Cry of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

* * *

  “Dammit, Mr. Meeks, we’re the cavalry!” Captain Buford Jones said with feeling. “We’re supposed to do our fighting on horseback, not hunkered down in the bushes and behind rocks. I don’t much hold with bushwhacking . . . that’s the way the Indians do their fighting.”

  Jasper glanced at Hawk, whose face was screwed up with an expression as if he’d tasted some week-old milk that’d turned to vinegar.

  The men were having trouble convincing Jones to get his men situated and hidden and ready for when the band of renegade Apaches came boiling out of the Pedregosas like bees from a disturbed nest.

  Hawk leaned to the side and spat a brown stream right next to Jones’s highly polished boots.

  “Excuse me, Cap’n,” he drawled. “I know you horse soldiers are real proud of yourselves, but tell me, just how much luck you had fightin’ the Injuns your way?”

  Jones blushed a deep crimson. “Well, uh—”

  “Way I hear tell,” Hawk continued, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Jasper with a smirk on his face, “you plumb got your butts kicked but good last few times you went up against the ’Paches on hossback.”

  “Why you sonofa—” Jones began, rage in his voice.

  Jasper held out his hands. “Easy there, Captain. It’s no shame to have lost a battle to the Apaches. Hell, the only people on earth meaner or better fighters than the Apache are the Comanche.”

  He paused to put the cigarette he’d built in his mouth and light it. “Now, the point Hawk an’ I are tryin’ to make to you is, the only way to beat the Injuns is by playin’ by their rules.”

  Mollified a bit, Jones asked, “Which are?”

  “Strike when they don’t expect it, an’ strike from hidin’ when you got ’em boxed in twixt your riflemen, where they don’t have no place to run to.”

  Hawk nodded, evidently feeling he’d needled Jones enough for one day. “That’s the way we been doin’ it with Falcon, an’ we’ve had some good luck with it.”

  “But how do you know where the renegades will come from?”

  Jasper spread out a map of the Pedregosas on the ground and pointed at it with his finger. “Look here, Captain. This trail we’re guardin’ is the only one that’s relatively level for ten miles in either direction. The way I hear it, Naiche is travelin’ with women and children in his group. My guess is he’ll try this trail rather than have all them people try to climb up and down canyons and arroyos on their journey.”

  “That brings up another point, Cap’n,” Hawk said. “Better tell your men not to hesitate to shoot at the women and even the bigger kids. It don’t make much difference whether the bullet in your brain is fired by a brave or a squaw, yore just as dead, an’ I sure as hell don’t want to end up with a tomahawk in my back ’cause one of your boys is bein’ a gentleman.”

  “Suggestion noted, Mr. Hawkins,” Jones replied with ill-concealed contempt. He looked around at his men, “Sergeant, assemble the troops. Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Meeks will show you where to position them for maximum effect against the hostiles.”

  “Yes sir,” Sergeant Brautman answered, throwing a smart salute at the captain.

  Hawk spat again, saying to Jasper in a stage-whisper, “I hope these boys can fight as well as they salute.”

  Chapter 47

  Naiche led his people down the trail northward. His plan was to exit the Pedregosas and turn southwest, staying on the desert floor until they had traveled a safe distance away from the spirit warriors, then turn back south and cross into Mexico there. He hoped they would be able to do it before the army caught up with them, but in any case he figured fighting the army was less dangerous than going up against the spirit warriors who had been killing his men a few at a time for weeks.

  The column of his people was spread out in a thick line for several hundred yards, with Naiche, Chokole, Juh, and Nana leading the front and the rest of the young warriors bringing up the rear, as a guard against a rearward attack from the spirit warriors.

  Chokole glanced around her as she rode, looking at the tall cliffs of the canyon walls on both sides.

  “I do not like this trail, Naiche,” she said after heeling her pony up next to his.

  He looked up and to the side, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “It will be all right, Chokole. The enemies we have to fear are either behind us or out in front of us.”

  “But what of these confined canyons? They would be perfect places for an ambush.”

  Nana, overhearing her words, snorted. “Huh! The white soldiers are too dumb to do as we do in battle. That is why, with the aid of the many-shoot rifles, we are so easily able to defeat them.”

