“My name is John Henry Holliday, but most folks just call me Doc.”
Jones’s heart began to hammer in his chest, and fear-sweat broke out on his forehead. He’d heard of Doc Holliday, who hadn’t?
“What ... what is it you want?”
“I just asked a perfectly civil question. What does the army want with Falcon?”
“I was asked to try to find him to see if he would do some scouting for us. We’re having some trouble locating the Indians that have been killing people all over this region. Word is that Falcon MacCallister is an accomplished tracker who knows the ways of the Apache.”
The pressure against Jones’s stomach disappeared, and Holliday turned to go. “There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? You army bastards ought to try being move civil and less arrogant, and perhaps people would treat you better when you came to town. Now, Mr. Army Captain, Falcon is a friend of mine. If I find out the army causes him any harm or harassment at all, there won’t be a rock large enough for you to hide under. Do I make myself clear?”
Jones nodded his head as Holliday walked off. Then he ordered another whiskey and drank it down as soon as it was poured.
Private Guttman, completely unaware of what had just happened, asked Jones, “What’s the matter, Captain? You look kind’ sick.”
“Shut up, Private, and mind your own business,” Jones growled, ordering another whiskey.
Chapter 23
Ishton, Cuchillo, Tao, and Juh scouted the foothills for any sign of soldier patrols approaching the Dragoons from the east. They had also been instructed by Naiche to keep a sharp lookout for any sign of Kiowa, or other Indians, and to report back immediately if any were sighted. They rode strong cavalry horses stolen from Fort Thomas, and carried Winchester rifles and Colt pistols taken from the dead bluecoats killed by Isa and his warriors. Naiche wanted scouts watching all sides of the mountains in order to be prepared against a surprise attack if the soldiers found their tracks. Naiche had moved the village to the canyon called Deer Springs, where their stronghold would be easier to defend. From Deer Springs they would launch many raids against the white-eyes and bluecoat patrols, before returning to their isolated camp in some of the most rugged terrain high in the mountain range, where water and grass were plentiful and the steep canyon walls were honeycombed with caves providing shelter and hiding places for the women.
Cuchillo suddenly halted his horse as they were at the edge of a thicket of scrub pinyon pines. The others stopped on either side of him, trying to see what had caused Cuchillo concern.
“What is it?” Juh asked. “I see nothing.”
“Four white men. Not soldiers. One rides a big black horse and he wears buckskins. One is old ... I could see his white hair. He rides a bay. He has a gray hat covering his face. Another with silver hair rides a red horse, but he sits straight and does not appear to be old in spite of his hair. One more rides slowly at the rear on a chestnut, slumped over his saddle, dressed like the whites who work with cows. They are being very cautious. The tall man on the black horse looked up at this mountain and quickly led the other white-eyes into a dry streambed, as if he saw us. They are staying out of sight now.”
“No white man could see us hidden in these trees,” Ishton said. “White men are fools. Careless. They know nothing of stalking an enemy or hiding themselves.”
“This tall one is different,” Cuchillo promised, for he felt sure the bigger white man in buckskins had seen them, or noticed movement in the pines. “He looked up here and turned his horse too quickly to ride out of sight. He saw something—perhaps only a shadow moving among these trees—and he is taking no chances. He may be a scout for the soldiers, one who knows our ways. His leggings are like those of the Utes or the Arapaho from the cold country to the north. The two with white hair also wear deerskins. These whites are not soldiers or builders of sod houses who plant seeds in the ground. The one on the black horse watches everything.”
“What should we do?” Juh asked. “Kill them?”
Cuchillo gave the dry streambed’s wandering course a close examination. There were few places where they could ambush men who were careful, watchful, expecting trouble.
Farther up the streambed, where it came down out of the steeper hills from the high peaks, clusters of trees and rocks might offer the right spot if the white men continued to ride along the bottom of the wash.
“One of us must ride back to the village and warn Naiche of these four white-eyes coming into the mountains,” Cuchillo said. “Juh, you ride back to the canyon. Ishton and Tao and I will watch these whites to see where they go, and if they start along any of the trails we will find the right spot and then we will kill them.”
