Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  For the first time since he had known Doc, Falcon saw a little bit of fear in Doc’s eyes.

  “I don’t want to wind up in a poorhouse, Falcon,” he said. “Five thousand dollars would keep me in comfort, here in this room, for the rest of my life.”

  Falcon stroked his chin. He had more money now than he would ever spend. He did not need a silver mine. He would rather just give Doc five thousand dollars and be done with it, but he knew that Doc wouldn’t take a handout from him.

  Falcon smiled.

  “Sure, why not?” he said. “I’ve been looking for a reason to go back down there anyway.”

  “Thank you, Falcon,” Doc said in genuine appreciation. “Thank you more than I can say.”

  “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and cash a draft, then bring you the money.”

  “No hurry, I’m not dying tonight. Oh, by the way, speaking of dying ... you do remember your run-in with the Apaches last time you were down there, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Falcon said. “I remember.”

  “Good, because you damn well better believe that the Apaches remember. So, look out for yourself while you are down there, okay?”

  “I will,” Falcon promised.

  In his room that night, Falcon recalled his encounter with Naiche, the last chief of the free Chiricahuas. Falcon and Mickey Free had fought the Apache in the Apache way, scalping those they killed, poking out their eyes, and carving out their hearts. Falcon had sent fear into the hearts of the Indians. They had never encountered such savagery from white men before. They were accustomed to being the ones who struck terror into the hearts of their enemies; now that terror was being returned, many times over.

  At first, even the whites were put off by the ferocity of Falcon’s campaign. But when he tracked down the Indian butchers and killed them, one by one, the raids on white ranches, farms, and travelers stopped, and Falcon brought peace back to southern Arizona.

  As he drifted off to sleep that night, he wondered if anyone in Arizona would remember him.

  CHAPTER 2

  The dancers were making their own music to accompany their dances. Bells were attached to a strap of leather at their ankles and as they danced about, the bells jingled. They also had bells strapped to their knees and elbows. The dancers moved to and fro around the sitting council, accompanied in their dancing by the singing of children.

  Ha-nam-a yo-o ya hai huh-wurt ...

  Far on the desert ridges stands the cactus

  Ka-na-hu-va muh-muhk

  lo the blossoms swaying

  Ka-cho-wuch-chi ka-no-ya ki-moi

  to and fro the blossoms swaying, swaying.

  When the dancers, and the young Apache children, were finished, Keytano stood from his position at the head of the council and smiled at them.

  “You dance and sing well,” he said to them. “And you have brought joy to the hearts of all who heard you.”

  After the surrender of Geronimo most of the Chiricahua, who were deemed the most aggressive and warlike of all the Apache, were removed from Arizona. What remained were the Western Apache, Mescalero, Jicarilla, and Lipan. The Apache occupied some two million acres of reservation and designated land.

  They were not required to stay with their particular band, but could move around freely within the area designated for them. As a result, many of the subgroups began to blend, and the Cababi Mountain settlement was, in fact, a mixture of Western Apache, Jicarilla, and what few remained of the Chiricahua.

  Keytano was the leader of the Cababi Mountain settlement. He was a nephew of the great Indian leader Cochise and first cousin to both Geronimo and Nachie.

  Since the capture of Geronimo, a condition of relative peace had existed. But now that peace was being strained by the steady encroachment of the white man. More and more white men were wandering into land that had been promised to the Apache by treaty. And most damaging of all, a tributary from the Santa Cruz River had been dammed up by some of the white settlers, thus depriving the Cababi settlement of its water. The lack of water was having disastrous effects.

  Then, recently, three white prospectors who were trespassing on Indian land had been killed, and that had raised the tension between the whites and the Apache. The situation had reached the point where it was necessary for Keytano to call a council to discuss what should be done.

  “They put their cattle on our land, and they roam our mountains looking for the white and yellow metal,” Chetopa said. Chetopa was several years younger than Keytano and, lately, had been challenging the older chief for leadership.

  “Chetopa, I know that it was you and some of your followers who killed the white men,” Keytano said. “By your foolishness, you have brought danger to all of our people.”

  “You say it is foolishness, I say it is courage,” Chetopa said defiantly. He struck his breast with his fist. “I do not fear the white man. I do not tremble before his army.”

  “It is not only his army we must fight. Do you not remember Dlo Binanta, the tall white man with hair the color of wheat? The man who brought fear and sorrow to so many of our wickiups?”

  “I do not fear Dlo Binanta.”

  “You do not fear him because he has gone to the mountains far to the north,” Ketano said. “But if there is one white man like Dlo Binanta, then there may be more.”

  “You have become an old woman,” Chetopa said, scoffing in derision. “It is clear to all who have eyes to see what should be done. We must take up the fight and run the whites off our land.”

  Several of the young warriors grunted and nodded in agreement with Chetopa.

  “And how would we do this, Chetopa?” another asked. This was Nincha, brother to Keytano. “We are very few now.”

