Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  The Indian jerked, his head whipping to the side and his rifle coming up as he turned toward the sound. Falcon felt his body stiffen as he placed his hand over the Indian’s mouth and bent his head back, exposing his neck to the blade of the Arkansas Toothpick.

  Seconds later, with no sound having escaped the sentry’s lips, Falcon lowered his dead body to the ground. He picked up the Winchester rifle, took the deerskin pouch of ammunition the man was carrying, and crept to the ridge overlooking the valley below.

  Naiche has picked his campsite well, Falcon thought. The valley was deep enough for several fires to be burning and not be seen from above. There was also a small stream running through the middle of the valley floor which would provide water for drinking and washing without anyone having to leave the protection of the valley.

  As he glanced around the walls of the ridges overlooking the campsite, Falcon saw many dark openings in the stone of the cliffs, some with small fires burning inside them. Even though conventional wisdom would say it was foolish to camp in a valley, the presence of sentries could protect against unwanted visitors, and the number and placement of the caves would provide enough hiding places that it would take an army to ferret the Indians out. As bloodthirsty as Naiche’s reputation was, Falcon knew he was dealing with someone skilled in the art of warfare, especially as practiced by the Apaches on their home territory.

  Pulling his binoculars from his belt, Falcon surveyed the campsite below. He soon found the largest wickiup and saw the brave he’d been following talking animatedly with a man he could only suppose was Naiche. Evidently the brave was telling Naiche of the killings by the white men.

  Suddenly, Naiche reached out and grabbed the brave in front of him by the throat. He began yelling at him as he shook him like a dog with a bone. I guess he’s pissed off at that fellow for leaving his friends behind to die, Falcon thought.

  Finally, Naiche pushed the man away and turned his back on him, calling out in a harsh voice and summoning others to gather around him. As he spoke to the group of young braves, he began pointing out certain men and then pointing off in different directions.

  Uh-oh, Falcon thought, looks as if he’s going to send out war parties. Probably going to be coming after us for what we did to his men. I’d better hightail it on back up the trail and make sure Hawk and the others get to a good hiding place before those Indians get there. Maybe, just maybe we can arrange a little surprise to be waiting for them when they arrive.

  He backed quietly out of sight of the ridge, then sprinted to where he’d left Diablo. He had to make tracks to get back to Hawk and Cal and Jasper in time to setup an ambush for the Indians.

  Chapter 25

  Isa, Nana, Juh, and seven more experienced warriors were scattered throughout a pinyon pine forest, along a trail climbing into the western edge of the Dragoons. It was the same trail where the braves had been killed who were driving the cattle, goats, mules, and horses taken from the Bisbee settlement during the raid. Several of the warriors cast angry eyes at the tree where the bodies had been found hanging, mutilated to prevent their entrance to the Land of Shadows in the hereafter.

  After Naiche heard the report from Cuchillo, that four white men were approaching from the east and had managed to kill three of his followers even as they lay in ambush, he became furious. He berated Cuchillo for leaving his companions to die without exacting vengeance on the white-eyes, stopping just short of calling him a coward.

  He called a meeting of all the young braves and formed them into war parties, sending them out in all directions to ambush any soldiers following trails that would ultimately take them to the Apaches’ new stronghold at Deer Springs. Naiche sent over a dozen warriors to the east, led by Cuchillo, to halt the four whites who had killed Tao and Ishton. With narrowed eyes and tight lips, he told Cuchillo not to return to camp without the scalps of the killers on his pony.

  Isa led a band of nine warriors to guard the western approaches to higher elevations, fully expecting a bluecoat patrol to return with capable trackers to follow the trail left by so many head of stolen livestock after the Bisbee raid.

  Naiche led six seasoned fighters to the north to keep an eye on soldier movements coming from the direction of Fort Thomas. Chokole rode with him, leaving Delshi, Naiche’s half-brother who was burdened by an old leg wound that would not heal, in charge of protecting the camp at Deer Springs with seventeen of the youngest Apaches. It was from the west where the chief of the renegades believed the greatest danger would come, despite what Cuchillo told him about the stealth of the white men dressed in buckskins advancing slowly into the Dragoons who were able to kill two Apaches at close quarters with a knife without making a sound.