Juh said nothing and turned his horse, heeling it to a trot back through the pinyons, swinging due south when he was off the skyline.
Cuchillo studied the streambed. He was still sure the tall white man had seen them, for now all four men were staying out of sight at the bottom of the wash, moving slowly, for no dust arose from the hooves of their horses in the still morning air as it would if they were pushing their mounts at a faster gait than a walk.
“I see nothing,” Ishton said, a thin young warrior full of courage but with little battle experience—unlike Cuchillo, who had fought the bluecoats for many years.
“This is what troubles me,” Cuchillo replied. “Very few white men know how to disappear into the face of Earth Mother like an Apache, or how to move without leaving a trace for an Apache eye to see.”
Tao pointed to a group of sparrows suddenly leaving the limbs of a mesquite thicket on the banks of the streambed, flying west as if something had startled them. “There, Cuchillo. The birds tell us where they are now. They fly away from the approaching horses. The white-eyes are coming into the hills by following the dry stream. If they continue along the course of the stream, they will come to the deer trail that will take them to Deer Springs Canyon.”
Cuchillo watched the flight of the birds. They flew a few hundred yards westward and then settled into the brush. “Yes, the birds announce their movements. They ride slowly, for the sparrows do not go far. If the birds fly again, we will know these whites are climbing into the mountains looking for us as scouts for the bluecoats.”
“Then we must kill them before they return to the fort when they find our tracks,” Ishton said. “If we do not, they will bring the soldiers to our camp at the springs.”
“Wait for the sparrows,” Cuchillo told him. “If they rise again, we will ride higher and find a place in the rocks where killing them will be easy. Remember your training as warriors in the days before we were taken to the reservation. Patience and surprise will give us the advantage.”
Moments passed, and then the sparrows fluttered skyward again as Cuchillo had been certain they would.
“They are looking for us. No one rides into these mountains without a purpose. Follow me. Ride slowly so we send no dust into the air. We will find a killing place where the streambed comes down from the edge of the mountains.”
Cuchillo wheeled his horse and led Ishton and Tao off the back of the hilltop. They would ride many extra miles to stay out of sight of these white men, until they found the right spot to lay in wait for a deadly ambush.
* * *
Tao lay behind a slab of stone, hidden in its shadow so the sun would not reflect off the barrel of his Winchester, giving the white-eyes a warning of his presence.
Ishton rested on his belly behind fans of yucca spines on a ledge above the creekbed, where he had a view of the rocky bottom of the wash, his rifle barrel covered with a soldier’s shirt taken from one of the dead by Isa’s warriors.
Cuchillo hid behind a crevice between two jutting outcrops of stone on the other side of the wash, only the top of his head and eyes peering above the cut in the rocks, giving him a clear view of the path the white men were following as they climbed into the Dragoons.
The flight of more startled birds pointed to the progress of the w
hite-eyes as they were climbing into the eastern edge of the mountain range, although Cuchillo was puzzled by their slow movements. It was as if they stopped often. These were the actions of cautious, experienced men who understood the ways of battle.
And, too, these whites were careful never to show themselves, staying close to the edge of the wash in deeper shadows as the sun lowered in the western skies. It was further proof that they intended to enter the Dragoons unseen, tracking Naiche and his band so they could lead the soldiers to their camp at Deer Springs.
Time passed slowly, and now no more birds darted from the brush and trees near the streambed.
They have stopped, Cuchillo thought, pondering it, wondering why. Were they only resting their horses, as white-eyes did so often?
He cocked an ear to a dry desert breeze, listening for the slightest sound. All was silent around him, and the silence became more troubling as it lengthened. Why had the white men stopped? There was no water in the wash for their horses, and very little shade. Were they waiting for darkness to continue their climb? He was sure of one thing . . . these were not ordinary whites, by their dress and their great caution.
