Cry of Eagles (7 page)

Isa followed the stars unerringly toward the hidden spring in the Dragoons. Using rawhide thongs he was able to bind the rifles together in less cumbersome bundles, making travel easier. By dawn the soldiers would find their tracks using Indian scouts, and only the rocks at higher elevations in the mountains would throw off pursuit, hiding the tracks made by the cavalry's shod horses.

“They will be coming soon,” an older warrior named Nana said as he looked behind them.

“They fear what will happen when we arm ourselves and many more with these rifles,” Isa agreed. “They must follow us and try to get them back.”

The clatter of iron-shod horses was annoying to Isa, and he wished for the metal tools white men used to remove them, for the sound was like the beating of a drum at the Sun Dance ceremony. It echoed across the desert like a beacon, pointing to their progress.

“Many more young fighters will come when they hear we have the many-shoot guns.” Nana sounded sure of it, and he had seen many more years of war than Isa, more than a dozen, when Cochise was alive.

“Naiche is a wise leader, Nana. He will show us where to strike and where to hide.”

Nana appeared to frown. “He is wise in the ways of war, but he is foolish and reckless in battle when he seeks enemy scalps. Geronimo is far wiser, always the cautious one, being careful to strike when he is certain of victory.”

“But Geronimo is in Mexico with only a few warriors. One of us must ride into the Sierra Madres to tell him of our good fortune, that we have many-shoot rifles and bullets, enough to kill all the white-eyes.”

Nana shook his head. “Geronimo will not join us. He will lead his own warriors. He spoke once at the council, saying that too many warriors would lead the soldiers to him. He prefers to strike in his own way with only a few. Naiche wishes to gather all Apaches together in one big war against the white man, and I think this is foolish. There are too many white soldiers, and we cannot equal their number. No matter how many we kill more come behind them, swarming like bees do when their nest is disturbed.”

Somewhere out on the desert floor, a coyote barked four times and then howled at the sky. Isa heard the coyote and stiffened.

“It is only a coyote,” Nana assured him. “The coyote barks four times, while the Apache signal for danger gives five barking noises before the howl. You are wise to The Way, and you should know this.”

“It is true,” Isa said softly, leading his warriors across a gentle rise in the sand and rock, weaving between saguaro cactus and yucca spines. “We have been prisoners at the reservation for so long I sometimes forget the old ways.”

“It is time to remember them now, Isa. We will need all our skill to outrun the soldiers behind us.”

Isa gave the old man a look, his lips turning up for the first time in a small grin. “I not try to outrun them, grandfather,” he said, using the Indian term of respect.

* * *

The narrow ravine wound and twisted into the foothills of the Dragoons. Isa studied it from above.

“It is a perfect place to ambush them,” he said, scanning the horizon where a cloud of dust rising from a line of horsemen marked the advance of the cavalry.

“They found our tracks too easily. One of the People is showing them the way.”

“Pawnees,” Nana spat. “They sold themselves to the soldiers for a few bottles of whiskey.”

“It is the old one who guides them, the Shoshone. See how he brings them straight toward us? The old man is wise to the ways of nature.”

“He was our friend.”

“We have no friends among the white men. The Shoshone hears the voice of
boisa pah,
the white man's whiskey, and for this he will betray us.”

“He is called Tomo. He is friend to the Comonses, the Comanches, and I do not believe he would betray us.”

“The power of
boisa pah
is very strong, Nana.”

“I spoke with him many times. He hates the white-eyes as much as we do.”

“Then why does he bring them along our tracks?”

“Perhaps he does this so we may kill them. If he brings them to this canyon, killing them will be easy with the many-shoot rifles.”

Isa thought about this. Was Tomo guiding the soldiers to a place where they could be killed?

“I do not trust him. He has been among the white-eyes too long.”

Nana wagged his head side to side. “He is like the rest of us on the stinking reservation ... he has no choice but to accept what we are given by them.”

“But now he brings them along our tracks,” Isa protested as the line of solders became clearer.