  “Do you lose your courage when you grow old?” Chetopa asked. “Those with Geronimo were very few, but he fought the white man for many years, killing many, and bringing terror into their hearts.”

  “And I ask you, Chetopa, where is Geronimo now?” Nincha said.

  There were others who spoke like Chetopa, saying that the path of war was the only way, but there were more who agreed with Nincha. Finally, after listening to the council, Keytano raised his hands to call for silence.

  “Hear me, my brothers,” he said. “We will not make war now. We will send word to the white soldier chief and ask him to use his soldiers to keep the white men from our lands.”

  Chetopa made a scoffing sound. “That will do nothing,” he said.

  “Perhaps it will do nothing, but we must try.”

  “And if it does nothing?”

  “Then we will meet in council again,” Keytano said.

  After the council broke up, Keytano went to the wickiup of his sister. “May I enter?” he called.

  Tolietha stood quickly, the flour of the flat bread she was making still on her hands.

  “Yes, my brother,” she answered.

  In the war with the whites, many Apache were killed, and many others were captured and sent away. Keytano never thought that he would be chief, but the duty had fallen to him and he tried, always, to do what was best for his people.

  When the white government said that all the young ones would have to go away to school, some protested, and said they would flee to Mexico. But Keytano had held them together, and told them that it would be good for their people to learn some of the ways of the whites, especially how to read and write.

  Keytano’s own daughter had gone away to school, and just this morning, the trading post had given him a letter that came from her. He had not had time to do anything with it before the council met, but now, Keytano held the letter before him, showing it to his sister.

  “I have received this from my daughter,” he said. “I would like one of the young ones to tell me the words.”

  Tolietha signaled to one of her children who was being educated in the mission school.

  “Read this to your uncle,” she ordered.

  The boy, who was about twelve, took the letter fr
om Keytano, opened it, and began to read.

  Father,

  I have completed my schooling and will be coming home soon. I miss you and my mother, and I miss our home and the mountains.

  I have learned much while I was here. Some of the things I learned will be very good, and I believe I can use what I have learned to help our people.

  But I think it would be good if the whites could learn some things from us. They do not understand the air, the water, the land, and the mountains. They do not understand the animals and the plants. They do not understand that all people, all animals, all plants, the sky, the water, the land, are all a part of the whole.

  They do not understand how to live with life.

  They know only how to live without life.

  Finishing the letter, the young boy gave it back to Keytano.

  “It is good that she is coming home,” Keytano said. “I will tell her mother this good news.”

  Falcon MacCallister was tired. He had been traveling for nearly two weeks now, riding on a combination of stagecoach and train. He was on a train now, having connected with the Southern Pacific at Sweetwater. He had boarded the train late last night, and as it had come south through the Sonora Desert, Falcon had been unable to get comfortable in the hard seats of the day coach. He was in a day coach because there was neither a Wagner nor Pullman parlor car attached to this train, it being considered a local. He had just sat back down after walking around to stretch out the kinks, when the front door opened and the conductor started through the car.

  “Calabasas! This is Calabasas!” the conductor called, passing down the aisle. Falcon, who was sitting on the right side of the car, stared through the window as the train began to slow, then finally squeal to a stop. He saw a low-lying adobe building with a white sign hanging from the roof. The sign read CALABASAS, ELEVATION 4000 FEET.

  Falcon stood up, reached into the overhead rack, and pulled down a canvas grip, his only luggage. When he stepped down from the train a moment later, he saw a man with a badge, holding a shotgun, standing by the express car. The agent in the express car was handing down a canvas bag to another man; then he and the armed lawman started up the street. Falcon had obviously just witnessed the transfer of a money shipment, and he wondered idly how much might be in the little canvas bag that they were guarding so carefully.

  Right across the street from the depot was the Railroad Hotel. Falcon walked toward it, picking his way through the horse droppings. A dog slept on the front stoop of the hotel, so secure in its right to be there that it didn’t even open an eye as Falcon stepped up onto the porch.

  Falcon pushed open the door and a small, attached bell jangled as he stepped inside. There was nobody behind the desk, but the jingling bell summoned the clerk from a room that was adjacent to the desk.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need a room,” Falcon said.

  “Very good, sir,” the clerk said, turning the registration book around for Falcon to sign.

  The clerk handed Falcon a key.

  “That’ll be fifty cents a night,” the clerk said. “Three dollars if you stay an entire week. That saves you fifty cents.”

  “I’ll take it one night at a time,” Falcon said, handing the clerk half a dollar. “Does a bath come with it?”

  “Indeed it does, sir,” the clerk said. “We have bathing rooms on every floor.”

  “Sounds good,” Falcon said, picking up his grip and heading for the stairs.

  The bathing room the clerk spoke of was at the far end of the upstairs hallway. Water came from a tank overhead, heated by the sun and brought to the room by turning a spigot.

  Falcon took a bath, then a much-needed nap, waking up just as it was beginning to get dark outside. Going downstairs, he took a walk around the little town before winding up in the Lucky Strike Saloon.

