Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  That information startled Colonel Dixon enough that he took the pipe from his mouth. “You say he killed her. Do you know that for a fact?”

  “Yes, we found her body,” Corbin answered. He nodded toward Falcon. “And my deputy took her back to her father.”

  Colonel Dixon looked at Falcon with an expression of shocked surprise. “Wait a minute, a white man killed Keytano’s daughter, and you took her body back?”

  “Yes,” said Falcon.

  Dixon preened his mustache with his finger. “I’ll be damned. I don’t know whether to praise you for your courage, or damn you for your foolhardiness. Maybe both. It’s a wonder Keytano let you out alive.”

  “Not really,” Falcon said. “Keytano is a man of honor, after all.”

  “How can you call an Indian a man of honor?” the colonel asked, punctuating his question by sticking his pipe back in his mouth.

  “Colonel, do you doubt that Indians can have honor?” Falcon asked.

  “That certainly hasn’t been my experience.”

  “How long have you been dealing with Indians?”

  “Well, I confess that I’ve only been out here for about six months,” Colonel Dixon replied. “I ... uh, haven’t really had to deal with them at all yet.”

  “I see. So, where did you get the idea that Indians had no honor?”

  “Just things that I’ve heard,” Colonel Dixon replied, clearly uncomfortable now with the direction the conversation was going.

  “Indians are like anyone else, Colonel. There are Indians of honor, and there are those who are dishonorable.”

  “I’ll, uh, take your word for it,” Dixon said. “So, Sheriff, if your deputy took the girl’s body back and got out alive, why are you here to see me?”

  “The other day a drummer left Oro Blanco, driving a buckboard up to Arivica. He was driving a rented team, and the next day the team brought the buckboard back to the livery stable. The drummer, a man named Arnold Johnson, was in the back, mutilated and scalped.”

  “And you think it was retaliation for the chief’s daughter?” Colonel Dixon asked.

  “I think it was in direct retaliation, yes,” Sheriff Corbin replied.

  Colonel Dixon sighed. “After that business with the prospectors, I was afraid it might come to this. All right, I’ll ask General Miles for orders to put the Fifth Cavalry into the field.”

  Falcon held up his hand. “No, don’t do that, Colonel,” he said. “At least not yet. I don’t think there’s any need for you to call out anyone. I don’t believe this is a war with the Cababi Band. I think this is nothing more than one ambitious Indian who has been able to talk three or four others into following him.”

  “Are you talking about Keytano?”

  “No, I don’t think it is Keytano. So far, Keytano is on our side, or at least he’s keeping most of the warriors back on the reservation. The one who is causing all the trouble is Naiche’s nephew, Chetopa.”

  Colonel Dixon stroked his chin. “Chetopa? I’m not sure I’ve ever even heard of him.”

  “Yes, and that’s Chetopa’s problem. Nobody has heard of him, and he’s not real happy about that. He wants his name to be spoken in the same tone as Naiche, Geronimo, and Cochise. If you turn out the Army, you’ll be giving him exactly what he wants. It will not only give him the notoriety he’s looking for; it will give him the opportunity to recruit a lot more warriors.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind my asking, how would you propose that we take care of him without turning out the Army?” Colonel Dixon asked.

  “You don’t need the Army to take care of him. I’ll take care of him myself,” Falcon said.

  Colonel Dixon laughed. “You’ll take care of him? All by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you might be biting off more than you can chew?”

  “Colonel Dixon,” Sheriff Corbin said. “Maybe it is time I introduced this fella to you.”

  “You already introduced him, didn’t you?” Colonel Dixon replied. “You said he was your deputy.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t give you his name. It’s MacCallister,” Sheriff Corbin said. “Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Falcon MacCallister?” the colonel said, clearly searching for where he had heard the name before. Then it came to him. “The hell you say. The Falcon MacCallister? The gunfighter? The one who killed Naiche?”

