Cry of Eagles (22 page)

Falcon watched the boy ride off, deciding the Kid's secret would always be safe with him.

He heeled Diablo off the grassy knob and headed for Chisum's South Springs ranch, with a tale to tell.

Just once, he turned to watch the Kid ride out of sight over a ridge.

“Good luck down in Mexico, Kid,” he said to himself as Diablo carried him toward John Chisum's headquarters,
“Vaya con Díos, Chivato.
”

* * *

Falcon tossed and turned as his dreams caused him to sweat, and his heart to beat faster. He relived in his mind his hatred for renegade Indians, and all that they had cost him. Not a bigoted man by nature, Falcon judged most people by their actions, not the color of their skin. Indians who were peaceable and obeyed the law had nothing to fear from him. It was the ones who flaunted the law, who declared war on the white man, that he hated with all his heart. The Indians had no honor about war. They killed women and children and civilians as well as soldiers who were on their trail, and they did it in the most brutal manner imaginable. For that reason, he would not rest until Naiche and his followers were captured, or were in their graves.

“Dammit, Free,” Captain Buford Jones shouted, “when are we going up in those mountains after Naiche? You've had us out here in the desert for two days doing nothing but riding around in circles.”

The scout looked up from where he squatted on his haunches looking for tracks and signs only he could see in the hard-packed desert sand. He was a short man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, but with his white, glossy, gouch-eye and his long shaggy hair that he let fall down over his face to hide the eye from view, he could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty years old.

One thing was certain, Captain Jones thought, though he didn't dare say it out loud, the man sure enough had a lot of miles on him. He looked like he'd been rode hard and put up wet.

“Cap'n Jones,” Mickey Free said in his Irish tenor voice, his brogue, normally thick as molasses in January, made even deeper by the evident sarcasm in his tone, “I would think after your last couple'a ventures up against Naiche, ye'd be a mite more careful 'bout rushin' into places ye ain't sure of.”

Jones glanced around at the men in his command to see if they heard what Mickey said. He knew he wasn't the most popular commander since he'd lost almost all his men on his previous two outings, but he didn't appreciate a lowlife like Mickey Free impugning his abilities in front of his men.

Free had a terrible reputation among the officers of the army, and the only reason he got away with his insubordination was there wasn't a better tracker in the whole United States army. It was said that Mickey Free could smell Apaches from miles away even if there weren't any tracks to be found, and would follow his nose to where they were hiding. Unlike other scouts, who dropped back when fighting began, Free was always in the forefront, a maniacal grin on his ugly face as he drew down on and killed Indians. It was as if he had a driving need of some sort to kill every red man in the country.

“Just what do you mean by that remark, Free?”

Mickey shrugged. “Take it any way you like, Cap'n. But long as I'm scoutin' for this here soiree, we'll go about it my way. Do you understand, Cap'n?”

As Jones' face turned red and he sat straighter in his saddle, Mickey shrugged and spread his hands wide, an insolent smirk on his ugly face. “'Cause if it's not all right, I'll just shag my butt on back to the fort and let you carry on in your usual manner.”

Jones clamped his teeth shut, trying his best to resist a sudden urge to pull his revolver and shoot this smart-talking sonofabitch right in the face. His resolve to do nothing was bolstered by Mickey's reputation as a cold-blooded killer, and Jones had a feeling that if he did go for his gun he'd be dead before he could clear leather.

He was saved from making a reply when a soldier rode up in a cloud of dust, his gelding covered with a thick coat of sweat and foam.

“Hey, Captain Jones, sir! I got a message for you from the telegraph at the fort,” the young man called.

Jones reached out his hand without speaking, still fuming over the lack of respect for his rank shown by Mickey Free.

He took the telegram and unfolded it, squinting a little to make out the writing—he didn't intend to give Free any more ammunition to use against him by putting on his reading spectacles.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “It says here, Mr. Free, that a group of cowboys up in the Dragoons have found out where Naiche is hiding his main force. They say if we'll meet them under Indian Head Peak at noon today, they'll lead us right to him.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey muttered, an expression on his face as if he'd tasted gall.