“He knows we have the many-shoot rifles, and he brings them to us so we may kill them easily.”

“I do not trust the Shoshone,” Isa said, backing away from the rim of the arroyo.

“Wait and see,” Nana assured him. “He brings them to us for a killing time. He hates the white-eyes as much as we do, only he must take what the reservation gives him . . .”

* * *

A line of mounted cavalrymen rode into the ravine. The old Shoshone, Tomo, rode his horse quickly out in front and went around a bend.

Isa wondered if Nana could be right ... had the old man brought them the soldiers to kill as a gift?

“They come as if they were blind,” Nana whispered. “They do not even look up here where our warriors are hiding with the rifles. Tomo has given them to us ... he is not our enemy.”

“Spread the word,” Isa said quietly. “Wait until they are all in the ravine, so few will be able to escape when we shoot down at them.”

Nana crept off on the balls of his feet to alert a line of warriors hidden behind rocks across the canyon rim with Winchester repeating rifles.

Isa watched the soldiers. Could Nana be right about the old Shoshone? Were the soldiers being led into a killing place from which only a few could escape?

Then it became clear Tomo understood what was about to take place in the arroyo ... he heeled his pony to a lope and galloped far to the south along the bottom of the draw.

“May the Spirits smile on you, old man,” Isa whispered as the soldiers followed Tomo into the most narrow place in the winding ravine. Tomo was handing them the lives of the bluecoat white-eyes as surely as the rising of the sun.

Isa shouldered his rifle, thumbing back the hammer, taking careful aim at the soldiers riding at the rear of the column. His warriors farther to the south would cut down the other white-eyes.

He waited until he was certain of his aim, casting a glance across the canyon at his warriors carefully placed on the far side.

“It is good,” he grunted softly. Then he squeezed the trigger gently.

* * *

Solders fell, screaming in agony, as horses bolted away from the explosions from above. Isa worked the lever to put another cartridge into the chamber, smiling inwardly. They would take a deadly toll on the bluecoats this afternoon.

A soldier flipped out of his saddle with blood squirting from his back, arms windmilling as he tossed his rifle and pistol to the ground.

Another soldier yelped and reached for his throat when a bullet from the far side of the arroyo went through his neck amid the loud crack of exploding gunpowder.

And now more bluecoats were falling underneath the churning hooves of their frightened horses. Noise filled the canyon—the bang of rifles, and the nickering of terrified animals, the cries of wounded and dying men.

Nana rushed over to him, smoke curling from the muzzle of his rifle. “It is a good day for white-eyes to die!” Nana cried at the top of his lungs.

Isa continued to fire into the milling, swirling mass of horses and downed cavalrymen. It
was
a good day for the blue-coats to die, and the old Shoshone named Tomo had given them this opportunity for revenge against the white men....

* * *

The smell of blood filled the arroyo. Three dead horses lay among the fallen bodies of soldiers. Isa walked among the corpses to inspect the careful removal of pistols, ammunition, and food from the fallen enemy. Black flies rose in a buzzing cloud as he nudged a body with his foot.

“A victory for the People,” Nana said, picking up more of the soldiers' guns and bullets.

“Naiche and Geronimo will be pleased,” Isa told him as he took a pistol from a dead soldier's belt.

“We must make a gift of a gun to the Shoshone,” Nana said as he, too, walked among the dead, salvaging whatever they could use.

“Yes. Find Tomo. Tell him we have presents to give him for the victory he gave us today.”

“I sent Taoyo, and he cannot find the old warrior. Tomo rode away, into the mountains.”

“Perhaps he wishes to join Naiche,” Isa said aloud, taking the last pouch of ammunition from a dead soldier.

He is not Apache. He told me this was not his war. His people have already been made into slaves for the white men far to the north.”

Isa looked down the canyon, in the direction Tomo had ridden just before the battle. “Find him. His kindness must not go unrewarded.”

“Taoyo is looking for him now.

