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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood of Eagles
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Again he reviewed his images of the six, as Woha'li had described them. Two big men. Big! One of them was bald on top, above wide jowl-length hair, and wore his clothes like a city dude. The other big one had a full rust-blond beard and pale eyes. A little skittery man with snake eyes, big guns, high boots, and a lot of silver trim. A hunch-shouldered buzzard with an overcoat and a shotgun. A cowboy with jug-handleears and a mashed nose. A squinty nervous rooster with a tied-down Colt.
Falcon could almost see them, just as the kid had. Again and again he had added details from observation,and from what the boy said.
By last light of evening, he looked skyward to see a nighthawk circling high—a swooping predator, graceful and deadly, spotting the nests of lesser fliers so it would know where to find them when the morning came.
“Towo'di,
” he muttered, then sighed with irritation.Even though he was gone, the scrawny Cherokeekid still deviled him.
Falcon didn't expect to meet any travelers along this lonely stretch of prairie, and he certainly didn't expect company. But even before he had saddled up the next morning he saw movement a couple of miles north.
Curious, he angled that way. For a time he saw nothing, the rolling lands hiding the distances. Then from a high swell he saw riders—a passel of them, moving southward in a hurry. It might have been twenty men, or sixty. They were spread far out, mostly in groups of three or four, and he could see they had covered some ground.
He was just scanning the terrain, trying to count them, when a bullet whined off stone twenty feet ahead of him and the ground there erupted in a shower of sand. Then the air seemed full of bullets, none of them close but all traveling in his direction. The crackle of gunfire sounded like both rifles and handguns.
With a kick he bailed out of his saddle, hauling out his rifle as he did, and hit the ground with its sights aligned. He could barely make out the forms of the shooters across veiled expanses of grass and sage, but he sent them some responses. The .44-40 spoke with authority, and though Falcon doubted he had hit anybody, the shooting stopped. Distantly he heard shouts and curses, and the drumming of hooves.
He stood, and saw no one where the shooters had been. A moment later, though, he saw a dozen or so riders hightailing it away, keeping low and making distance.
Whoever they were, they had changed their minds.
Diablo was nervous and skittish. None of the shots had touched him, but their whine had been like hornets,and he was in no mood to be reasonable. It took Falcon a while to coax him to lead, croon him down, and convince him that it was time to travel again.
He had barely settled himself into his saddle when the crest to his left sprouted soldiers. A dozen uniformedmen thundered down on him, carbines at the ready.
It was a cavalry patrol—a lieutenant and eleven men. The regimental colors were unfamiliar to him, but the red bands on their sleeves said state militia. Atop a grassy rise he reined in and waited for them.
They slowed as they approached, and fanned out a bit. When MacCallister made no move, they closed in. When they reined up, he was neatly flanked by nervous young soldiers to right and left.
The lieutenant—a bright-eyed young man with freshly shaved cheeks and polished boots—eyed him carefully, then walked his mount closer and looked him over again. A weather-seamed sergeant came to join him. The two of them eyed MacCallister like cats eyeing cream. They huddled together for a moment,leaning from their saddles to exchange whispers,and then the shavetail stepped his mount forward. “MacCallister?” he asked. “Is your name Falcon MacCallister?”
“I'm MacCallister.” Falcon nodded.
“I knew it,” the lieutenant said. “I glassed you, about the time those hooligans started shooting. The description fits. I'm Colegrave, sir ... John Colegrave, Lieutenant, Company A, Second Kansas. I have standing orders to locate you, sir, and escort you to Captain Burroughs. You're to come with us.”
Falcon's eyes narrowed at the youngster's imperioustone. “Come with you where, lieutenant?”
“It's about three days' ride northeast of here, sir. Fort Dodge, in Kansas.”
“I'm no longer under obligation to the army,” Falcon said. “I completed my contract eight months ago. And I'm a little busy at the moment. I have other things to do.”
“That will just have to wait, sir.” The shavetail gestured,and carbines came up all around Falcon.
“What's all this about?” he demanded. “What standing orders?”
“You'll have to talk to the captain about that, sir. Now will you come with us voluntarily, or ...”
Falcon had learned long ago the uselessness of trying to argue with fresh lieutenants. With an exasperatedshrug, he flicked his reins. Diablo advancedon the smaller cavalry mount and the lieutenant was forced to back away. “Let's go see your Captain Burroughs, then,” Falcon said. “And tell your men to rest those carbines before I get irritated.”
“Best do as the man says,” the sergeant said, quietly.“Don't pay to push a man too far.”
NINE
The way to hide in a forest, Woha'li knew, was to
be
the forest. This bit of wisdom required some adapting, of course, for in all of his twelve years Woha'li had never seen a forest. Born just south of the Kansas town of Baxter Springs, he had been an infant when drunken
yonegs
came up from Texas with their cattle and their guns and their hatred of Indians.