“What is the matter with you, Mr. Free?” asked Jones.

“It's just that I don't believe any cowboys could've just stumbled upon Naiche's camp and been allowed to ride away to summon us to them. Naiche ain't that careless, or that stupid. Does that telegram say who it is we're dealin' with?”

Jones glanced at the bottom of the paper. “It does mention a name here . . . Falcon MacCallister.”

“The hell you say! MacCallister?”

“That's right. Why? Do you know him?”

Mickey rubbed his beard stubble for a moment, his eyes vacant as he thought back a few years. He'd been trailing an Indian for what seemed like months when he pulled up at a stage stop cantina to replenish his fading supply of Irish whiskey, or whiskey of any kind, for that matter. As he approached the cantina door, the Indian he'd been trailing stepped out with a pistol in his hand and a grin on his face. Mickey was sure he had only seconds to live, when suddenly a tall man appeared behind the Indian and grabbed him by the hair. The stranger yanked the brave's head back and slid a Bowie knife gently across his throat. He released the Indian and let him fall to the ground to die strangling on his own blood. When Mickey managed to make enough spit to talk, he asked the stranger's name. “MacCallister, Jamie MacCallister,” he'd answered. When Mickey offered to split the reward with MacCallister, he refused. Then the man bent, and quick as a rattler striking he'd sliced off the brave's face, rolled it up in the dead man's shirt, and handed it to Mickey. “Here's the proof you need to get your reward,” MacCallister had said. Then, he'd winked and added, “An' bringing the man's face back wrapped up like a birthday present won't do your reputation any harm, either.” He'd been right. That act of foolish bravado had made Mickey Free a legend in his own time, and gotten him any number of free drinks in bars all across the west.

Mickey looked up, snapping out of his reverie. “Know him? No, but I knew his paw. Hell of a man!”

Jones stared at Mickey with narrowed eyes. “So, you think we should trust this MacCallister to lead us to Naiche?”

“If he's anything like his father, I'd follow him through the gates of hell,” Mickey said, a grin on his face.

He took two quick steps and jumped up on the back of a pinto pony he was riding. “Let's make dust, Cap'n. We're burnin' daylight.”

Jones had no choice but to follow Mickey's lead, so he waved hand in a circle and shouted, “Follow ho!” as he spurred his horse into the dust cloud left by Mickey's pony.

* * *

Hawk and Meeks were sitting next to a small fire they'd built under the overhang of a rock to hide the smoke. Hawk paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth and cocked his head.

“Horses!” he said, jumping to his feet and walking rapidly to. He pulled out his Winchester and levered a shell into the chamber.

“Indians?” Meeks asked as he climbed onto the boulder and shaded his eyes as he looked down the mountain.

After a moment, Meeks smiled. “It's the cavalry, come to rescue us from the redskins.”

“That'll be the day,” Hawks said, a smirk on his face as he lowered the hammer of his rifle with his thumb.

It wasn't long before Captain Jones and his men rode into the clearing under the outcropping of rock that resembled an Indian Chief's head.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Jones said.

Hawk and Meeks looked at each other as if they didn't know which of them was being addressed as a “gentleman”.

“Howdy, Colonel,” Hawks said.

“It's captain, not colonel,” Jones said.

“Which of you two is MacCallister?” Mickey asked, peering at them with his head cocked to one side as he looked out of his good eye.

Meeks stared at Mickey for a moment, then smiled. “Neither one of us is. He went on ahead to keep an eye on Naiche an' make sure he didn't move his camp. Would you be Mickey Free?”

Mickey nodded. “Yep.” He was used to being recognized. After all, there weren't all that many men around who fit his description.

Hawk looked up at the mention of the name Free. “I didn't know you was in the area. Last I heared you was doggin' Cochise's tail.”

Mickey yawned, as if what Hawk had heard was of no interest to him whatsoever. “Nope. That business's all finished now.”

“Just who are you men?” Jones asked, irritated to be left out of the conversation.

“I'm John Henry Hawkins, but mostly I go by Hawk. This is Jasper Meeks.”

Jones narrowed his eyes. “You the same Meeks who tried to take that wagon train through Indian country?”