“Find him!” Isa snapped. “He could just as easily have given us away to the enemy. It is The Way, to repay a debt to another warrior.”

Late in the afternoon, Falcon and Hawk came upon the remains of an old campfire, surrounded by the tracks of the Indian band they were following.

Off to the side was what was left of a mule carcass. It'd been gutted and cleaned like a deer, and there wasn't a scrap of meat left on the bones. All of the internal organs had been eaten except the entrails.

Hawk had a look of disgust on his face. “I swear to God, Injuns'll make a meal of anything that walks or crawls.” He glanced at Falcon. “Can you imagine eatin' a mule?”

“I guess if I was hungry enough, maybe.”

“I heard tales of redskins eatin' a man's heart or brains, if'n they respected him.”

“Yeah, me too. Matter of fact, my father stayed with a tribe one winter, and he said they killed some raiders from another tribe and offered to share the heart and brains with him.”

“What'd he do?”

Falcon looked away, staring at mountain peaks in the distance. “My father was an educated man, and he told me about a book he once read that said, ‘when in Rome do as the Romans do.' ”

He looked back over his shoulder at Hawk. “So I suppose he joined right in.”

“Jesus,” Hawk whispered, stirring the bones of the mule with his foot. “I
might
manage to swallow mule meat, if I was starvin', but no way I could stomach eatin' another man's flesh.”

“You might be surprised at what you're capable of,” Falcon said, climbing back up on Diablo. “We better get on the trail. We're burning daylight, and I don't want to be out in the open come sundown.”

As they followed Naiche's band of Indians the trail slowly rose into the Dragoon Mountains, winding through pine, mesquite, and even some aspen at the higher elevations. The colors were breathtaking, and the sweet scent of late-blooming wildflowers contrasted with the tangy bite of pine smell in their noses.

Neither man took much notice of such things. They were too busy watching every copse of trees or gathering of boulders for possible ambushers. They both knew enough of the Apache adeptness at camouflage to realize it would be difficult to know of their presence until the bullets or arrows came flying.

* * *

Frank Curry stepped out of his cabin and took a deep breath of the crisp, cool fall air. With any luck, he thought, they'd be able to collect another few hundred dollars worth of dust today. The runoff from the fall rains was bringing more and more gold down the small rivers and streams from the mountain tops, and he and his partners planned to pan their share of it. Every one else in the area was so busy mining for silver—they hadn't thought to look for gold—but Frank and his partners were going to show them what a really big gold strike was like.

Johnny Brown and William Duke walked out of the cabin, stretching and yawning. Johnny handed Frank one of the two cups of coffee he was holding.

“Looks like it's gonna be a good day for pannin',” Billy Duke said, glancing at the clear sky overhead.

“Yep,” Frank answered, taking a sip of his coffee. “Goddamn,” he said, making a face. “Didn't you put no egg shells in this brew? It's full of grounds.”

“If'n you don't like it, pardner, go in there an' make your own,” Johnny said, scowling. “I don't know who appointed me chief cook and bottle washer, but I'm kind'a gettin' tired of havin' to do all of it myself.”

“Quit your bitchin',” Billy said. “We're gettin' plumb rich up here. When the snows come in another few weeks, we can shut down and go down into Tombstone and winter over in style 'til the spring.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “I ain't seen a woman in so long I 'bout forgot what they look like.”

“Not me ... I 'member real good what they's like,” Johnny said with a leer.

“By the way, where's Cal?” Frank asked.

“He left a little while ago,” Johnny answered. “Said he'd found a small cave betwixt two boulders yesterday an' he wanted to see if it might have a vein in the back of it.”

Frank couldn't believe it. “You mean we got all the dust and nuggets we can pick up out here, and that fool's goin' lookin' for a vein in a cave?”

From behind them, there was a sound like a face being slapped, and Billy gave a grunt. He staggered a step or two and turned around, his hands up to his face holding the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his left eye.

A rifle shot rang out and Johnny took a bullet in his right shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to his knees.