  Stepping through the batwing doors, Falcon moved to one side and placed his back against the wall. It was a habit he had developed over several years of being on the trail and encountering, and making, enemies as well as friends.

  The symphony of the saloon was a familiar one: clinking glasses, loud talk, and a slightly-out-of-tune piano playing away from the back wall.

  Once his eyes were accustomed to the low light in the saloon, he surveyed the crowd. It seemed to be a combination of cowboys and hard-rock miners. These were hardworking men, letting off a little steam after a day of labor. There was also the usual mix of gamblers, drifters, and bar girls in the room.

  Smiling, one of the girls came over to greet Falcon.

  “My, my,” she said, looking up at him. “You’re a big, good-looking man.”

  Falcon smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “Callie.”

  “Well, Callie, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let a compliment like that go unrewarded. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I would like that,” Callie said. “Thank you ...” She paused, waiting for him to offer his name.

  “Falcon.”

  “Falcon? That’s an interesting name.”

  “My parents were interesting people. Barkeep,” Falcon called. “I’ll have a beer, and give the lady whatever she wants.”

  “Lady?” a man standing down at the other end of the bar said, scoffing. “Mister, I don’t know whether you are blind, or just dumb. But that ain’t no lady. That’s a whore.”

  Falcon looked down toward the end of the bar. The belligerent man had dark hair and dark eyes and a scar on his cheek. He didn’t look like either a miner or a cowboy, but Falcon had seen his kind before. They were drifters who supported themselves in any way that did not require work. Most of the time they were gamblers, cheats, and petty thieves.

  “You know this asshole?” Falcon asked Callie. He said it loudly enough that several people heard it, including the belligerent man at the end of the bar. The others who did hear it laughed, including Callie.

  “What? What did you call me?” the belligerent man asked in a blustering voice.

  “I never met him before this afternoon,” Callie replied. “He says his name is Pete. Pete Tucker.”

  “I asked you what you called me,” Pete demanded.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t I say it clearly enough?” Falcon replied. “I called you an asshole. Ass ... hole,” he said slowly and deliberately.

  “Why, you son of a bitch!” Pete said, making a grab for his pistol.

  Falcon threw his beer mug at Pete, hitting him in the forehead with it. Pete’s first reaction was to put both hands to his head and when he did so, Falcon closed the distance between them in a rush. He hit Pete in the nose, and felt it break under his fist.

  With a shout of pain, Pete dropped his hands to his nose. When he did, Falcon drove his fist into Pete’s belly, causing him to double over as he gasped for breath. That enabled Falcon to grab him by his collar and belt. Picking him up, Falcon carried him to the front door, then tossed him out into the street, right into a pile of horse apples. Following him into the street, Falcon leaned down and took Pete’s gun from his holster. He removed the cylinder, then stuck the gun, barrel down, into a horse turd.

  When Falcon went back inside, he was greeted by applause and a smiling Callie, who was holding a fresh mug of beer for him.

  “Mister,” she said. “My job is to make men buy me drinks, so I’ve never bought a man a beer in my life. But after you came to the defense of my honor like that, buying you a beer is the least I can do.”

  “Well, thank you, Callie.”

  “I wish I could offer more, if you know what I mean,” she said. She looked toward the clock. “But in ten minutes I have a ... uh ... engagement.”

  Falcon smiled at her. “Then I’ll just enjoy your company for the next ten minutes until it is time for your ... engagement,” he said, setting the word apart the way she had.

  In truth, Falcon didn’t actually want to take her up on her offer, so it worked out better this way.

  After Callie left with the man who had arranged for her ser
vices, a young, hard-rock miner, Falcon saw a poker game in progress. When one of the players got up, Falcon walked over to the table.

  “Mind if I join the game?”

  “No, we don’t mind at all. Fresh blood is always welcome. Please, feel free to join in,” one of the men said.

  The game turned out to be a friendly, low-stakes game with enough good hands being passed around from player to player so that nobody was winning too much and nobody was losing too much.

  The one who had invited Falcon to sit introduced himself as George Snyder.

  “I run the express office,” George said. “This is Paul Gibson, who runs the hardware store, and Mike Stovall, a rancher.”

  “I’m Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon said.

  Mike Stovall raised his eyebrows at hearing the name. “Falcon MacCallister?” he said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  “I get around,” Falcon said offhandedly. He was never in a hurry to remind anyone of who he was for fear of dredging up some old enmity of which he might not be aware.

  “Wait a minute, I remember you,” Stovall said, snapping his fingers in recognition. “You’re the fella who had a personal war with Naiche sometime back, aren’t you?”

  “That would be me,” Falcon admitted. “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Well, hell, mister, it’s not hard to remember a fella that helped make this part of the country a lot safer,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, it’s safer for the time being,” Paul said. “The question now is, how much longer is it going to be safe?”

  “Why do you say that?” Falcon asked.

  “Keytano’s as bad as Geronimo and Naiche. They should’ve taken care of him when they took care of the others.”