Cry of Eagles (10 page)

The Apaches rode down a rocky ledge, moving deeper into the Dragoons carrying an arsenal of repeating rifles and ammunition. Isa could feel the drumbeat of a war dance pounding in his heart as he led his men toward Naiche. Putting on warpaint had made him feel powerful before, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of seeing the white-eyes soldiers fall when he aimed and fired the many-shoot rifles. There was nothing the Apache could not do, no enemy they could not defeat, now that they had the weapons that once had made the bluecoats invincible.

This dry, arid land the Apache called home was soon going to run with the white man's blood.

Falcon was gathering wood for the campfire when he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse walking toward the camp through the forest.

He laid his bundle of sticks and branches down and pulled his Colt, stepping behind a nearby tree as the sounds came closer. He could see Hawk in the distance, digging a small hole next to a boulder and piling rocks around the edge of it, so the smoke from the fire wouldn't be seen by unfriendly eyes.

As the horse walked by, the rider ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch. Falcon stepped over to him and put the barrel of the Colt to the back of the man's head.

“Skin that smokewagon out of your holster and pass it back here, mister,” he said in a low tone as he grabbed the rifle from the saddle boot with his left hand.

The stranger drew his pistol and held it out behind his back. “Falcon, is that you?” the man said, his voice quivering a bit with evident fear.

Falcon stepped around the horse's flanks to get a look at the man's face. “Cal Franklin. What the devil are you doing out here? I thought you were on your way to Tombstone,” Falcon said, handing him back his weapons.

“Well!”

“Hold on, Cal. I'm sure Hawk'll want to hear this, too. Help me grab some firewood and we'll get supper started, and you can explain what's going on then.”

Soon they were eating fried bacon and beans and skillet biscuits, washing it all down with strong, hot coffee as the temperature in the mountains fell.

As they ate, Franklin filled them in.

“I had walked ‘bout halfway down the mountain, doin' some heavy thinkin' the whole way, when this group of miners caught up with me. They hadn't had any luck findin' silver or gold, an' were headin' into town to get more supplies 'fore the first winter snows came.”

“That's the story of most men who come into the Dragoons seekin' their fortunes,” Hawk said, staring at his hands as he built a cigarette. He stuck it in the side of his mouth and lighted it off a twig from the fire. “It ain't easy, findin' a strike rich enough to mine. You and your friends were mighty lucky.”

Franklin's eyes clouded, and his expression sobered as he thought of his partners. “No ... we weren't lucky. We worked hard, damn hard. Every day for more than a year, rain or shine, we were diggin' an' movin' rocks and dirt and panning every stream we could find 'fore we finally hit pay dirt.”

“What happened after you met the miners?” Falcon asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Like I said, I'd been doin' some thinkin' on that long walk down the mountain. Frank an' Johnny and Billy an' me go way back.” He cut tortured eyes toward Falcon. “We fought in the war together when we wasn't no more'n pups. Anyhow, wasn't no way I was gonna take the gold all of us dug outta that mountain and go to Tombstone and live the high life after what happened to my friends.”

He stopped, his voice choking, and reached over to stir the fire with a long branch for a moment, silent tears glistening in the firelight on his cheeks.

“So, I gave those miners enough dust to see 'em through the winter in exchange for that bronc over there, a rifle, a couple of pistols, and some ammunition. Then I went back to our camp and gathered up that sack full of dynamite and followed you boys on up the trail.”

Hawk grunted, throwing his butt in the fire. “So you want to hunt Indians, huh?”

“No, Mr. Hawkins. I want to kill Indians.”

“You know how to use that hogleg on your hip?” Falcon asked.

Franklin shrugged. “I can usually hit what I aim at, though I ain't no fast draw.”

Hawk looked over at Falcon. “Another gun or two wouldn't hurt nothin'.”

“Yeah,” Falcon answered. “And that dynamite'll come in handy, too.”

He looked up as a few heavy snowflakes began to fall, dancing like fireflies in the light of the campfire.

“You boys better bundle up. Looks like it's going to get a mite cold tonight. I'll take the first watch,” Falcon said, wrapping his furlined coat tight around his shoulders and edging closer to the fire.

* * *

The next morning, with hoarfrost covering the ground, the three men packed their horses and got ready to ride.

“We'll go in single file, about fifty yards apart, with Hawk leading the way,” Falcon said. “That way, if we come upon an ambush, maybe they'll only be able to get one of us.”

“You think that's likely?” Franklin asked.

Falcon shrugged. “Who knows? Apaches seem to know when someone's on their back trail. I wouldn't be surprised if Naiche didn't leave a few braves behind to make sure no one follows him to their camp.”

“So, we make as little noise as possible, an' we ride with our guns loose,” Hawk added, jacking a shell into the Henry he carried slung across his saddle horn.

