Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why do we go south?” Juh asked. “There, the mountains have no trees, and water is scarce.”

  “Cochise told me the bluecoats cannot cross the big river into Mexico. Their strange laws make a river into a wall. If the soldiers come close we will escape to Mexico and look for the camp of Geronimo.”

  “His wise ways will help us,” Nana agreed. “He may know of a way to kill this Apache hunter, Mickey Free. Geronimo is able to hide from anyone.”

  Naiche inched backward on the stone slab, signaling for the others to do the same. Down below, Mickey Free was talking to the leader of the bluecoats. For now, the soldiers were not climbing higher or moving at all.

  Naiche hurried to his horse and, using a fistful of mane, he swung over the bay’s back. “Be careful where you leave the print of a horse on our return to camp,” he cautioned. “Free will come here to look for our tracks.”

  Silently, riding from rock slab to gravel beds in low dry washes, Naiche led his men away from the soldier columns and the Apache hunter. His spirit taunted him while they rode off, for it whispered that a brave war chief would not run and hide from someone like Mickey Free, or the four white-eyes who were coming into the Dragoons.

  This called for an all-out attack on the four whites, to rid Naiche and his band of their trickery. Only then could they make plans to ambush the soldiers and kill the red-haired scout who led them.

  Naiche wondered about Free. Could a white man, even one who had been a prisoner of the Apaches for ten winters, have learned all their battle secrets? Their hiding places?

  It was not possible. Naiche intended to prove it.

  As they rode back toward their camp, Naiche’s mind was full of plans, things he would have to do. First he would get his women and children safe by moving the camp south. Then he would have to do something about the four white-eyes who were causing them so much trouble. Then there was the problem of what was to be done with Cuchillo. His repeated failures had made Naiche’s leadership seem bad.

  The Indian leader shook his head to clear it of the ideas buzzing inside. Battle to the death was far easier than the responsibility of being chief to his people.

  Chapter 33

  Knowing there were no war parties in the vicinity allowed Falcon to keep Diablo on the trail, and he was making good time until the big stud raised his head and pointed his ears forward.

  Falcon knew this meant Diablo had either heard or smelled something up ahead, so he quickly jerked the horse’s head to the left and ran him up into heavy brush just off the trail.

  He pulled his Winchester out of its saddle boot, levered a shell into the firing chamber, and waited. Before long, three riders came into view. Though they were being careful and were keeping the noise to a minimum, they didn’t manage to spot Falcon in his hiding place.

  Damn good thing I’m not one of Naiche’s braves, Falcon thought, and considered for a moment bursting out of hiding and scaring the bejesus out of the three men. He decided against it, for they might go off half-cocked and fire a weapon, warning Naiche someone was on the mountain near his campsite.

  Falcon walked Diablo out into the open just as Hawk and the others came abreast of his position. “Howdy, boys,” he called, shoving his Winchester back into its boot.

  Other than a quick jerk of his head as Falcon called out his greeting, Hawk managed to hide his surprise at Falcon’s sudden appearance in the bushes next to the trail.

  Meeks wasn’t quite so calm, and managed to get his pistol half out of its holster before he recognized who was hailing them.

  Franklin’s response worried Falcon the most. The miner didn’t move, and barely looked up as Falcon approached. The man appeared to Falcon to be almost despondent, as if he had something heavy on his mind more important than his own survival.

  Falcon rode out into the middle of the path, cutting his eyes at Franklin and raising a questioning eyebrow to Hawk. The big man shrugged while making a disdainful face. He’d made it clear from the start that he had very little respect for either Franklin or Meeks.

  “You men have any trouble in Tombstone?” Falcon asked, looking at Meeks to see what his reaction was.

  “None to speak of,” replied. “We sent a wire to Fort Thomas requesting to speak with Colonel Grant or whoever was in charge of fighting the renegades.”

  “What was the reply?”

  Hawk spat a brown stream toward Diablo’s hooves. “ ’Bout what you’d expect. The Colonel was busy at some social shindig, suckin’ up to bigwigs from Washington, probably, an’ the men out doin’ the dirty work of chasin’ Injuns wasn’t in the fort right then.”