  “Yes,” Sheriff Corbin said. “The Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Well, I’ll be damn,” Colonel Dixon said. He stuck his hand out again as a big smile spread across his face. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. MacCallister. General Miles says you are a one-man army. So I reckon if any one man could take care of this Chetopa person, you’d be that one. Is there anything you would like for the Army to do?”

  Falcon nodded. “As a matter of fact, there is. You might send a few patrols out,” he said. “And if you see any prospectors getting over onto Indian land, discourage them. Oh, and while you are at it, it would strengthen my hand greatly if you would open up that dam and let some of the Santa Cruz River water back onto the reservation.”

  Colonel Dixon shook his head. “I can’t. I wish I could do that, Mr. MacCallister. Because, in fact, I do think the Indians are being cheated out of their rightful supply of water. And I know that the Indian agent has made an appeal to the territorial governor, but the governor hasn’t made a decision yet. He figures there are too many white people who want the dam to stay closed, and if he does anything, they’ll contact Washington and he’ll wind up losing his job.”

  “The territorial governor is a feather merchant, a civilian appointee who is afraid to take a piss without first getting authorization from Washington. Never mind him, he’s an asshole anyway. You make the decision,” Falcon said. “You alone. That is what Army commanders do, isn’t it? Good commanders make tough decisions.”

  Falcon had perceived that Colonel Dixon was an officer of honor, integrity, and pride, and he knew this approach would appeal to him. Dixon smiled and nodded.

  “You’re right,” he said. “That is exactly what Army commanders do, and it is what I should have done a long time ago. All right, Mr. MacCallister, you can count on it. I will see to it that enough water begins flowing through that dam to provide for the Indians.”

  “You do that, Colonel, and I guarantee you you will have no trouble from Keytano.”

  “And Chetopa?” Colonel Dixon asked. “Will that stop Chetopa?”

  “No,” Falcon said. “I’ll have to stop Chetopa.”

  “Damn if I don’t believe you will,” Colonel Dixon said. “I’m not sure just how legitimate this is, but I will make no effort to stop you. And, as you asked, I will have my own troops on patrol, keeping prospectors out of the Indian land. Good luck, Mr. MacCallister.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon replied.

  CHAPTER 16

  Ponci had lain in the cave for two days, looking over at the rotting piece of meat that had been his leg. The stench of it was overpowering, but until now, he had not been able to move well enough to get rid of it.

  His horse had found a little graze within hobble range, as well as a puddle of water from the last rain. The puddle had survived only because a rock overhang had shielded it from direct sunlight, thus keeping it from evaporating. But now, even it was beginning to dry up, and if Ponci didn’t get out of here soon, he and the horse faced the possibility of dying of thirst.

  The horse was actually faring better than Ponci, who had not eaten in two days. Oddly, though he knew he should be ravenously hungry, he had no appetite. He had taken a few sips of water, having filled his canteen from the catch pool ... and he had taken a few sips of laudanum, just enough to make the pain manageable.

  For the last two days Ponci had run a fever, but now, for the first time since his self-amputation, he felt that the fever was gone. The bleeding had also stopped, and the pain in his stub had subsided to a dull throb. If he was ever going to make it into Mesquite, now was the time to do
it.

  Painfully and laboriously, Ponci managed to get his horse saddled. Then, he tried to mount. Automatically he swung his right leg, or what should have been his right leg, over the horse’s back for balance and to carry him on into the saddle.

  But the leg wasn’t there, and Ponci’s attempt to get mounted left him badly off balance. He felt himself slipping, made a desperate grab for the saddle horn, missed, then fell hard onto his wounded stump.

  “Ahhh!!!” he screamed as pain shot up through his body.

  Ponci lay there for a long moment, getting his breath and trying to regain his composure. Then he tried to mount again, this time holding tightly onto the saddle horn until he was seated. The sensation of sitting in the saddle with only one leg in the stirrup was unsettling, but he knew it was something he would have to get used to. Clucking at the horse, he left the cave, then rode out into the bright sunlight, headed for Mesquite.