A gust of wind swirled down the slopes behind Cuchillo, and for a moment tiny clouds of dust arose from patches of thin soil around them. He blinked to rid his eyes of gritty particles and swept the bottom of the creek again.
A faint sound came from the yuccas where Ishton was hiding, a strange noise, hard to identify. Cuchillo knew the sounds of Earth Mother’s creatures well, and he knew at once something was wrong.
Very slowly he raised his rifle to his shoulder, keeping its gleaming barrel in the shadow of the rocks around him. He thumbed back the hammer on the Winchester, tensed, sensing danger was near.
Then he saw movement in the yucca plants. Something was tossed from Ishton’s hiding place, an object Cuchillo could not identify at first. It flew into the air, ball-like, and then tumbled down the bank of the wash, landing in the gravel and sand with a soft thump.
The muscles in Cuchillo’s cheeks tightened, for now he recognized what had been thrown from the ledge. Ishton’s head, severed at the neck, lay in a spreading puddle of blood on the gravel at the bottom of the creek.
In that instant he understood what was happening. One of the white men had somehow been silent enough to slip up behind Ishton, explaining the long silence and the reason why the whites had stopped somewhere farther down the wash. They were stalking Cuchillo and his warriors, as impossible a feat as that seemed for white-eyes, who were known by all the Apache tribes for their foolish blunders in battle. The hunters had now become the hunted.
He glanced over his shoulder, carefully checking every rock and clump of brush behind him. He saw nothing, and quickly turned his attention back to the far side of the stream.
Time seemed frozen. Cuchillo looked again at Ishton’s bloody head resting at the bottom of the wash. The white man who killed him so silently was skilled, a true warrior with white skin, but no matter how carefully Cuchillo studied the far side of the cutbank he found nothing, no target for his rifle, no sign of movement anywhere.
A piercing cry came from the rocks where Tao waited in ambush. Then the sound became muffled, a strangling noise, before it faded to silence. Had Tao killed the white-eye with his knife? Cuchillo wondered.
He soon found an answer. Tao’s coppery body was pushed off the top of the cutbank, a crimson stain smearing the rocky side of the wash as he slid, head-first, down to the floor of the stream, a huge gash across his throat pumping blood over the smooth gravel where he lay on his back, dying.
Now Cuchillo faced four white men alone. Of far more importance, Naiche and the others had to be told about these white-skinned warriors who fought like Apaches, with cunning and soundless stalking skills unlike anything Cuchillo had ever witnessed in all his battles with white men.
Very slowly, Cuchillo backed away from the crevice and bent down in a crouch, moving on the balls of his feet, his moccasins whispering across the rocks toward their horses. He moved from one clump of brush to another, darting among the yucca and cacti, pausing briefly to examine his surroundings before he moved again.
He came to the draw where their horses were tethered and swung up on his bay, gathering up the other horses’ jaw reins before he drummed his heels into the gelding’s sides. Riding at a fast trot, he moved north and west, away from the white men, staying to low ground wherever he could to keep from being seen until he reached a steep trail twisting into the high peaks.
Cuchillo was worried. Naiche would not be pleased to hear of what had happened. At least two of the white-eyes coming into the mountains fought like Apaches. They would be hard men to kill.
Chapter 24
As the last brave in the bunch rode away, bent low over the neck of his pony, Hawk eared back the hammer of his Sharps .50 caliber rifle and drew a bead on his back.
Just before he pulled the trigger, Falcon appeared out of the nearby brush and put a hand on the barrel, forcing it down.
“Hold on, Hawk. Let him go,” he said in a low voice.
Hawk let out the breath he’d been holding as he took aim. “Why, Falcon? The bastard’s sure to go back to the main camp and warn the others we’re on our way.”
Falcon nodded, his eyes on the retreating Indian. “I know, and that’s just what I want him to do. Like I said, I want Naiche and the others to know someone’s on their back trail, someone who can kill just as good as they can.”