  “So, how’d you leave it?” Falcon asked, irritated at having to drag it out of them word by word.

  “We left a message for any real soldiers who wanted a chance to kill some redskins to meet us at noon tomorrow or the next day just below Indian Head Peak. Said we’d be waitin ’for ’em,” Hawk answered, puckering up to spit again.

  Falcon pulled Diablo’s head around and glared at Hawk. “Hawk, you spit on my horse and I’ll make you eat that plug, you hear?” Falcon said in a low voice, letting the trapper know he wasn’t going to take any more of his attitude.

  Hawk grinned, and turned his head to spit to the side, as if he’d just be seeing how far Falcon could be pushed.

  “Franklin, you look like a man with something stuck in his craw,” Falcon said, his eyes on Cal. “Why don’t you spit it out so we’ll all feel better?”

  Cal crossed his hands on his saddle horn and leaned forward, an earnest look on his face. “I don’t think I can take any more of this, boys.”

  “Any more of what?” Hawk asked, an ugly sneer curling his lips.

  “This butcherin’ of Indians after they’s dead.” He shook his head, his lips tight and pale. “I’ve killed enough to last me a while. I’m done with ridin’ the vengeance trail, boys, an’ I’m gonna light on back toward Tombstone.”

  “What’ll you do then, Cal?” Falcon asked, his voice soft and kind. He knew some of what Cal was going through, what any civilized man would go through doing what they’d done. He knew that if his Marie hadn’t been butchered by renegade Apaches in the past, he would have had a hard time acting this way, too.

  Franklin shrugged, looking back over his shoulder toward Tombstone. “First, I plan to sell some of my dust an’ drink until I don’t see those Injuns’ faces in my sleep no more. Then I’ll probably mosey on back to my claim and do a little more minin’.”

  “Cal, you’d be wise to hole up in Tombstone until this Indian uprising is over,” Falcon said. “Those renegades have hit your place once. Nothing says they won’t hit it again if you go back there.”

  Franklin nodded. “We’ll see. I don’t have no firm plans just yet. I only know I got to get away from all this killin’.”

  Falcon nudged Diablo forward until he was next to Franklin. He held out his hand. “Good luck to you, then, partner.”

  Franklin gave a half-smile, “Thanks, Falcon. You watch your scalp-lock, you hear?”

  He nodded at Hawk and Meeks, then turned his mount and put him in a slow lope toward town.

  “Damn coward,” Hawk muttered.

  “Hell, he ain’t no coward,” Meeks said, looking at Franklin’s back as he rode off. “He’s the smart one of the bunch.”

  “How about we make camp?” Falcon asked, his eyes searching for a suitable place. “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, and I’m in dire need of some cafecíto.”

  As they walked their horses up into the forest above the trail, he added, “Now, just where is this Indian Head Peak where we’re supposed to meet the army tomorrow?”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Falcon left Hawk and Jasper Meeks at their camp and traveled back to where the Indians had their base camp. He wanted to see if Naiche had returned, and to see if any war parties were being formed.

  He got to the precipice overlooking the camp just as the last wickiup was being dismantl
ed, and found the women and children and warriors packed up and ready to move.

  As the caravan of Indians pulled out of the valley and took a trail leading toward the southern edge of the Dragoons, where mountain slopes descended into flat desert, Falcon followed at a discreet distance.

  He hoped Meeks and Hawk would have sense enough to wait for him at Indian Head Peak, along with the army. As soon as he found out where the Indians’ new camp was going to be, he’d hightail it back to the meeting place.

  The Indians, with Naiche in the lead, slowly wound their way south through the mountains, the trail descending toward the desert the farther south they traveled.

  If they keep going like this, Falcon thought, they’re going to be on the desert floor before long.

  Just before the path turned and ran straight down to the desert floor, Naiche turned his people off and led them into a small, box canyon that couldn’t be seen from more than a hundred yards away. The Indians at the rear of the group covered the entrance to the canyon with deadfall branches and tree limbs after the rest of the people had entered.