  Mesquite was ten miles ahead, and he figured on making it in two hours, given that he had no intention of trying to hurry.

  Corporal Gibson left the sergeant major’s office, still seething over his run-in with the sheriff and his deputy. When he returned to the guardhouse, he saw Private Carter lying on the bunk, waiting for the next relief change. Carter would be posted as one of the guards of the next relief.

  Like Corporal Gibson, Private Carter had been in the Army for many years, and like Gibson, Carter had been up and down the ranks. Last month he had been a sergeant, but he got into a drunken fight with a cowboy over a whore he met in a saloon in Papago. His thirty days in jail in Papago were counted as unauthorized absence from his duty post, so he was busted.

  Now, as a private, Carter had to perform the post duties like any other private.

  “Carter, what are you doing here?” Gibson asked.

  “I’m on the next relief, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Hey, come on down to the sutler’s store and have a drink with me. We’ve got time.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Carter said, hopping up from the bunk and following his friend out of the guardhouse. It never dawned on him to suggest that what they were doing was against army regulations.

  As the two men sat in the sutler’s store drinking whiskey, Gibson told about his run-in with the two civilians who had come onto the post this afternoon.

  “The deputy was a real bastard,” Gibson said. “I’d like to know just who he thinks he is, coming in here like he owns the place. Why, he marched in to see the colonel without so much as a fare-thee-well.”

  “Are you talking about the fella that was with Sheriff Corbin?” the sutler asked. It was easy enough for the sutler to overhear their conversation. It was right in the middle of duty hours, and nobody else was in the place.

  “Yeah, the deputy,” Gibson replied.

  The sutler laughed. “He was no deputy.”

  “Sure he was. At least, that’s what Sheriff Corbin said.”

  “Maybe that’s what Corbin said and maybe, for some strange reason, he is acting as the deputy right now. But I’ll tell you this. He sure as hell ain’t no ordinary deputy. Don’t you know who that was?”

  “No.”

  “That was Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Falcon MacCallister? Are you sure?”

  “Who is Falcon MacCallister?” Carter asked.

  “He’s a gunfighter,” Gibson said.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve never met him, but I’ve sure heard of him. How do you know that was Falcon MacCallister?” Gibson asked the sutler.

  “I know because I used to live in Tombstone. I met him when he was down there. He ran with the Earps and Doc Holliday then.”

  “I’ll be damn,” Gibson said in awe. Then, his awe turned to fear as he remembered that MacCallister had threatened to kill him. His hand started shaking and some of the whiskey in his glass splashed out.

  “You all right, Gibson?” Carter asked.

  “Yeah,” Gibson said. “I’m all right. Sutler, bring us another round.”

  Nearly an hour after what should have been the changing of the guard, Lieutenant Kirby, the Officer of the Day, showed up and saw Gibson and Carter drunk. He had two men with him.

  “Place these two men under arrest and take them to the guardhouse,” Kirby demanded.

  Under the escort of the two privates, Gibson and Carter returned to the guardhouse, not as part of the guard detail now ... but as prisoners.

  When Private Wilson came into the guardhouse a little later, he threw his hat onto the bunk in anger.

  “What the hell is going on around here?” he shouted. “I was an hour late getting relieved.”

  “Ask those fellas,” one of the other guards said, pointing to the cell at the back of the guardhouse.

  Wilson walked to the back, then saw Corporal Gibson and Carter in jail.

  “Corporal Gibson, Sergeant Carter, what are you two doing in here?” he asked in surprise.

  “That’s Private Carter,” Gibson said.

  “Oh, yeah, Private. But what are you doing in here?”

  “I tell you what,” Gibson said. “Wait until the others are asleep, then come back here and we’ll tell you.”

  Wilson looked confused. “Why should I wait until the others are asleep?”

  “Because I’m going to tell you where my money is,” Gibson said, “and I don’t want anyone else to hear it.”

  “Your money?”