Night riders killed Woha'li's two older brothers and drove his family from its little farm in the rolling hills. For a time the family had lived among the tame Pawnee, while Woha'li's father, Wili Hasusgi—known to the whites as Will Fisher—taught English at the Indian school. In the boy's fourth year, though, wild Kiowa raiders led by Satank had caused much trouble. In the ensuing turmoil, Will Fisher was again driven away.
The only life Woha'li had ever really known was the catch-as-catch-can existence of a frontier scavengergoing from job to menial job and gathering buffalobones between employments. Though his father had taught him much of the old ways of the proud
Tsalagi,
Woha'li had little practical experience.
To hide in the forest,
be
the forest. To hide in sage and grass, then, he must
be
sage and grass. His rifle was small, and its range limited. To kill the
yoneg
murderers he must be close to them.
Belly down on the prairie, the boy called Eagle let his senses lead him as he slithered from dip to shallow swale, from clump to cluster. He was almost naked, and smeared from head to toe with gray mud. His dun horse and all his belongings were at least a mile away, hidden in a grassy gully. He wore only his old tar-soled moccasins and a swatch of feed sack belted as a loincloth. He carried his rifle, and had a handful of extra loads in a makeshift pouch.
A chill breeze played waves in the pale endless grass, and he moved with the waves, becoming part of them ...
being
the grass. His small size helped him in this. Only his mud-streaked hair and narrowedeyes showed above the grass as he slithered forward, closer to the path of the trundling overland wagon approaching from the west.
He had spotted the wagon hours before, when the sun was still ahead of him. A covered overland—a prairie schooner—its hind wheels as tall as a man and its rearmost bows twelve feet off the ground. The big wagon was nearly fifteen feet long and distinctlyswaybacked, like an old horse or the gunwales of a boat. Ten dray horses in harness—two to a span—pulled the rig as easily as one horse might draw a surrey, although the wagon's total loaded weight could exceed ten tons.
Woha'li knew it was the same wagon, and he closed in on it cautiously. There were four men with it—three outriders and the driver. From more than half a mile away he recognized the men. They were four of the six who had killed his parents. Woha'li knew from MacCallister that the men had killed others,as well. The wagon they drove was a stolen wagon, and innocent people had died when they took it.
That was why the man called Falcon now hunted them. Woha'li had his own reasons.
He stalked the wagon as a wolf stalks wary prey—staying well away until he knew the lay of the land, then circling ahead to take advantage of the best ground.
Time was his friend, and the vast emptiness of the rolling prairies his ally. Calling up all the inherent skills of his ancient ancestors and the bits of lore he had learned from his father, the son of Wili Hasusgi let white ways fall from him like molting feathers and became as
Tsalagi
as any twelve year old could. As nearly as he could, in his mind, he tried to becomea
danawa'yehi
—a warrior, like the formidable
didanawa-i
of ancient times.
The gentlest of people, it was said, were the Cherokee. Yet the thought of
didanawa-i
—Cherokee warriors—even now could freeze the spirit of the fiercest Shawnee, the wildest Pawnee, or the most savage Comanche, and make their blood run cold. Like the mystic
Leni Lenape
—the Delaware—the
Tsalagi
were Spirit people. Other tribes and other peoples had learned the cost of underestimating them.
Woha'li knew little of all this. But as he eased up behind a clump of sage, atop a slight rise where wind and rain had etched the land in shallow gullies, he became the grass and the sage—so much so that a big diamondback rattler coiled in a shallow crevice six inches from his shoulder was no more aware of him than he was of it.
As motionless as the earth itself, Woha'li watched the men approach. One by one, he identified them. One of the two big ones—the
an'da'tsi
with the moon-straw beard and the pale blue eyes—was up on the wagon, driving the team. Three others—the bat-eared one with the flat nose, the long-coat buzzard,and the second big one, who seemed to be in charge—rode saddle mounts.
Carefully, Woha'li eased his rifle to his shoulder. Windsong covered the slight rasping sound at his side as the rattlesnake reacted to the movement, tightening its coil. Its dark tongue flicked in and out, sensing the body heat of a living creature close by. The snake's tail twitched once, tentatively, as it readied itself to strike.
The boy knew, from the way the men were spread out, that he couldn't shoot them all from here. But he might shoot two, or maybe three. He must number his targets in advance. The first shot would bring the rest down on him, and he must be ready for them.
The only one who couldn't react instantly was the one driving the wagon. He was therefore the least dangerous. He would be target number four.
The nearest rider—bat ears—was farthest from the wagon, and the big man with the slick clothes was nearest, riding alongside. Woha'li decided his best chance would be to shoot bat ears first, then take the other riders out as they came.
When bat ears was a hundred yards away, the boy sighted carefully, dead center on the rider's chest, and eased back the hammer.