  Damn, Falcon thought, if I hadn’t seen them go in there, I’d never find the entrance to that canyon. Even from the trail no more than thirty yards away, the entrance was camouflaged so well it was almost invisible.

  No wonder they’ve managed to elude the army so easily, Falcon thought. They can disappear in these mountains like a rabbit in a briar patch.

  He looked around and made a mental note marking the surrounding terrain so he could lead the army back to this spot, if they showed up tomorrow.

  Before leaving, Falcon climbed to a ridge overlooking the valley below to take a last look. What he saw made him uneasy. The Indians were not erecting their wickiups, but were making what looked like a temporary camp. Wood was being gathered and cooking fires were being lighted, but there were no semi-permanent structures being put up. It looked to Falcon as if the Indians didn’t plan to be here very long, possibly not even long enough for him to go and get the army and bring the soldiers back.

  Now what to do? He had to decide whether to take a chance and go to Indian Head Peak and fetch the army, or to hang around here for a while longer to see just what Naiche’s plans were. Falcon knew that if the Indians moved again without him following, they would once again disappear into the Dragoons, and it might be a long time before he would be lucky enough to find their camp again.

  He pondered his choices as he sat and watched the Indian women cooking on their fires. It seemed to him he was always watching the Apaches eat while doing without food himself.

  Chapter 34

  Dawn came slowly to the Apaches’ camp hidden in a pocket canyon where a tiny pool offered rare water in the southernmost part of the Dragoons, the driest section of this mountain range where wild game and grass were as scarce as water. The canyon where they camped now was aptly named Wild Pig Springs, since only the desert-dwellingjavelina could find enough forage here to survive.

  Retreating south from their Deer Springs hideout, Naiche and his followers would soon be forced to cross dangerous open desert flats to reach the Pedregosa Mountains that would take them to Mexico and the high Sierra Madres where Geronimo was said to be in hiding, raiding Mexican rancheros and villages for guns and horses and ammunition. A retreat from the heart of the Dragoons had quickly become necessary as soon as Juh and Chokole returned with Cuchillo. The story of the bloody defeat and mutilation of Cuchillo and his warriors still rang in Naiche’s ears after the wounded warrior and Chokole related what had happened at the north edge of the Dragoons.

  Cuchillo lay on a moth-eaten army blanket, groaning, his head still bleeding, as was a deep gash in his right side. Naiche sat crosslegged beside him, asking questions. Chokole and Juh listened in silence. The women and warriors who were not stationed in the surrounding mountains as lookouts prepared the camp gear and livestock to move again, on orders given by Naiche after word of the one-sided battle with the four white-eyes came. Smoked mule and deer meat and staples stolen from Bisbee and the wagon train were being loaded onto horses as rapidly as possible. Some of the women filled waterskins to tie to the backs of stolen cavalry horses for what Naiche promised would be a difficult journey across the desert to reach the mountains in Mexico.

  “These white men ... there are two who wear deerskins like the clothing worn by northern Indian tribes?” Naiche asked, more determined than ever to find out details about the men who were killing off his warriors a few at a time. He could never admit it to those around him, but only the dreaded Comanche to the east had proven to be worthy adversaries to Apache war parties, yet a new enemy with light skin was thinning the ranks of his fighting men.

  “Yes,” Cuchillo answered weakly. “One is very tall, big, and he moves like a mountain cat, making no sound with his feet. I saw and heard nothing when he moved among the rocks. It is as if his feet do not touch the ground. He leaves no tracks. He kills with a knife, the longest knife I have ever seen, and the blade makes no noise when it opens the flesh of his enemies. It does not seem possible, and yet I have witnessed it with my own eyes. He kills our best warriors and no one hears a sound, or sees a shadow.”