  “Shhh,” Gibson said, putting his finger over his lips. I told you, I don’t want anyone else to hear. Wait until the others are asleep, then come back.”

  “All right,” Wilson agreed, nodding his head. He walked back up to the front of the guardhouse, then lay on his bunk with his hands laced behind his head. “What money?” he asked aloud.

  “What?” Pettigrew asked. Pettigrew was in the bunk next to his. “What’d you say?”

  “Uh, nothing,” Wilson replied. “I was just thinking out loud, that’s all.”

  Unlike Carter and Gibson, Wilson had been in the Army for less than a year, and had never been anything but a private. It was also likely that he would never be anything but a private, because he had not found Army life to his liking. Wilson had grown up on a farm in Missouri and left when a young girl on a neighboring farm got pregnant and told him he was the father.

  Wilson knew that it was possible that he could be the father, but it was also possible for at least four others that he knew. He wasn’t ready to get married yet, especially if he was going to be tricked into it, so he left in the middle of the night and went to St. Louis, where he enlisted at Jefferson Barracks.

  He regretted it almost immediately, and wished many times that he was back home, even if he did have to get married. Besides which, Lou Ellen wasn’t that bad-looking a girl. He could’ve done worse.

  An hour later, when snores rent the darkened interior of the guardhouse, Wilson got up from his bunk and walked quietly back to the cell.

  “You fellas asleep?” he called into the darkened cell.

  “No, we’re awake,” Gibson said. He and Carter appeared just on the other side of the bars, barely visible in the little ambient light that was available.

  “All right,” Wilson whispered. “I’m here. What is this about your money?”

  “It’s not just my money,” Gibson answered. “It’s Carter’s money, and your money too, if you have balls enough to come with me tonight to get it.”

  “Come with you tonight?” Wilson shook his head. “How am I going to go anywhere with you tonight? You are in jail.”

  “You noticed that, did you?” Gibson said.

  “Well, yeah, I mean ...”

  “Get the keys to the cell,” Gibson said. “They are on the corporal’s desk.”

  “How’m I going to do that with him there?”

  “He’ll be posting the new relief soon,” Gibson said. “When he does, all you have to do is get the keys and let us out.”

  “I don’t know,” Wilson
said.

  “Look, you been bitchin’ and moanin’ ever since you come in how much you hate the Army,” Gibson said. “Haven’t you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then this is your chance. Let us out, we’ll go get the money, then we’ll each go our own way.”

  “All right,” Wilson said. “All right, soon as the new relief is posted, I’ll get the key and let you two out.”

  Although Ponci reached Mesquite before dark, he decided to stop outside town and wait until the sun set, because he didn’t want to ride in while it was still daylight. While he was waiting for nightfall, he utilized his time by finding a stout staff, cutting it to the right size, then crossing it at the top with a bar that would fit under his arm. The result was a usable crutch. It would have worked better if he had something with which to pad the armrest, but he had used his extra shirt and pants as bandages over the stump of his leg.

  Eating a handful of grasshoppers and the fruit of a saguaro cactus, Ponci had his first food in three days. When night came, he waited outside town listening to the sounds of night creatures. He dozed off a couple of times, but woke himself up every time because he didn’t want to sleep through the night out here.

  Then, when he figured it was about midnight, or even a little later, he remounted and rode into town. He had purposely waited until it was this late because he didn’t want to be seen. He knew that someone who came riding into town with only one leg would not only be noticed, he would also be remembered.

  The town was very dark, with not a flicker of light from anywhere, not even from the cantina. But the bright full moon painted a soft silver halo around all the buildings and laid a shimmering path on the road before him. That provided him with enough illumination to ride down the familiar street until he reached the leather goods store. His horse didn’t like going through the narrow passageway between the leather goods store and the apothecary, especially as the two buildings crowded out what little light there was from the moon. But Ponci cajoled the animal, and kicked with his one good leg until they were through and into the open area that lay between Suzie’s crib and the rear of the leather goods store.