Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  “The only thing you can do is deliver her body and explain what happened,” Falcon said.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what should be done. But what is going to be done is, we are just going to take her out to the edge of Apache land and leave her there.”

  “No,” Falcon said. “You can’t do it that way. That would start a war for sure.”

  “Maybe. But I figure whoever takes her out there is going to die. I damn sure ain’t goin’ to do it, and I can’t ask anyone else to do it.”

  Falcon chuckled and shook his head. “Well, hell, Sheriff, in a roundabout way, didn’t you just ask me?”

  Sheriff Corbin smiled and nodded his head. “I reckon maybe I did. All right, so I’m not very subtle. The point is, Mr. MacCallister, you, being who you are, are probably the only white man alive who could deliver that poor girl to her parents and come out of there alive.”

  “What makes you think I would come out alive? Especially after what I did to them a few years ago.”

  “Dlo Binanta,” Sheriff Corbin said. “You do know that’s what they call you, don’t you?”

  Falcon nodded. “Yes, I know that.”

  “Apaches don’t give names to just anyone. They only give names to those they respect.”

  “But they regard me as their enemy,” Falcon said.

  “This is true, but an Apache holds a worthy enemy in as high regard as a trusted friend.”

  “And you think that translates into me being able to get into the village, deliver the girl, and get out with my scalp intact?”

  Sheriff Corbin nodded. “I think you can do it,” he said.

  MacCallister smiled. “You aren’t just saying that to talk me into doing this, are you?”

  Corbin laughed. “Well, maybe I am. What do you say, Mr. MacCallister? Will you do it? Or do I dump the girl at the edge of their land?”

  “That’s blackmail, Sheriff.”

  Corbin put up both his hands. “I know it. I’m guilty of it, and I admit it.”

  “All right,” MacCallister said. “I’ll do it. I don’t like having a cinch jerked into me like this. But I don’t intend to let that young woman’s body just lie out there and rot until her people find her.”

  “Thank you,” Corbin said. He put his hand in his pocket, then brought out a star. “Oh, and I’m making you a deputy.”

  Falcon waved his hand and shook his head.

  “I don’t want to be a deputy,” he said.

  “You ought to reconsider that, Mr. MacCallister,” Sheriff Corbin said. “With this star, you can do anything you need to do.”

  “Sheriff, I’ll do anything I need to do, with or without the star, and with or without permission.”

  Corbin nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Well, I rather thought you were like that. I was just going to give you the cover of a star, that’s all.”

  “By the way, Sheriff, if I happen to run across Fargo Ford and his men, and in that encounter if I happen to kill them, would you arrest me?”

  Sheriff Corbin laughed. “Only Falcon MacCallister would suggest that he could single-handedly run across Fargo Ford and his gang and kill them. Arrest you? Hell, no, Mr. MacCallister. If you kill those sons of bitches, I’ll give you the keys to the town,” the sheriff said.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need the star, or the keys to the city. I’ll do what needs to be done. And for that, I will need a couple of horses. Know where I can buy them?”

  “You don’t worry about that, Mr. MacCallister. I’ll get you two of the best damn horses you’ve ever seen, and they won’t cost you a penny.”

  Falcon recalled his horse Diablo, and he shook his head.

  “I don’t think you can get me the best horse I’ve ever seen,” he said. “But do what you can.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Falcon rode one horse while leading another. The horse he was leading was dragging a travois, and on the travois was Cloud Dancer’s body, sewn into a canvas shroud. Falcon rode out in the open, making certain that he was in plain sight. He was doing that to send a clear message to the Indians: that his coming represented no danger to them.

  He had gotten directions to the village from the sheriff, and was heading straight for it. He wondered how long it would be before someone spotted him, and he knew the moment it happened. He knew, not because he saw them, but because he felt them.