“Gentlemen,” Franklin said as he swung into the saddle, “you've made my day.”

Falcon smiled as he climbed on Diablo. “The Chinese have a saying, Franklin. When you start out on the revenge trail, dig two graves ... one for your enemy, and one for yourself.”

“I prefer the bible version,” Hawk added, pointing to the scalp locks hanging from his horse's mane. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, an' a scalp for a scalp.”

It was a small group of covered wagons, only five, with half a dozen men and boys on horses serving as outriders flanking the oxen and mules pulling the wagons. A few women wearing sunbonnets and heavy woolen dresses walked beside or behind the larger rear wagon wheels in a cloud of chalky dust.

Naiche watched from a high rocky outcrop, taking note of a man with long silver hair, dressed in buckskins, riding out in front of the wagon train.

He spoke to Chokole sitting beside him on her pony. “The old one is their guide, taking them west to build a new village where more white men will come to settle and build their houses of mud. We have all seen these groups of wagons, and they stop near water to build their villages and claim the land for themselves. The old man is showing them the way.”

“The old one is very watchful,” Chokole said. “He looked at this mountain for a long time, even though we are far away. He may have Spirit powers telling him that we are here.”

Naiche grunted. “White men do not hear Spirit voices. They do not know where we are hidden, or that we are watching them from this place.”

“Do you think we should attack now?” Chokole asked.

Naiche looked far beyond the wagons to a narrow pass through the Dragoons where the wagons must travel. “No,” he answered. “We wait for them at the pass, hiding high among the rocks. Then, we will kill them all.”

Chokole looked north. “Toza has not returned to tell us if the soldiers are coming.”

Naiche was not worried. “The bluecoats move slowly, and they stop often to rest. There will be plenty of time to kill the white-eyes in those wagons and ride back to our camp with whatever we take from them. The mules will give us meat. The oxen will be old and tough, and the meat will not taste as sweet as the mules.”

“Perhaps we should wait for Toza,” Chokole warned.

Naiche ignored her. “Tell the others to mount. We ride around the wagons and take our hiding places above the pass. There will be no soldiers for many suns. Their Pawnee scouts drink the white man's crazy water, and they see nothing. Now is the time to strike.”

Naiche and Chokole left their lookout spot on the side of the mountain to enter a twisting arroyo where the other Apaches waited with the horses.

Chokole told the young warriors of Naiche's plan as she was mounting her horse. Naiche swung aboard the back of a stolen army horse and swung south, leading the others down from one winding ravine to the next, angling southwest to move around the slow wagon train in time to prepare their ambush.

The Apaches rode single-file, and as they began a wide circle around the wagons, each warrior carefully loaded his Winchester and pistols.

* * *

Jasper Meeks didn't like the smell of things. Although he hadn't seen an Indian, he could almost feel their presence close by. After years of scouting for General Crook and Phil Sheridan he had a sixth sense when it came to the close proximity of an Indian war party.

He spat tobacco juice over his right shoulder and spoke to Billy Clements. “We's gonna have to move through that tight pass up yonder, Billy, an' that'd sure as hell be the right spot fer an' Injun ambush.”

“But it's the only way through these terrible mountains,” Billy protested.

Jasper wagged his head. “There's other ways around, only it'll take a few extra days to swing so far north.”

“I say we drive through the pass,” Billy replied. “We have two sick women down with the fever, and we simply must get them to the closest doctor.”

Jasper shrugged. “Fever won't matter much if they get shot dead movin' through that tight spot, but it's up to you. You're doin' the payin', and I'm only givin' you my advice on that sort of thing.”

“Do you really think Apaches would attack so many of us?” he asked.

“If there's enough of 'em.”

Billy seemed undecided for a moment. “I say the risk is worth taking. Doris Taylor is very ill, and so is Miz Roberts. We need to get them medical attention as soon as possible. Take us through the pass, Mr. Meeks.”

Jasper spat again and gave the rocky peaks ahead of them a closer look. He could all but smell the presence of Indians close at hand. “Tell all your menfolk to git their rifles out an' loaded. Just in case.”

Billy swung his horse away to inform the other outriders of Jasper's warning.

* * *

The first volley of gunfire from the top of the pass sent Jasper diving off his horse to the ground with his rifle. His red roan gelding was spooked by the noises and took off up the pass at a gallop, leaving Jasper afoot.

He belly-crawled to a spot behind a slab of limestone fallen from the rim and kept his head down, waiting, listening to the sounds.

Men were crying out in pain. Women shrieked, and children cried out for their mothers. A wounded horse fell not far from the rocks where Jasper was hiding, a bullet hole though its shoulder. The pounding of rifles filled the pass with a wall of noise.