  Naiche was correct to assume the soldiers would come first from the west; now, riding in a column of paired cavalrymen, thirty-two heavily armed troopers climbed the steep game trail along distinctive two-toed tracks left by cattle and goats and the prints of other stolen Bisbee livestock moving toward high grasslands. Isa had spotted the soldiers easily from a lookout spot on the side of a mountain. He prepared his ambush where a pinyon forest would hide his warriors until the bluecoats were caught in a deadly cross fire. Picking just the right spot had taken considerable time. He finally decided to attack the bluecoats just beyond the spot where his brothers still hung from the tree. Isa felt it would be fitting to mark their death ground with the deaths of many white-eyes.

  An Indian rode out in front of the cavalry, his face to the ground.

  Nana spoke softly. “The scout who leads them is one of our own people, the old Mescalero named Jaseh. He betrays his own blood brothers for bottles of crazy water and extra rations of food. I have seen him at the fort many times, at the building where the blue coats get boisa pah. He tells the bluecoat chief about Apaches who talk of escaping from the reservation, giving him their names so they will be put in the iron cages and given only moldy bread and water. I am sure he is the one who betrayed Geronimo to the white soldier chief two winters ago.”

  Isa did not recognize the old Apache, for there were hundreds of Indians being held at Fort Thomas and more arrived with each passing moon.

  “He will be the first to die,” Nana promised, a savage look crossing his face. “My first bullet will pass through his black heart.”

  Isa felt sure of their success. With ten repeating rifles being fired from fortified positions behind pinyon trunks and rocks, the bluecoats would have no escape, even though their number was high. “We must wait until they are between us. Let the first riders pass. The old one, Jaseh, will not see us. He only looks at the tracks. Only once has he looked up at the mountains, and he saw nothing.”

  Juh was on the far side of the trail with four more Apache riflemen, spread out, well concealed. When the column of troopers was between Isa’s warriors and those with Juh, the killing would begin.

  He could hear the click of the soldiers’ iron horseshoes on rock clearly now, and see the faces of troopers riding at the front of the column. His heart began to beat rapidly. While a prisoner at the fort, he had dreamed about his days as a free Apache and the wars they fought against the first white settlers and bluecoats.

  Isa readied his rifle against his shoulder, taking pains to keep the barrel from reflecting any of the slanted sunlight coming from a setting sun. Shadows cast by the sun would help hide his warriors from the soldiers’ eyes.

  The rattle of curb chains and the clatter of hooves grew louder.

  “Our time has come,” Nana whispered, sighting along the barrel of his Winchester, a deerskin pouch of bullets lying on fallen pine needles near his elbow.

  * * *

  Captain Buford Jones felt dizzy, light-headed, at the higher altitude after their hard push across the flatland desert between the mountains and Bisbee. He felt satisfaction after the old Apache drunk picked up the renegades’ trail with relative ease. He also secretly despised old Jaseh for being so willing to double-cross his own race for a few bottles of rotgut corn
whiskey flavored with tobacco.

  Sergeant Skinner interrupted Buford’s thoughts. “I don’t like the looks of them trees up yonder, Cap’n. They could be hidin’ in them pines waitin’ for us.”

  “You worry too much, Sergeant. Those Apaches have gone deep into these goddamn miserable dry mountains. They’ll play hide-and-seek with us when we get up there, but there’s nothing to worry about while we’re down this low. It’s when we get up to those mountaintops that we’d best be vigilant and post extra guards at night.”

  Skinner didn’t appear convinced. “That half drunk Mescalero could be leadin’ us right where they want us. He could be in on the whole thing, pretendin’ to take us to Naiche an’ the rest of ’em when he’s really settin’ us up to get our asses shot off by our own damn rifles they stole.”

  “You’ll die young of stomach ailments if you keep worrying so much, Skinner.”