  He rode on for another half hour, feeling the hair standing up on the back of his neck. The Indians trailing him were good, they knew how to use the lay of the land to keep themselves hidden, and if they had been trailing ninety-nine out of a hundred men, their presence would be unknown.

  Finally, either because the Indians sensed that Falcon was aware of them, or because they no longer felt it necessary to keep their presence a secret, they grew bolder. Falcon saw them then, six or seven Indians on horseback, riding parallel but managing, always, to keep a ridge or an outcropping of rocks or a small hill between them, no longer to stay out of sight, but just to be able to control the situation.

  The sheriff in Oro Blanco told Falcon that the village was on the banks of a small stream, a tributary from the Santa Cruz River, so when he reached the tributary, or what was left of it, he followed it until he saw the village itself. It was easy to see the source of some of the trouble between the Indians and the whites, because the stream banks showed that it was once a rather substantial flow of water several feet wide. Now it was a trickle, so narrow in places that a man could stand with a foot planted on either side of the water flow.

  The village consisted of several wickiups, not scattered loosely alongside the bank of the stream, but carefully aligned with every structure in the same relative place it was at their last location, and would be at their next location. In this way, individual members of the village had an address, as certain as the address of residents in any town or city.

  The wickiups were circular and dome-shaped, with conical tops. These dwellings, which Falcon knew were erected by the women, consisted of a framework of poles and limbs tied together, over which was placed a thatch of bear grass, brush, yucca leaves, and rushes. For those who had it, a canvas was stretched over the windward side, and the structure was open at the top to allow smoke to escape from a fire built in a pit near the center of the house. The doorway was a low opening on one side, over which a blanket was hung.

  In addition to the houses, there were also several “coolers,” which consisted of posts in the ground that were covered by a roof of brush, thus providing shade from the hot sun. The squaws did their work under these covers. Falcon knew from his previous exposure to the Apache that they also suspended clay water pots from the edge of the coolers and, as the water evaporated, it had the effect of cooling the surrounding air.

  As Falcon entered the village, the warriors who had been riding parallel suddenly galloped by him with whoops and shouts as they raced ahead of him.

  Those who were in the village drifted forward to meet him, for a single white man, riding in as boldly as Falcon had just done, was a strange enough experience to create interest. The men and boys came from the outskirts of the village, where they had been tending to the animals; the women and girls came from the coolers; and the old men awoke from their naps and stepped out of their wickiups to see what was causing the excitement.

  One of the old men recognized Falcon, for he had seen him in the days of the Geronimo and Naiche wars.

  “Dlo Binanta,” he said, and the word spread so that, as Falcon rode deeper into the village, he heard his name spoken many times.

  “Dlo Binanta.”

  “Dlo Binanta.”

  “Dlo Binanta.”

  Men, women, and children repeated his name and drew close to him. When he reached the inner circle, he saw an impressive-looking Indian standing in front of him. The Indian, who was being deferred to by the others, held his arms folded across his chest. His dark eyes were questioning.

  “Are you Dlo Binanta?” the Indian asked.

  Falcon s
tarted to reply with his own name, but he recalled what Sheriff Corbin told him about Indians only giving names to those they respect.

  “I am Dlo Binanta,” Falcon replied.

  A ripple of exclamations passed through the gathering of Indians; some sounded angry, some sounded awestruck. Some were even frightened, and Falcon saw many of the children step behind their mothers in fear. He felt bad about that. He didn’t want his name used to frighten children.

  “I am Keytano,” Keytano said.

  Falcon nodded. “I have heard of the great Keytano.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “I have heard that the great chief Keytano is a brave and wise man,” Falcon said.

  Keytano nodded. “This is true.”

  Falcon fought the urge to smile at Keytano’s response, but under the circumstances, a smile would not be good at all.

  “Why is he here?” Chetopa shouted.

  “Yes. This man is the killer of our people!”

  “Ask this man why he has come to our village now!” another shouted.

  “We should kill him!” Chetopa said.