“Goddamn!” Frank cried, ducking just in time for the shot aimed at his head to buzz by inches from his face. He grabbed Johnny by the arm and jerked him to his feet as Billy finally collapsed onto his back in the sand.

Frank and Johnny half stumbled and half ran into the cabin, slamming the door and putting the wooden brace across it to lock it. As Johnny wrapped a towel around his arm to stop the bleeding, Frank shut wooden shutters on the windows, using small pegs to bolt them shut. They had made the shutters with small openings cut out for gun ports, just in case of attack by Indians.

Several more shots peppered the door and walls, as if the Indians were testing the thickness to see if the shots would penetrate.

“Damn ... did you see how many there were out there?” Frank asked.

“Hell, no,” Johnny replied. “I was too busy gettin' shot an' bleedin' to take much notice.”

Frank threw him a Henry Repeating rifle and a box of cartridges as he took down an American Arms 10 gauge shotgun and a Winchester for himself.

As he shoved shells into the loading chamber of the Winchester, Frank peered through the gunport of his window. “You think I ought‘a make a run out there an' see if I can get Billy in here?”

Johnny looked up from loading his Henry and shook his head. “You wouldn't get ten feet out that door 'fore they'd blow your head off, Frank. Besides, ain't no way Billy can survive that wound.”

“But I can see him movin'. Looks like he's tryin' to crawl toward the cabin.”

“If he makes it, we can let him in, but don't even think ‘bout goin' out there yet.”

Frank put the barrel of his Winchester out the hole in the shutter and took careful aim. He saw an Indian crawling on his belly toward Billy, his knife in his teeth, warpaint on his face and an Eagle feather in his hair.

“Sons of bitches,” he muttered as he squeezed the trigger. The Winchester exploded back against Frank's shoulder, the sound loud in the small room.

A sharp cry of pain was heard from outside, and Frank saw his shot take a chunk out of the left shoulder of the brave, spewing blood and tissue all over his face. He dropped his knife and grabbed his arm, squirming back around to crawl away from where Billy lay, no longer moving.

“Looks bad, partner,” Johnny called softly from the other side of the room. “When you fired, I saw at least five of the bastards movin' over on my side of the cabin. Looks like they're trying to circle around and come at us from behind.”

He scrambled over to a window on the other side of the cabin and pointed his Henry out the gunport. He fired, cursing under his breath as his shot went wide, chipping stone off a boulder but missing the man he was aiming for.

Luckily, they had planned their cabin well. It was located in a clearing, at least fifty yards from the nearest cover. There were no overhanging rocks or nearby elevations, and they always stocked plenty of water and food inside. Their only problem was that the house was designed for four men to defend it, and with Billy's death and Cal's absence, it would be difficult to watch all sides of the structure.

Only a couple of shots answered Johnny's, and they buried themselves harmlessly in the thick wood of the wall next to his window.

“You think we got a chance, partner?” Johnny asked, his eyes flicking back and forth, searching for another target.

Frank paused before answering, the words bitter on his tongue. “Not unless there happens to be an army squad nearby. All they got to do is wait for dark. Then they can rush us from all sides or fire the cabin. Either way, we're done for.”

Johnny glanced over his shoulder, his jaw set, eyes hard. “At least maybe we can take some of the bastards with us.”

“Yeah, but don't forget,” Frank said, patting his Colt in his holster on his hip. “Save at least one bullet for yourself. No way you can let 'em take you alive.”

Frank's skin crawled as what sounded like screams of wildcats and eagles and other animals came from the area around the cabin. Interspersed with these were yells and whoops and hollers of braves who ran out into plain view, loosed an arrow or a shot from a rifle at the house, then disappeared just as Frank or Johnny was drawing a bead on them.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Frank saw a small puddle of blood forming on the floor on Johnny's right side. Evidently his arm was still leaking blood from the wound.
Damn,
he thought,
we've got to do something. I ain't just gonna sit here an' let them heathens wait to kill me.