Meeks face blushed a bright red. “Yeah, but it weren't my idea to go that way. The wagonmaster overruled my advice, an' they paid the price for ignorin' what I had to say.”

Jones shook his head. “They certainly did. Now, what are you men doing up here during an Indian war?”

“We had business up here,” Hawk answered.

“What business is that, Mr. Hawk?”

“Revenge. Them murderin' redskins kilt my kin . . . butchered 'em like they was nothin'. I aim to kill a few Injuns for every one of my kin they slaughtered.”

Jones cut his gaze to Meeks.

“What about you, Mr. Meeks?”

Meeks shrugged. “As you know, I suddenly found myself out of a job, an' I had nothin' better to do, so I decided to mosey around up here in the Dragoons for a spell.”

“You after revenge, too?” Mickey asked.

Meeks gave a nasty smile. “Well, if any Injuns happen to cross my path, I don't intend to turn the other cheek after what they did to my wagon train.”

Jones sat back against the cantle of his saddle. “Don't you men know it's the army's place to get the Indians back on the reservation?”

Hawk stared at Jones as he took a plug of tobacco and sliced off a piece. He popped it in his mouth and began to chew as he answered, “Yeah, Captain, an' we can all see you're doin' a damn good job of it, too.”

“From what we heard in Tombstone the other day,” Meeks added, “all you blue-bellies have managed to do so far is give the Indians a bunch of repeatin' rifles and some targets to shoot at with 'em.”

“Word is,” Hawk said, a malicious grin on his face, “casualties are running 'bout fifty to one, against you. At that rate, there'll only be one or two soldiers left when you finally kill all the redskins.”

Mickey Free chuckled loudly, muttering under his breath, “You got that right.”

“Enough of this talk,” Jones barked. “Will you show us where Naiche's camp is?”

“You plannin' on just ridin' up the trail an' attackin' his people?” Hawk asked.

“Is there anything wrong with that plan, Mr. Hawk?”

Hawk snorted, glancing at Mickey Free. “Well, right off, I think it'd be a mite smarter to send your scout up there with me and Meeks an' let us take care of the sentries first. Otherwise, by the time you get to 'em, they'll be all dug in an' you'll have a hell of a time rootin' 'em out.

“He's right, Captain. I'll head on up to the camp with these two and scout out the lay of the land. After we've killed the guards, we'll come back and get you.”

Jones nodded and spoke over his shoulder to his aide, “Tell the men to dismount. We'll prepare lunch here while Mr. Free scouts on ahead.”

* * *

As they rode up the trail, Hawk looked at Free. “Mickey, tell me the truth. How do you stand workin' for idiots like that captain back there?”

Mickey laughed. “Well, I'll tell you, my friend, it ain't always easy.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “But it's the surest way I know to kill me some Apaches.”

“You hate 'em that bad?” Meeks asked.

Mickey's face clouded. “As long as there's even one of those bastards walkin' around free, I'll be volunteerin' to go get his scalp.”

Hawk reined in his horse. “We'd better walk the rest of the way. It's only another mile or so.”

The three men separated and spent an hour painstakingly creeping up on the ledge overlooking Deer Spring Canyon. Finally, after discovering there were no sentries stationed around the canyon, they met up on the precipice.

“Damn,” Hawk said, “looks like they've flown the coop.”

Down in the valley, cooking fires were still smoldering, lazy trails of smoke spiraling skyward.

Mickey stroked his beard-stubbled face. “Well, I guess if it comes to it, I can go down there and track the sons of bitches to wherever they've gone.”

“Hold on a minute,” Meeks said.

Hawk and Mickey turned and glanced at the trailsman. He was facing away from them toward the southernmost part of the mountains.

“Look down there,” he said, pointing.

Mickey shaded his eyes, then said, “I was wonderin' where MacCallister was. It'd be my guess that's a signal from him that the Injuns have taken out across the desert.”

Hawk grinned. “Leave it to Falcon to send the army smoke signals tellin' 'em where to find Injuns.”

Mickey started off back down the mountain toward their horses at a trot. “Come on, boys. Let's go get 'em.”