  A dark fear loomed larger in the back of Naiche’s brain, a fear he dared not reveal to the others, for it would spread panic among his fighting men, and the women. Is this man in buckskins not truly a man made of flesh and blood? he wondered. Could he be a Spirit warrior from one of the tribes in the cold country far to the north? But the Apache were not at war with the Shoshones or the Utes or the Crow, so who was this white warrior? Who were the others with him, and why were they there, stalking Naiche’s people? Why had they come to help the bluecoats make war on the Apache? And how could the tall warrior’s skin be white if he was a spirit from another tribe? All the tribes known to the Apache were a dark, coppery color. These were questions without answers, troubling Naiche deeply as he questioned Cuchillo about the slayings.

  One thing was clear ... this tall warrior, and even the others with him, killed their enemies in the manner of an Indian. They knew secrets only known to the shamans about the Land of Shadows, how to cut out an enemy’s eyes to make him blind in the afterlife so he could not hunt buffalo or deer, take a wife, or ride a horse in the next world. And these strange white men took scalps, proof they were not white-eyes in spirit or training. Soldiers and white buffalo hunters did not take Apache scalps.

  So who were these men?

  Naiche worried that they might not be men at all, men of any known race living upon the face of Earth Mother. The tall one made no sounds and left no tracks, as a spirit warrior might. Naiche had never seen a spirit warrior ... he had only heard the stories—told by the old men of his tribe around council fires—of a day coming in the future when warriors from the Land of Shadows would return to Earth Mother in the form of flesh and bone to seek revenge against their enemies. But why were these light-skinned men entering the Dragoons enemies of the Apache? Were they spirits of the Comanches killed during the big plains wars so long ago, when Apaches battled the Comanche over hunting ground far to the east? All the Comanches Naiche had seen, including the most fearsome of all—the Kwahadie tribe known as the Antelope Eaters—were dark, like the Apache. The battles over the best hunting territory between the five Comanche tribes and the Apache bands had been fought more than thirty winters ago, and now there was an uneasy peace between the two lifelong enemies, since the white men came. These men were not Comanches . . . he was sure of it.

  Naiche thought of a solution to the unrest among the people here at Wild Pig Springs, for signs of fear were everywhere on the faces of most of his followers. It would be better to put the blame for Cuchillo’s failure on Cuchillo himself, calling him a coward, a man unfit to call himself an Apache. While this was not true—for Cuchillo was a born fighter with skills equal to any warrior in camp—if he were made to look foolish for costing the lives of the warriors he led to halt the four white-skinned invaders, the people would have less
fear of an approaching enemy.

  Naiche stood up. “Come! All of you!” he cried. “Hear what I have to tell you!”

  Across the narrow canyon, warriors and women halted their preparations to walk toward Naiche and the place where Cuchillo lay on the blood-soaked army blanket.

  Naiche waited for the others to arrive.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a question on Chokole’s face. He would ignore it and carry out his plan, hoping Chokole would understand that what he was doing was necessary for the good of their people to keep them from fear, from losing their hope of freedom in the war with the bluecoats he had promised them. It seemed each day he was being reminded of the often hard choices a leader must make for the greater good of his followers. Being a chief of his people, like being a warrior, was not a job for the faint of heart.

  Thirty warriors and women gathered around Naiche, and by the looks on their faces they expected some additional bit of grave news ... most had been shocked when they learned what had happened to Cuchillo and his war party when Chokole and Juh brought him back to Wild Pig Springs, his head shaved and bleeding, telling a tale about how all his warriors had been killed before a white man tied him to a wooden cross. It was enough to stir the worst fears of Naiche’s Apaches, since they had never seen this new blood-crazed enemy.

  “Hear me,” Naiche began. “My heart is heavy to say these words, but I must tell you why we are leaving this ancient place of refuge used by our forefathers. It is no longer safe here, and one of our own . . . an Apache brother, is at fault. He has given the white enemy a chance to kill us.”

  A whisper of concern went around the assembled men and women, as Naiche knew it would. The suggestion that a traitor, or a coward, was in their midst would turn fear into blame for what had happened to the others.

  “Who?” asked an old woman named Cusi, the second wife of Nana.