  The shouting was in Apache, so Falcon didn’t understand it, though he could tell by the tone of the voices that it was challenging and unfriendly.

  Keytano held up his hand to those who were gathered around him. He glared at Chetopa. “We will not kill this brave man,” he said. Then, he turned to one of the others. “I will ask the questions of this man,” he said authoritatively. Keytano turned his gaze back to Falcon, staring at him intently.

  “You are the killer of many of our warriors.”

  “Yes,” Falcon said. “I fought fiercely against brave men, and killed many of your warriors.”

  “You made many women and children cry because you killed their husbands and fathers,” Keytano challenged.

  “This is true,” Falcon answered without equivocating.

  “Because of you, many wickiups were made empty.”

  Falcon wondered for a moment as to how best to respond to Keytano. He couldn’t deny it, because everything Keytano said was true. He thought about saying he was sorry, but that wouldn’t be true. Everyone he killed needed killing. Besides, saying he was sorry might be misconstrued as a sign of weakness.

  “We were at war,” Falcon said. “The Apache are brave and fierce warriors. I would not be showing my respect if I did not fight against my enemies with all my strength.”

  Keytano took in Falcon’s response, not only this one, but his earlier responses. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “This is true. A good enemy is a valued and sacred thing.”

  “We will not harm this man. He has shown courage by riding into our village to speak with us. And he knows the Apache way of speaking truthfully to a respected enemy,” Keytano said to the others in Apache.

  It had the desired effect, for many of the warriors nodded and made positive-sounding grunts.

  “Why have you come to our village?” Keytano asked.

  This was the moment Falcon had been waiting for. It was also the moment he was dreading. But this was why he was here, and he couldn’t turn around now.

  “Keytano, I come with very bad news for you.”

  “Bad news?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this bad news?”

  “It is about Yaakos Gan.”

  “Yaakos Gan? My daughter? What news do you have of my daughter?”

  Falcon started to speak, but decided instead to just point to the canvas shroud that lay on the travois. “You will find the bad news there,” he said.

  Keytano looked questioningly at Falcon. Then he said something to one of the warriors, pointing to the shroud. The warrior cut the shroud and spread it open, then jumped back in alarm.

  “Uhnn!” the warrior gasped.

  Noting the expression on the warrior’s face, Keytano hurried back to look at what was in the shroud. As soon as he saw it, his confusion gave way to shock ... then to grief.

  “Aiyee!” he called, spinning away from Cloud Dancer’s body. He started hitting his fist to his forehead. An Indian woman, seeing his strange reaction, ran from the crowd and looked down at Cloud Dancer. Without having to be told, Falcon knew this must be Cloud Dancer’s mother, and she began weeping out loud. Within moments, everyone was gathering around to look at Cloud Dancer’s body and react to it.

  For the next several moments there was a general outbreak of lamentations and weeping. During that time the Indians forgot all about Falcon, and he just stood there, allowing them to vent their grief.

  “We will kill him!” two warriors shouted, and they started toward Falcon with their battle axes raised. Falcon drew both his pistols, cocked them, and pointed them at the two warriors.

  “Wait!” Keytano shouted.

  At Keytano’s shout, the two warriors stopped, and for a long moment they faced Falcon with their axes raised while Falcon faced them back, both his pistols aimed and cocked.

  “Dlo Binanta, did you kill my daughter?” Keytano asked.

  “If I had killed her, I would not have brought her to you,” Falcon said. “I would have run with fear from the rightful anger of Keytano, the great warrior and chief of the mighty Apache.”

  “I think this is true. I think you did not kill her.” Again, Keytano spoke in his own language, and the two Apache lowered their war clubs.

  Seeing his two would-be attackers backing off, Falcon put his guns away.

  Cloud Dancer’s mother was sitting on the ground now, her head on Cloud Dancer’s chest. She was still weeping, though the loud wails had given way to a quiet sobbing.

  “Why did you bring her to me?”

