an' truth be told most of 'em won't stand the light of day, but there is no doubt they be strange creatures, all right.”

He pitched his stick in the fire and rolled over on his side, pulling his hat down over his eyes. “I think I'm gonna take me a little after noonin' nap.”

Falcon stood up, pulled his rifle from its boot, and started to walk away toward a clump of boulders nearby. “I'll just mosey on over there and keep an eye out for uninvited guests. I wouldn't want you to wake up without your hair.”

“Much obliged,” Hawk mumbled, and started snoring almost immediately thereafter.

Major Wilson Tarver felt an odd mixture of anger and fear. More than fifty Winchester rifles in the hands of Apache savages would be enough to turn all of southern Arizona Territory into a river of blood, and they'd been stolen right under his nose from the Fort Thomas arsenal. This was not going to look good in his personnel record. He sleeved fear-sweat off his forehead, thinking he might have seen his last promotion.

He spoke to Sergeant Boyd while staring down at the corpses of four soldiers arranged in a row behind the armory.

“Jesus. The redskinned bastards cut Watkins and Peters to pieces. I've told Washington all along I agree with General Crook's policy of utter extermination of every Indian on this continent. We ought to line them up and shoot every goddamn one of 'em.”

“Things were too quiet, Major. I had a feelin' somethin' was about to happen. I should have doubled the guard on the armory. Without them repeatin' rifles they'd be a helluva lot easier to capture.” Boyd gave the parade ground and fort walls a lingering stare.

Corporal Collins, a new recruit from Ohio, turned away from the blood-smeared bodies, his complexion gone pale. “These damn Apaches ain't human, Major. Only an animal would do something like this to another human being. See how they cut them up like they was hogs at butchering time?”

Sergeant Boyd grunted. “I been fightin' the red bastards out here in the west for nearly twenty years, but these Apaches are the worst. It's on account of that crazy one, Geronimo, that they stay stirred up like this. Then there's Naiche, probably the worst of the Chiricahuas. He escaped last month with eight or nine young bucks. He's every damn bit as bloodthirsty as ole' Geronimo ... maybe worse.”

Major Tarver turned his attention to the Indian roll call being conducted inside the reservation. Braves dressed in ragged buckskins and dirty cotton trousers were lined up in front of the barracks showing soldiers their identity tags. “Any idea yet how many broke away last night?” he asked, his voice hard as nails.

“Best we can tell, wasn't but about a dozen, only Private Newman ain't done with the countin' yet. Worst is, they got enough rifles for fifty more. Won't be long 'til more of ‘em start slippin' off at night to join Naiche an' Geronimo. Then we'll have us a real Indian war on our hands.” Boyd said this as though certain of it.

“Against savages armed with repeaters,” Tarver added in a dull tone, fully understanding the potential consequences. “There will be a considerable amount of bloodshed, if I'm any judge of the matter.”

“They stole seventeen horses,” Collins added. “They'll be hard to ride down. Took some of our best Remount Thoroughbreds, too. Catching up to them won't be easy. Instead of riding them half-starved Indian ponies, they're mounted on some of our best saddle stock.”

Tarver turned to Sergeant Boyd. “Assemble two mounted troops. Make sure they're heavily armed and well-provisioned. Get three of our best Pawnee scouts ... if they're sober enough to sit a horse this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Boyd said, turning on his heel.

Corporal Collins spoke. “I don't trust our Pawnees, Major, if you'll pardon me for saying so. That old Shoshone, the one they call Tomo, is the best tracker we've got, and he don't drink nearly so much.”

“Find him, then,” Tarver snapped. “If all four scouts are dead drunk, tie them across their horses until they sober up. We must get those rifles back and corral this batch of renegades, or every goddamn Apache on this reservation will take off into the mountains to join up with them when Naiche and Geronimo hear about this.”

* * *

Tomo, a slope-shouldered man of fifty in buckskins with long gray hair in a single plait hanging between his shoulder blades, gave the desert floor a lengthy study. Major Tarver waited impatiently for the Indian to say something.

“Go this way,” Tomo finally said, pointing to the south. “Ride many circles to hide direction they go. Maybe so they go to Dragoon Mountains. Rock there be plenty hard to track horse. Easy to hide in Dragoons.”

“That's the way I had it figured,” Sergeant Boyd said with a mouthful of chewing tobacco filling his right cheek. “May as well give up followin' their tracks an' head straight for them there mountains.”

“Isa is leading them to some place he knows,” Tarver said. “I figure he aims to join up with Geronimo and Naiche somewhere up yonder.”

“Let's hope we find these runaways before that happens,” Major Tarver said.

* * *

Entering a narrow ravine winding through solid rock, Tarver had an uneasy sensation. “Where the hell is that Shoshone?” he demanded of Sergeant Boyd.

“Can't say fer sure,” Boyd replied, giving the rock walls on both sides a closer examination. “I seen him ride around that bend yonder. Can't say as I've seen the ole' bastard since then, not to my best recollection.”