  Sergeant Skinner wagged his head. “All I’m doin’ is tryin’ to stay alive, Cap’n. An’ I sure as hell don’t like the looks of them trees on both sides of this trail we’re followin’. Trees is mighty damn close on both sides.”

  Buford had become irritated by Skinner’s constant whining about the pine trees, and he said so. “If you’re so damn worried about riding through that thicket, then you have my permission to find a way to ride around it.”

  Skinner fell silent, yet his full attention remained focused on the pinyons, searching for anything that might be a hint of a bushwhacking in the making.

  Jaseh continued to read the ground as he led the cavalrymen higher up the side of a tree-studded mountain, winding back and forth with the old game trail where the prints of livestock were plain.

  Buford turned back in the saddle to inspect his troops, and the terrain behind them. Off in the distance the desert they had crossed stretched to the horizon, empty, only the desert plants casting lengthening shadows eastward as the sun became a fiery ball in the western sky.

  Jaseh apparently felt no apprehension riding toward the pine trees Sergeant Skinner was so worried about. The old Apache looked up at the trail ahead now and then, but he continued to lead them upslope toward the forest without hesitation—a good sign in Buford’s view that no danger lurked in the pinyons. An Apache, even an old drunk like Jaseh, would know if they were about to be lured into a trap.

  Captain Jones’s heart hammered when he saw Jaseh suddenly sit bolt upright in his saddle and rein his horse to an abrupt halt. Buford unsnapped the flap over his pistol and warily rode up next to the scout.

  “Jaseh, what the hell are you doing stopping? Have you lost the trail?” he asked irritably.

  The old scout didn’t answer, just inclined his head toward what his eyes had never left.

  Buford followed his gaze, and came near losing his lunch. Three rotting Apache corpses were hanging from the lower limb of a tree next to the trail. There were only gaping holes where their eyes had been, and their throats were cut so deep white neck bones could be seen. The feet were just inches from the ground, and scavengers had eaten off the toes and lower part of the legs. The bodies were almost black from the blowflies covering them like a blanket.

  “Jesus God Awmighty,” Sergeant Skinner whispered from next to Captain Buford, “ain’t that a sight?”

  Buford tried to speak, but had to first swallow the gorge rising in his throat at the gruesome sight. “Jaseh, what do you make of that?”

  The Indian didn’t answer at first, but merely shook his head. After a moment, he turned in his saddle and stared at Buford with frightened eyes. “Evil spirits live in this forest. No white man would kill like this, and the People do not kill their own in this manner, not even in war.”

  “Maybe these were deserters or somethin’,” Skinner said, “An’ were killed by Naiche to set an example to others.”

  Jaseh shook his head. He knew Apaches were casually brutal about killing and mutilating whites, but even in the rare instances where Apache killed Apache, it was done with respect, and the bodies were never mutilated after death ... never. Something was terribly wrong here, but he didn’t know what.

  Buford took a deep drink of water from his canteen, hoping it would settle his stomach. He didn’t particularly want the humiliation of vomiting in front of his men.

  “Go on, keep following the track, Jaseh. We’re burning daylight, and I want to get to a suitable place to make camp before sundown.”

  Jaseh cast a worried glance at Buford, but reluctantly heeled his horse forward.

  They rode into the trees without mishap, and Skinner seemed to be relieved. Buford hadn’t given the order for his men to draw their rifles, simply because he did not share Skinner’s concerns over an ambush at these lower altitudes. It was when they hit the higher parts of the Dragoons that he expected to find Apaches, but most certainly not here.

  He relaxed against the cantle of his cavalry saddle and took in a deep breath of pine-scented air, relieved to be climbing away from the horrible sight behind them.

  A cracking noise came from Buford’s left, just as he was enjoying the smell of pine. The old Mescalero riding out in front of the column was swept from the back of his horse as if he’d been met by a mighty gust of wind.

  Sergeant Skinner stood in his stirrups as Jaseh went tumbling to the ground with blood spouting from a hole above his right ear. “Indians!” Skinner cried, jerking his Winchester from its saddle boot.

  A series of thundering explosions came at Buford and his troopers from both sides of the trail. Horses nickered, rearing on their hind legs, pawing the air with fright as men shouted and cursed while clawing for their guns.