  Juh chuckled. “If the white-eyes could fight like the People, then we would have much to fear, but as it is their leaders are men with little courage and no honor. In our last battle, their chief ran from the field to save his own life, leaving his men to die.”

  Nana nodded. “That is something an Apache would never do.”

  * * *

  Jones, from his vantage point high on the canyon wall, let the entire procession get within the jaws of their trap before he took out his sabre, held it high over his head, and brought it down in a slashing arc.

  Immediately from both sides of the canyon, withering fire from the soldiers hidden there rained down on the Apaches.

  Nana’s throat was pierced by a slug, killing him even before he realized they were under attack.

  Juh’s shoulder was grazed, the force of the bullet turning him half around before he raised his rifle and began to return fire. His second shot hit a young calvaryman from Ohio in the forehead, ending forever his adventure out west.

  Naiche’s horse reared on its hind legs at the first gunshots, thus saving the chief’s life. He levered shells into his Winchester and fired as fast as he could pull the trigger, which seemed even faster than the two shots a second advertised by Governor Winchester.

  Chokole, seeing the way ahead blocked by two men in buckskins, standing in the middle of the trail firing into the crowd, hollered at Naiche, “Chief, come this way!”

  They both pulled their ponies’ heads around by jerking on the nose reins and galloped toward the rear of the column as fast as they could. They were not abandoning their people, merely trying to find a way to lead them to safety.

  As they neared the bend in the trail behind them, two men rode into the open. One had hair the color of a blazing sunset, braided in two braids in the Apache style. The other sat tall in his saddle astride the biggest, blackest stud Chokole had ever seen.

  Naiche jerked back on his reins, a look of terror on his face. “It is the spirit warriors!” he yelled.

  Chokole looked over her shoulder. “I will take the one with flaming hair. The other is yours.”

  She leaned over her pony’s neck and heeled its flanks hard, pointing the Winchester ahead with one hand.

  Mickey Free, seeing her charge, gave a bloodcurdling scream and charged at her, an Army .44 caliber pistol in his right hand.

  Chokole’s rifle clicked on an empty chamber. She was out of ammunition. She threw the rifle aside and pulled her knife out, holding it high overhead as she returned Mickey’s yell and continued to charge him.

  When he saw her throw down her rifle, he holstered his pistol and pulled his Bowie knife out, spurring his horse until blood flowed from its flanks.

  As they passed by each other, they both swiped with their blades. Chokole’s cut a shallow slash in Mickey’s right arm, while his slipped through her neck muscles all the way down to bone, severing her right carotid artery. She continued riding for twenty yards as if nothing had happened, then tumbled off her pony, dead before she hit the ground.

  Seeing this, Naiche took a deep breath, gave a yell and a whoop, and charged at Falcon, firing as he rode.

  Falcon leaned low over Diablo’s head and kneed the big stud into action, straight at Naiche.

  Halfway there, Diablo stumbled in a depression in the ground, covered over and made i
nvisible by a patch of scrub grass and weeds. Falcon, caught by surprise by Diablo’s faltering, was catapulted over the horse’s head onto a patch of sand.

  Unable to believe his good luck, Naiche reined his pony to a halt and took careful aim with his rifle at the spirit warrior.

  Just as he pulled the trigger, the red-headed spirit warrior rode between them, taking Naiche’s bullet in the side of his chest. Mickey was spun around and thrown to the ground by the force of the blow.

  As Naiche levered another shell into the chamber, Falcon rolled over onto his stomach and drew his Colt. Firing by instinct, without aiming, he put two slugs in Naiche’s chest and one between his eyes, blowing out the back of his head and sending hair and brains flying.

  As soon as he saw there was no further danger, Falcon scrambled to his feet and ran over to where Mickey lay, breathing heavily and holding his chest.

  “Damn, that hurts,” the little man groaned, a bloodstained grin on his face.

  “You crazy fool!” Falcon said as he sat and cradled Mickey’s head in his arms. “Why did you do that?”

  “Just repayin’ an old debt,” Mickey answered. “I owed your pappy one for savin’ my bacon a few years back.”

  Falcon looked up and whistled, bringing Diablo on the run. He got to his feet and reached into his saddlebag and brought out a slab of fatback bacon wrapped in a cloth. He took the meat and placed it over the hole in Mickey’s chest, holding it tight.