A gunshot thundered from a rocky bluff above the mounted troopers and a soldier screamed, clutching his chest as he toppled off his horse. Major Tarver and Sergeant Boyd were reaching for their rifles before the noise from the gunshot died to silence.

Mounted soldiers were moving all at once, and in every direction.

“Take cover!” Tarver shouted.

Sergeant Boyd was down off his horse in an instant, knowing he'd make a smaller target.

A rifle shot from above lifted Corporal Collins out of his saddle, spinning him like a child's top with blood squirting from a hole in his back.

Major Tarver watched Collins fall. Then, he too, jumped out of his saddle to seek shelter behind a pile of rocks.

Suddenly, the ravine was filled with the roar of gunfire from high on the rim on both sides. Soldiers began falling to the ground, bleeding, crying for help, as their horses bolted away from the noises.

“Son of a bitch!” Tarver bellowed, when he saw puffs of smoke billowing off the top of the ravine. “They've got us surrounded!”

“Tomo led us into a trap!” he heard Sergeant Boyd shout from a pile of fallen boulders. “We shoulda killed that rotten ole' son of a bitch an' taken the Pawnee!”

“The Pawnees were drunk!” Tarver replied at the top of his voice, to be heard above the roar of guns and the whine of spent bullets bouncing off stones.

Seven cavalrymen fell to the floor of the ravine with mortal wounds. Then three more went down, and finally another was shot from his saddle.

“They'll kill every damn one of us!” Sergeant Boyd yelled from his hiding place behind a pile of rock. “They got us caught in a cross fire!”

This wasn't news Major Tarver wanted to hear right then. It was evident a slaughter was about to take place in the ravine, and the dead would be U.S. Cavalrymen ... unless he could figure a way to get out of this trap.

“Sound the retreat!” he cried. “Pull back! We'll get around behind them somehow—”

As the words left his mouth, four more soldiers were cut down in a volley of repeating rifle fire. Tarver knew his own men were being killed by weapons stolen from the Fort Thomas armory.

“Pull back!” he shrieked again. “Have the bugler sound the retreat!”

Only then did he notice a young private with the company bugle tied around his neck lying face-down on the floor of the arroyo. Only a fool would have run out in plain sight to grab the horn in order to follow his command.

“Withdraw!” he shouted as loudly as he could, hunkering down to move cautiously away from the fusillade of gunfire from the top of the canyon.

A bullet struck Private Newman between his shoulders and sent him tumbling to the dirt, blood pumping from the hole just above his coat collar.

“Damn!” Tarver hissed. “That goddamn Shoshone led us right to 'em. I'll have him shot by a firing squad the minute we get back to the fort.”

Loose horses galloped down the ravine, and Major Tarver knew they would quickly fall into the hands of the renegade Apaches unless something was done.

“Send some men after our mounts!” he said, when he saw Sergeant Boyd slipping carefully along one wall of the ravine while leading his nervous horse.

“It'll only get the men killed,” Boyd shouted above the din of more rifle fire. “Better to lose a few horses than to get your ass shot off.”

“Are you disobeying a direct order, Sergeant?” Major Tarver demanded.

“Damn right I am, Major, if it means gettin' killed to save a few lousy horses!”

“I can have you court-martialed!”

“Maybe,” Boyd replied, “only you gotta be alive to file the charges against me. We ain't got out of this with our scalps just yet.”

A singsong bullet slammed into a rocky ledge above the major's head and he ducked down quickly. Perhaps Sergeant Boyd was right about letting the horses go.

* * *

Major Tarver bit the end off a long black cigar and stuffed it into his mouth as he listened to the casualty report.

“We got sixteen men dead, Major, an' three more missin'. We got twelve wounded, an' four of those'll probably die 'fore mornin'.”

“How many horses do we have left, Sergeant?”

“Only got nine that can carry a rider. Some's wounded so bad we'll have to put 'em down with a gun.”

“And where is the scout, Tomo?”

“Ain't seen him since the shootin' started. I figure he rode off when the first gun banged.”

“I want him tracked down and arrested.”

Sergeant Boyd shrugged. “How the hell are we gonna track him down, Major?” He leaned to the side and let loose a brown stream of spit from his tobacco. “Far as I can tell, he didn't leave no tracks when he lit out of here.”

“I intend to have him shot.”

“First thing you gotta do is find him, Major, an' that ain't gonna be easy in these here Dragoons.”

“A man can't simply disappear. Send out a detail to look for him.”

“Them Apaches are liable to be expectin' us, an' they'll kill the men we send out.”

Tarver's impatience was almost at a breaking point. “I gave you an order, Sergeant.”

“I'll follow it, sir, only I damn sure ain't gonna go out there myself. You can have me court-martialed soon as we get back to the fort, but I won't go ridin' up this here canyon to look for Tomo.”

“And why not?”

“Be the same as committin' suicide. Them Apaches have left a rear guard to see if we follow 'em. They'll shoot me deader'n pig slop”

“I intend to put your refusal in my report to General Crook, Sergeant Boyd.”

“Put anythin' in it you want, Major, only be sure to write down that, so far, I'm still alive ... which is more than you'll be able to say 'bout any other poor bastards you send into that canyon.”