  Sizzling balls of molten lead came flying from every direction amid the booming of guns. Behind Buford, soldiers began screaming with pain, some toppling to the earth clutching mortal wounds as others merely tried to stay aboard their terrified horses.

  Buford, thinking as fast as he could despite the confusion and hail of bullets all around him, knew what he had to do. He pulled his rifle, holding a tight grip on the reins to control his plunging sorrel, and yelled, “Retreat!” as loudly as he could.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Sergeant Skinner’s left tunic sleeve erupt in a spray of blood and shreds of blue fabric. Skinner yelped and dropped his rifle to grab his wound with his free hand, wheeling his horse downslope.

  Buford jerked his sorrel around while the banging of heavy bore rifle fire seemed to grow louder. What he saw across the lower part of the trail made him queasy, sick to his stomach, his throat filling with bitter bile. Dead or dying troopers lay everywhere. Spooked horses with empty saddles galloped back down the incline.

  A bullet tore through Buford’s cavalry hat, lifting it off his head as he was digging his spurs into the sorrel’s sides. A burning sensation spread across his scalp just when his horse lunged into a headlong run.

  The explosions continued, an endless wall of noise, and the air was filled with speeding bullets. Suddenly his vision blurred, and his surroundings turned an odd shade of red. He felt something wet dripping down his forehead and sleeved it away, then he rubbed his eyes to clear them as his horse charged through the melee. His sleeve was bright red with blood, and his scalp felt as if it was on fire.

  Galloping past wounded men lying on both sides of the trail, he tasted fear on the tip of his tongue, wondering if he would get out of this alive.

  Sergeant Skinner, gripping his bleeding arm, galloped past him on a faster horse. Skinner leaned over his chestnut’s neck to make himself as small a target as possible, and after Buford saw this he did likewise, bent forward in the saddle, making no effort to return the bushwhackers’ fire.

  “Retreat!” he bellowed again, knowing that any soldier with his wits about him would already be trying to get out of range of the deadly guns aimed at them.

  A young trooper from Indiana—Buford recalled his name was Smith—was riding hell-for-leather down the incline ahead of him when a slug struck his horse. The dark brown gelding went down, cru
mpling underneath Private Smith, tossing him forward into the air as though he’d sprouted wings.

  Buford understood that duty required him to stop and give aid to one of his men, yet fear forced him to abandon any notion of helping the boy. He sent his horse racing past Smith’s prone form until it galloped to the bottom of the trail behind Sergeant Skinner’s mount. Together, along with seven surviving cavalrymen, they charged out onto the desert plain until their winded mounts forced them to slow to a trot, then a halt.

  Buford looked back up the mountain slope. He could see bodies lying everywhere ... some wounded men were crawling toward safety, crying out for help. Loose horses were scattered all over the mountainside.

  “Jesus,” Buford whispered, his hands shaking.

  He heard Sergeant Skinner whimpering with pain. “I just had a feelin’ they were in them goddamn trees,” Skinner said, his face twisted into a grimace.

  Buford glanced up at the mountain trail again. The shooting had all but stopped, and now Apaches were running from one fallen body to the next, scalping some of his men while they were still alive.

  Buford heard their screams, and he knew he would hear them in his sleep for the rest of his life.

  “I sure as hell wish I’d listened to you,” he told Skinner, watching the grisly work of the Apaches from a half a mile away. “Next time—if there is a next time—I’ll damn sure pay more attention to your advice,” he said, already planning on how to explain this fiasco to his superiors back at the fort. He knew his career hung in the balance, and he would need a good story to keep his stripes.

  The shrieks of men being mutilated by Apache knives echoed from the forested slope. “Dear God,” he muttered, trying to control the tremors in his limbs. “They’re gutting our men while they’re still alive. What kind of savages are these damn Indians, anyway?”

  “The worst kind there is,” Skinner replied in a weak voice. “They ain’t human, Cap’n. The army should‘a killed every last one of ’em when we got ’em to Fort Thomas.”