  Mickey laughed, then coughed and groaned. “I thought for a minute there you was gonna fix me my last meal, partner.”

  Falcon grinned. “No, but a doctor once told me if you covered a chest wound with meat or lard, sometimes it would seal the hole and let it heal. I figured it was worth a chance.”

  Mickey took a deep breath. “Damned if I ain’t breathin’ better. Hell, now I’m gonna owe you for savin’ my life again. You damned MacCallisters just keep on gettin’ me in your debt.”

  “It could be worse,” Falcon said. “It could’a been Buford Jones who saved you.”

  Mickey scowled. “You’re right, Falcon. That would truly be unbearable.”

  Chapter 48

  After saying good-bye to Hawk and Jasper, Falcon headed back toward Colorado. He took the trail that wound through Tombstone, wanting to pay his respects to the Earps and his new friend, Doc Holliday.

  He found Doc at his usual place, playing poker at the Oriental Saloon. All in all, Doc looked better than he usually did.

  “Howdy, Doc,” Falcon said, standing before the table.

  Doc looked up and grinned, then took a deep draught from the whiskey bottle that was always by his side.

  “Howdy do, Falcon,” Doc replied. “Care to sit in for a spell?”

  “No, I don’t like to gamble with friends, Doc. It hurts me too much to take their money.”

  Doc leaned back his head and laughed. “Me neither Falcon. ’Course that still leaves me a whole passel of people to take money from.”

  Falcon tipped his hat and started to leave. “Well, be seeing you, Doc.”

  “Hey, Falcon,” Doc called, “did you hear the news?”

  “What’s that, Doc?”

  “I hear they found Johnny Ringo stuffed in the fork of an oak tree, a couple of .44 slugs in his chest.”

  Falcon arched an eyebrow. “Any word on who killed him?”

  “Why, I swear I don’t know, Falcon. The way that boy talked, there wasn’t anyone in the territory who was fast enough to get the drop on him.” Doc paused and pretended to be thinking, then smiled a sly, cat-smile, “Why, perhaps that boy shot himself out of shame for the way he’s acted all these years.”

  Falcon cocked his head. “Doc . . . ?”

  Author’s Note

  Some have written that Falcon MacCallister was a cold-blooded killer who terrorized the West, killing hundreds of men for sport after his wife’s death in 1876. Actually, the number of men who fell under Falcon’s guns was much lower than that and there was no sport involved.

  It is true that Falcon was a gunfighter, and it is also true that he was a skilled gambler, but it is not true that he was an outlaw and highwayman. That is nonsense, for Falcon was a rich man at the time of his wife’s death.

  He began riding what some called the ‘owlhoot trail’ through no fault of his own.

  Falcon MacCallister was the spitting image of his father, Jamie. He stood six feet and three and was heavy with muscle. Just like his father, Falcon literally did not know his own strength.

  And just like his father, Falcon was quick on the shoot. Jamie and Falcon were both known as bad men. In the West, being a bad man did not necessarily mean being a brigand. It just meant that he was a bad man to crowd.

  And Falcon was a bad man to crowd.

  * * *

  Historical figures depicted in Cry Of Eagles are shown as faithfully as possible, as was the fight at the OK Corral. Doc Holliday and the Earps, Johnny Ringo, the Clan tons, and events around Tombstone during that era are described as most historians have recorded them, with only slight changes for dramatic effect.

  Naiche and Chokole were real characters. Naiche was a son of Cochise, who was the most widely known Chiricahua Apache chieftain in their history. Naiche’s actual fate, and Chokole’s, are unknown or unproven, although some spotty records do exist, claiming they lived to a ripe old age, others describing their bloody demises. Naiche became Chief of the Chiricahua Apaches after Cochise’s death and the death of his older brother Taza.

  Fort Thomas was a military post and Apache Indian agency in southwestern Arizona Territory during the period, regarded as one of the worst of all Indian reservations when it came to conditions and cruel treatment at the hands of military leaders and Indian agents. Apaches wore metal tags around their necks, even the babies, in order to be counted. Rations at Fort Thomas were meager and usually spoiled: a handful of weevil-ridden meal or moldy flour, a slice of half-rotted beef, and water. Starvation and sickness often drove many Apaches to escape this brutal treatment by their white captors, and almost certain death as a result of malnutrition or disease.