  “I met Yaakos Gan on the stagecoach as she was returning from school in the East,” Falcon said. “She was a woman of much courage and much honor. When she was killed, I knew she would want to come back to her own people.”

  Keytano pointed to Falcon. “You are a man of courage and honor. I thank you for bringing her here to me and to her mother who now weeps over her.”

  Keytano said something in Apache to the weeping woman and she looked up at Falcon. Falcon nodded in sympathy, but said nothing.

  “Do not leave,” Keytano said. “After we have seen to my daughter, we will talk.”

  “I will stay to pay my respects to Yaakos Gan; then we will talk,” Falcon said.

  Keytano spoke again to his people and Falcon stepped back, then watched as the village began making preparations for Cloud Dancer’s funeral.

  The first thing they did was take her out of the shroud and wrap her face in a piece of cloth. Next, they completely stripped her, apparently showing no concern for the fact that she was now naked. That situation changed quickly, however, when they clothed her in a dress that was more in keeping with her Indian tradition. After that, they folded her arms across her chest, though this was difficult, as rigor mortis had already set in. Her hair was parted and brushed smooth with a hairbrush. Her wrists were covered with bracelets and beads, and around her neck, her mother placed a squash-blossom necklace of silver and turquoise. Finally, they laid her on a litterlike bed of reeds, and a medicine man circled around her, scattering ashes and pollen to the four cardinal directions. Following the scattering of ashes and pollen, everyone in the village grew very quiet.

  Nobody told Falcon that this was a part of the ceremony, but it was his way to watch and learn, so he found a place to sit and wait, watching as the Indians maintained their silence.

  Then, after about an hour of silence, a gourd of tiswin was passed around and several took a drink. When the gourd was brought to Falcon, he drank as well. He had tasted tiswin before and knew that it was an alcoholic beverage made of fermented corn and fruit. In strength, it was equal to a rather weak beer, but it didn’t taste as good as beer. Like many things in the Apache culture, though, tiswin was more important for its ritual application than for its ability to bring on intoxication.

  After all had a drink of tiswin, the wailing for the dead woman began in
earnest, with every man, woman, and child in the village howling like a coyote. After a few minutes of this, the chief medicine man stepped into the center of the circle and held up his hands to call for quiet.

  When the howling ceased, the medicine man prayed, and spoke words of condolence.

  “Hio esken eskingo boyonsidda?” the medicine man asked. Then he glanced toward Falcon.

  “So that Dlo Binanta will know the sorrow he has brought to our people, I will speak in English.

  “Where is this woman now? We don’t know. Where will she be day after tomorrow? We don’t know. Where will she be ten years from now? We don’t know. It is not for us to say where she will be. It is for Usen, he who resides in the mountains, to receive into O’zho ... heaven ... the spirit of this woman.”

  Two warriors lifted the reed bed upon which the body of Cloud Dancer lay. They started toward the nearby hills, with the entire village following. Falcon followed as well.

  Once they reached the hills, they set her down, then looked about for a bit until someone shouted and pointed. Falcon saw that he was pointing toward a crevice between two layers of rock. The others hurried to him, and after some consultation, which at times grew into heated discussion, the village elders, and especially Keytano, decided that this crevice would do.

  “This is where our sister will lie as she waits for Usen,” the medicine man said.

  They rolled Cloud Dancer’s body off the litter—rather unceremoniously, Falcon thought. For a moment she lay at the lip of the crevice, but several of the villagers pushed and shoved her body until it was well down into the crevice. After that, they covered it with dirt and rocks until the crevice was so completely closed that to the casual passerby there was little evidence that it even existed.

  After Cloud Dancer was interred, ashes and pollen were sprinkled in a circle around what was now her grave. They began at the southwest corner and laid the ashes and pollen down in a rather intricate pattern the meaning of which was lost on Falcon.

  Seeing Falcon’s respectful interest, Keytano pointed to the elaborate design.