He gave a tight grin. “I hope he gets an itch in the back of his neck and thinks about who may be behind him every time he ventures out of his stronghold. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll distract him from thoughts of killing other whites long enough for the army to get on his trail.”
Just then, Cal Franklin and Jasper Meeks walked their horses up out of the old riverbed.
Meeks stared at the tiny figure in the distance as he rode over the horizon. “Why’d you fellers let him get away?” he asked, a worried look on his face.
Hawk spit out his cud of tobacco, a sour expression on his face. “Falcon’s got it in his mind to give Naiche somethin’ to worry about.”
Falcon swung up on Diablo’s back in a fluid motion. “I’m going to follow him. With any luck he’ll lead us to Naiche’s main camp. Y’all follow along behind, and I’ll mark the trail as I go.”
Meeks stared at Falcon as if he thought the man was crazy to be heading to the main body of Indians. “You ride with your guns loose, Falcon, an’ keep a tight rein on your scalp lock, you hear?”
Falcon nodded and pulled Diablo’s head around and started out after the brave.
“How about we take a noonin’?” Cal said, rubbing his stomach. “I’m so hungry I could eat a lizard.”
* * *
Falcon followed Cuchillo at a safe distance, being careful not to stray from thick brush and wooded areas or to reveal himself against a skyline on the horizon. He knew Apaches were expert trackers, but were less adept at discovering if someone was following them, the experience being so rare in their past. As he rode, he occasionally leaned over to break a twig next to the trail, or to blaze a mark on the trunk of a tree so the others would have no difficulty following his lead.
Just before dusk, when the sun was disappearing over distant peaks and the temperature was falling toward freezing, Falcon saw Cuchillo stop his pony and put his hands to his mouth. He heard the faint cry of a horned owl come from Cuchillo’s direction.
So that’s the signal a friend is on the way in, Falcon thought, nodding to himself as he heard the answering cry of another hoot owl from the ridges directly in front of the brave he was following.
Falcon dismounted and tied Diablo to a tree, leaving him plenty of slack so he could graze on the sweet, green mountain grass growing next to the trail. He unhooked the rawhide hammer thongs on his pistols and positioned his Winchester rifle across his back on its rawhide sling. He knew if he had to use either of these weapons he was as good as dead, for the soun
d of a gunshot would bring the Indians in Naiche’s band boiling out of their camp like a swarm of angry hornets whose nest has been poked with a stick.
He slipped his Arkansas Toothpick out of its scabbard, hoping to be able to find the sentry before he was spotted.
As shadows melded with darkening air and night fell, Falcon began to crawl toward where he’d heard the owl hoot answer to Cuchillo’s call. He moved as slowly as molasses in February, making sure not to put his feet on anything that would make a noise and give his position away.
Taking over three hours to travel just a hundred yards, he took a deep breath through his nose. He could smell the pungent aroma of unwashed Indian nearby. Grateful the Apache didn’t much believe in baths, especially in the winter months, he put the blade of his knife between his teeth and crawled forward on all fours.
Peeking between the branches of a mesquite tree, Falcon saw the sentry ten feet ahead, his back against a boulder, his arms folded, his head nodding on his chest, as if tired from a long watch.
Falcon hunkered down, deciding the brave must be near the end of his shift on watch and electing to wait for his replacement so he would have more time after killing him to look around before the man would be missed.
It was lucky he did, for no more than ten minutes later a soft call came from the darkness and the sentry jerked awake, his hand on his rifle.
A laughing young man walked up and slapped him on the shoulder, speaking words in Apache that sounded like teasing the man for being asleep on duty. After a couple more jibes, the newcomer took his place with his back to the same boulder, and the first sentry walked down a well-beaten path toward the valley floor below.
When Falcon could no longer hear his progress through the brush, he searched the ground at his feet with his hands in the darkness. After a moment, he found a small rock and picked it up.
Slowly, he stood, staying close to the trunk of the mesquite tree so as not to give the Indian any glimpse of movement. He raised his hand and pitched the stone over the brave’s head, where it landed in a briar patch a few yards from the man.
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