He scurried over to Johnny, keeping low and out of the line of fire through the windows in case one of the Indians got a lucky shot through the gunport.

“Partner,” Frank said, “we got to make a move, otherwise they're gonna kill us for sure.”

Johnny squeezed off a shot, kicking up dust next to running feet of a brave a hundred yards away.

“Just what do you want to do, Frank? It don't seem to me we have a surplus of choices.”

“Let's make a run for the corral. Maybe we could get to our mounts and manage to get away 'fore they got to us.”

Johnny turned skeptical eyes on his partner. “It'd be suicide to try that. Besides, them 'Pache are the best riders around. They'd ride us down 'fore we got a mile, even if we could get to our broncs, which I doubt.”

“Anything'd be better than holein' up here waitin' for 'em to burn us out.”

“You do got a point there, partner. Let's do it.”

Johnny positioned himself next to the door, his rifle and pistol fully loaded, while Frank fired several shots out the window on the far side of the cabin, hoping to draw the Indians' attention away from the other side.

After his last shot, he turned and sprinted for the door as Johnny opened it and began to run toward the corral, forty yards distant.

One brave stepped out from behind a boulder and let an arrow fly toward the men. Johnny fired from the hip, his Winchester blowing a hole through the Indian's midsection and flinging him backward to lie dying in the dirt.

A man off to one side aimed a rifle and fired, the bullet catching Frank in the thigh, making him stumble and stagger a few steps until suddenly he was at the corral fence.

He flung the gate wide, yelling, “Scatter the rest of the horses. Maybe it'll keep 'em busy for a few minutes!”

With no time to try to saddle the horses, Frank grabbed the mane of his favorite ride and swung himself up on the animal's back, holding his rifle in his right hand.

Johnny did the same. Then the two men flapped their arms and leaned low over the broncs' necks and rode out the corral gate, sending the other five animals stampeding ahead of them.

A young brave who looked to be no more than fifteen years of age stepped in front of the horses, an arrow cocked in his bow, and took aim.

He was knocked to the ground and trampled by several of the crazed, frightened animals as they bolted out of the fenced area.

Spurring his mount for all he was worth, Frank headed up the mountain away from the cabin while Johnny turned his animal south to ride down the trail toward Tombstone.

Frank heard several shots ring out in unison and looked back over his shoulder to see Johnny go flying from his horse, his rifle spinning out of his hands. Frank saw three Indians, one of them a skinny female with wiry muscles who had a furious scowl on her face and a large knife in her hands, running toward his friend.

“Aw, hell!” he muttered and jerked his horse's head around. He rode as fast as he could toward the fallen man, guiding his mount with his knees as he sprayed rifle fire at the Indians. The two males went down, mortally wounded, and the woman stopped her advance and stood defiantly, waiting for him to kill her.

Frank's rifle clicked on an empty chamber, so he grabbed it by the barrel and swung at the woman's head as he rode past. The butt of the gun took her on the shoulder as she threw herself to the side.

An Indian wearing paint and a headdress of eagle feathers, showing him to be the leader, stepped into view and aimed a Winchester at Frank, shooting him in the chest at point blank range.

Frank was knocked off his horse to land several feet from Johnny, who was lying dazed and bleeding from three separate wounds to his chest and abdomen.

As a group of Indians ran toward them, Frank drew his pistol and took careful aim. “I'm sorry, partner,” he whispered hoarsely, “Adios.” He fired, hitting Johnny in the forehead and killing him instantly.

The female Indian screamed something in Apache and rushed Frank, her knife held high and her eyes red with fury.

He smiled, knowing he was going to disappoint the bitch, and put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Cal Franklin, from his hiding place in a small cave formed by the juxtaposition of several large rocks, lowered his head to his crossed arms and began to cry silent tears. He'd seen what had happened to his friends and partners, and knew that he could do nothing to help them. He'd crawled far back in the space last night, more drunk than sober, and fallen asleep.