  Delshay, Chief of the Tonto Apaches, was beheaded by a commanding officer at Fort Thomas, and his head was placed on top of a pole in the middle of the fort’s parade grounds, remaining there for years as a grinning, fleshless skull, a reminder to Fort Thomas’ Apache prisoners of what could happen to troublemakers.

  The most infamous and deadly of all Apache warriors was most certainly Geronimo. During one of his many captures, President Grover Cleveland ordered Geronimo hanged. The order was later rescinded. Geronimo served as a role model for many resentful younger Apache boys for his unparalleled skill as a guerilla fighter, whether in irons or roaming free in the Dragoons, or in Mexico.

  Geronimo escaped many times, and led the last vengeful bands of Apache renegades in battles against white men in the southwest until his final surrender, when making war against superior numbers of white soldiers with better weapons made his struggle all but hopeless.

  Many older Apaches remained stubbornly unreconstructed during imprisonment, even after they were moved to Fort Sill in what is now Oklahoma. Geronimo was one of the worst, often taunting soldiers, “You could never catch me shooting when I was free!”

  Naiche was no different while in captivity, and Chokole was certainly one of the bravest Apache women in history, a skilled guerilla fighter until the last, a rare example of women as warriors when record numbers of defeats against army patrols thinned Apache ranks.

  Tom Horn knew Naiche and Geronimo, and most likely, Chokole. Horn warned President Theodore Roosevelt that Geronimo was known among his people as The Human Tiger, and that he would never give up his old ways. The same was said of Naiche, albeit not as often, since Naiche made more efforts to live in peace with whites until the final wars broke out over inhumane treatment at the San Carlos and Fort Thomas reservations.

  An Apache named Nana died at Fort Sill in 1905, to the end accepting nothing the white man
had to offer. His last words were “I can see the mountains of our homeland!” But there is some doubt this was the same Nana who fought with Naiche and Geronimo. Nana was a fairly common Apache name, and at the time few white citizens cared about the actual identities of Apache prisoners. They were regarded as little more than captive animals, heathen savages who had to be incarcerated, or killed outright to allow for expanding white settlement of the West.

  Some records indicate Naiche lived to be an old man, living in Mescalero, New Mexico, while others claim an imposter posed as Naiche to give the freedom-loving Apaches continued hope that he was with Geronimo in Mexico—until Geronimo’s final surrender, at which time no record of an Apache named Naiche exists among the prisoners taken.

  A number of the older warriors, who had known life as free men on the open prairies, killed their wives and then themselves when reservation life became too bleak. They had seen their people die by the hundreds, of the white man’s diseases for which they had no natural immunity, of starvation, and in some cases, by execution for minor offenses.

  But the annals of the American southwest will reveal that the Apaches killed more white settlers, travelers, and soldiers than almost any other plains tribe, with the possible exception of the far more numerous Comanche bands. Apaches were savage, brutal people toward their enemies. White men, paid to hunt down and kill the raiding Apaches, were rare, and their careers were most often very short.

  Mickey Free is an actual historical figure, and his skill at tracking and killing Apaches is well documented. Men like Free, and the fictional Falcon MacCallister, were appreciated by folks living in frontier outposts. Getting rid of the bloodthirsty Apaches became a celebrated event in small settlements. Free was in fact a twelve-year-old boy tending stock on a ranch in Arizona when Apache warriors swooped down on them, stole twenty head of stock, and took him with them. For the next ten years he lived as an Apache, learning to track, hunt, fish, shoot, and kill in Apache fashion. His real name was Felix Martinez. Al Sieber, the famed chief of U.S. Cavalry scouts, described Free as half-Irish, half-Mexican, half-Apache, and whole son of a bitch . . . he meant it as a compliment. It was said he could track a shadow on a rainy night. He had fiery red hair, a small red moustache, and a mug that “looked like a map of Ireland.” Most often described as ugly, his left eye was cocked at an odd angle, probably the result of a cataract. He let his stringy red hair fall over his face to hide it, and usually wore it in twin braids in the style of plains Indians.