A team of oxen bellowed, and one collapsed in its yoke with blood pumping from a hole in its side. A screaming woman ran a few paces toward one of the wagons when a bullet struck her down, turning her pale blue blouse into a patchwork of crimson stains and faded fabric.

Billy Clements was shot off his horse, with a bullet through his neck. He landed hard, choking, trying to yell a warning to the women and children.

A slender boy of eight or nine, one of the Taylor twins, raced toward the back of a wagon when a .44 caliber rifle slug lifted him off his feet, spinning him around with his arms outstretched until he landed on his back with blood pooling around him.

Jasper had tried to warn Billy Clements and the others, but no one would listen. They were farm families, defenseless, knowing almost nothing about guns or how to fight Indians.

Jasper had only one thing on his mind ... getting out alive, somehow.

A slug ricochetted off the rock where he was hiding, singing off harmlessly down the pass. Jasper eyed his escape route, a way to move up the pass to fetch his horse if he stayed close behind the shelter of fallen boulders.

Crawling, moving only a few feet at a time, he moved from rock to rock, leaving the settlers to fend for themselves. He felt no remorse for leaving them behind. He'd tried to warn them and no one would listen.

The clap of exploding gunpowder came from both sides of the pass. Jasper continued to crawl, worming his way as far from the wagons as possible.

He spotted his roan less than a hundred yards up the pass where it had stopped, ears pricked forward, listening to the guns and the bellowing of wounded animals.

“If only that damn roan will stay still,” he whispered as he crept onward as quickly as he dared.

“Help us, Mr. Meeks!” a voice cried behind him. The voice belonged to Luther Taylor.

“I warned you,” he said to himself, still moving steadily but carefully toward his red roan gelding.

“Where are you, Mr. Meeks?” the same voice asked, shrill amid the banging of guns.

For a moment Jasper felt a touch of shame, abandoning these helpless people like he was, but he aimed to get out of this pass with his hair at any cost.

“Help us—” The crack of a rifle silenced Luther Taylor forever.

Jasper took a terrible risk. He came to a crouch with his rifle cradled in one arm and took off in an awkward run, staying as low as he could.

A gun roared from the top of the pass and a slug plowed up a spit of sand and dirt near his feet. He dove behind a rock and lay there, panting, collecting himself.

He glanced back down the pass and saw a sight he fully expected. Apache warriors were already running between the wagons with bloody knives, slicing off every scalp they could find.

Jasper jumped up again and took off in a zigzag run toward his gelding, praying that the Indians were distracted with their scalping just long enough for him to reach his mount. Once he was aboard his roan, he'd challenge these Indians to a horse race.

He made it to his roan just in the nick of time, for suddenly two rifles began firing at him from the rim of the pass. He swung over his saddle and gathered his reins, drumming his heels into the gelding's sides.

His horse was eager to escape the exploding guns and ran as hard as it could across rough ground, pounding out a rhythm with its hooves.

Jasper risked a glance over his shoulder, and what he saw made the short hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

An Indian mounted on a pinto pony was charging up the pass close on his heels. The warrior had a rifle to his shoulder as though taking aim, but Jasper Meeks knew a thing or two about shooting from the back of a moving horse. He quickly brought his Winchester up, turning back in the saddle, aiming carefully.

The Indian's rifle popped. The whisper of hot lead brushed close to Jasper's left cheek.

He took his time, steadying the muzzle of his rifle until he was certain of his target. Then he gently squeezed the trigger as his horse carried him headlong toward the west end of the pass where the ground was level.

The rifle slammed into his shoulder, and a young Apache went flying off the back of the pinto, flinging his rifle away to grab a wound in his chest.

“Gotcha,” Jasper growled, levering the empty cartridge casing out, sending another into the firing chamber just in case more Apaches were following him.

His roan reached the end of the pass, and Jasper found himself in open desert country. The red roan was a thoroughbred cross he'd purchased from the army a few years back, and it had plenty of speed and stamina.

“Come git me, you red bastards!” he cried, turning his horse north to head for Fort Thomas.

To Jasper's surprise no more Indians were following him, and after a quarter mile of hard galloping, he slowed his roan down to a short lope.

Still watchful, he pushed toward Tombstone and Fort Thomas to inform the post commander of the ambush. One thing he was sure of... none of the settlers accompanying Billy Clements to California would make the journey. All of them would be dead by now.

He celebrated silently that he had escaped a close call and not lost his scalp. Reaching into his saddlebags, he pulled out a bottle of red-eye whiskey and took a healthy swallow while his horse loped toward Tombstone.

Jasper Meeks prided himself on being a survivor. This had not been his first close scrape with death at the hands of a tribe of warlike Indians. The settlers had paid dearly for ignoring his advice.