At its click, the rattler in its crevice raised its head, opened its gaping mouth, and buzzed.
Everything was a blur after that. Woha'li felt and heard his rifle discharge, but he knew his aim was off. He saw the rattlesnake beside him, recoiling to strike, and reacted instantly.
Folly Downs never saw where the shot came from. He was just riding along, thinking about all that money in the wagon back there, and suddenly somethingwhacked him alongside the head and the world turned upside down. He heard the shot, but couldn't think what it was. He felt his horse shy, felt himself hitting the ground. Then he was looking up at empty sky.
Asa Parker and Casper Wilkerson heard the shot and saw Folly Downs slide off his horse. Above them on the wagon's bench seat, Kurt Obermire yelled and pointed. He had seen a flicker of movement in a sage stand just as the shot rang out. As one, Asa and Casper spurred their mounts. Asa leaned low over his saddle and pulled his big Winchester from its sheath. Casper veered toward him, brandishing his big stub-barreled greener.
Leveling his .44-40, Asa fired, worked the lever, and fired again. Dust and debris flew from the sage ahead. He held slightly left, fired again, then put a fourth shot just to the right.
Fifty yards out, Casper rode beside him, his hands full of shotgun and his eyes full of murder. At thirty yards he let go with both barrels, right into the sage patch Asa was shooting, and the little thicket seemed to explode. Dirt, gravel, and sundered sage flew, rainingdown like a cloud on the devastated earth below.
At full gallop the riders entered the sage, thunderedpast the fringes where their guns had been at work, and plunged on—thirty yards, forty, sixty—before reining in and circling, watching for any movement, any slightest hint of a target.
 
With one hand full of rifle and the other full of furious rattlesnake, Woha'li lay facedown in a tiny gully no more than a foot deep. Braced on his elbows, he clung desperately to the neck of a very large and very angry viper and felt debris raining down on his back. The snake beneath him writhed and surged, and he strained desperately to hold it still. Even while the debris was falling a thunder rose, and horsemen were right on top of him. Pounding hooves pummeled the earth inches from him ... and went right on by.
Not even daring to breathe, Woha'li lay frozen still and listened. An inch from his nose, the rattlesnake hissed and gaped, its fangs dripping venom on the hand that held it imprisoned. His other arm, the right one, was almost numb with a searing pain that shot clear to his shoulder. The snake had stung him as he was grabbing it—a glancing blow, like two short scratches, but it hurt like fire. He ignored it as horsemen thundered toward him unseen.
The riders went right over him! He heard them receding, heard their voices as they circled and searched, looking for him. Then he heard again the roar of the shotgun, and men seemed to be shouting all around.
With every ounce of his strength, Woha'li held himself still in the tiny trough that hid him, held the writhing rattlesnake imprisoned beneath him, held its seeking fangs away from his flesh and held his breath. To hide in a forest, one must
be
the forest.
“Be the prairie,” the Indian boy commanded himself.Nine pounds of powerful rattlesnake writhed and twisted, trying to free itself from the desperate fingers clutching its neck and head, and Woha'li did not move. He lay as still as the prairie.
A covey of bobwhites exploded from cover as CasperWilkerson circled his horse, peering closely at the concealing underbrush. Almost underfoot, seven or eight quail flushed in a flurry of wings, and Casper's shotgun came up and roared.
Four birds dropped, and Casper heard Asa's angry shout, “What are you doin', you fool? It's only birds!”
“Prob'ly all it ever was!” Casper shouted back. “See anythin' else?”
“Not a damn thing! But that was no quail that shot Folly! Keep lookin'!”
From a distance, the bull voice of Kurt Obermier roared, “What is it? Did you get him?”
“Haven't seen anybody! How's Folly?”
“He's bleedin' like hell!” Obermier shouted. “His cheek's gouged wide open! God, I can see into his mouth through it! An' he's got a hole through his left ear! Somebody come help me with him!”
For long minutes the search continued. Then Asa said, “Whoever it was is gone now! Let's get back to the wagon!”
Once again, the riders passed within yards of Woha'li without seeing him. Half-buried in gravel, sand, and shreds of sage, he was as invisible as a Cherokee can be.
When he was sure they were gone Woha'li raised himself carefully, keeping his tight grip on the rattlesnake.His right arm throbbed, swollen and awkward.The men had returned to the wagon, where bat ears was on his feet now, staggering around and moaning, holding his head with a bloody hand.
Carefully, Woha'li rolled out of the little depression,bringing the snake with him. The creature was as big around as his forearm, and almost as long as he was tall. Powerful coils writhed around his arm, compressing the flesh cruelly, and the extended fangs were like curved ivory needles, nearly an inch long.
Watching until the men were turned away from him, he freed his arm of the rattler's coils, then turned and flung it away from him. Landing among sage clumps, it coiled and buzzed, then stretched out and disappeared into shadows.

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