Cry of Eagles Read online

  For all intents and purposes, Falcon’s world had ended that day. His gentle Marie, the love of his life and mother of his children, was gone forever. She had been taken from him the same way these poor folks had been taken, violently and horribly, suffering as no one should ever be made to suffer.

  Falcon looked at Hawk and said simply, “My wife was killed by renegades a while back. I don’t intend to let this massacre go unanswered.”

  Hawk nodded. He pulled out a twist of tobacco from his shirt pocket and cut a piece off with a large Bowie knife from a scabbard on his belt. As he chewed the tobacco, he watched the cabin.

  “One of the men killed here was my baby brother. I sent word to him a few months back an’ tole him how much silver was to be had out here in the Dragoons.”

  Hawk’s head dropped and he stared at the ground between his feet. “Damn fool brought his wife an’ daughter an’ two other pilgrims with him from back east.”

  He looked up at Falcon with red-rimmed eyes. “I tried to tell ‘im to leave the womenfolk in town an’ let me teach ‘em somthin’ ‘bout livin’ out here in the wilderness ’fore they tried to settle in, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  Hawk waved his hand in a circle, “This is mighty purty land, but it’s wild, like the beasts that live here. Ain’t no place for pilgrims an’ women.” He shook his head, “I shore wish they’d listened to me.”

  Falcon studied Hawk as he talked. The man didn’t look like a typical miner. “How long have you been mining out here, Hawk?”

  Hawk spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fer ‘bout a year, more or less. I scouted fer the army for a spell, then tried my hand at huntin’ buffalo.” He looked at Falcon. “When the buffalo got scarce, I heared ‘bout the silver strike near Tombstone and just kind’a drifted this way.”

  He glanced at the cabin. “God knows I wished I’d never have come here.”

  “What are your plans now?” Falcon asked.

  Hawk turned eyes full of hate on Falcon. “I plan to hunt down the murderin’ bastards that did this an’ do to them what they did to my kin. I ain’t gonna rest ‘til my hoss is carryin’ they scalps.”

  Falcon glanced at the cabin and the dark stains in front of it. He got up and walked to the place where the dirt was soggy with blood. Squatting, he dipped his finger in the soil and rubbed a horizontal crimson streak across each of his cheeks, like warpaint.

  “You want some company?” he asked.

  Hawk pulled out his knife and stuck the point into his thumb. When blood welled up, he wiped his thumb across his cheeks as Falcon had, then stuck out his hand. “To the death.”

  “To the death,” Falcon repeated, taking his hand.

  “Then let’s git movin’, partner. We’re burnin’ daylight, an’ I got me some Injuns to kill.”

  Hawk’s words and the hate in them gave Falcon a chill. He wanted to go after the men that did this, but he knew they had to have clear heads. He wondered if Hawk’s anger was going to get them both killed.

  Chapter 8

  After sealing their agreement to ride together after the Indians that had killed the settlers, Falcon took a weathered set of buckskins of his own out of his saddlebags and changed into them. When Hawk gave him a questioning look, Falcon explained, “These are my going to war clothes.”

  Along with buckskin trousers and shirt and Apache-style moccasins that rose to his knees, Falcon added a brace of Colt .44 caliber pistols and his Arkansas Toothpick to his belt. He loosened his Winchester .44/.40 carbine in a rifle boot on the right side of his saddle and tied a Standard ten gauge sawed-off double-barrel shotgun to the pommel with a braided rawhide strap, where it would be within easy reach should they be attacked without warning.

  Hawk stepped up to his horse, a buckskin, tan with black mane and tail. He took from his saddlebags a belt and single holster holding an old Colt Army .44 and strapped it on, then stuck an extra pistol in the left side of his belt, butt first for a cross-hand draw. He pulled a small canvas bag full of shells for his Sharps and attached it to his belt next to the scabbard for his Bowie knife.

  While he swung into the saddle, Falcon walked over to the corral and bent close to the ground, studying the tracks that led away from the cabin and into the woods.

  “I make it about ten or eleven Indians, leading another five or six horses and mules, which are riderless. The Indians are all riding horses with shoes on, so they must be stolen from either the army or others they’ve killed,” Falcon said.

  Hawk cut another piece of tobacco from the twist in his shirt. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed for a moment before shifting the cud to his left cheek. “That figures. The Injuns never did figure out how to remove horseshoes from their mounts. One thing, though, it’ll shore make it easier to track ‘em crost the mountains. Those shoes’ll leave marks on hard-packed ground an’ rock, whereas Injun ponies wouldn’t.”

  Falcon swung into into the saddle and reined Diablo’s head around until he was heading in the same direction as the Indian band.

  “Since you used to be a scout for the army, you want to lead the way?” Falcon asked.

  Hawk spat, hitting a scurrying ground squirrel dead center. “Don’t mind if’n I do. Might be a mite rusty, though. Hadn’t done this for a lotta years, partner.”

  Letting his horse walk at an easy pace, leaning his head to the side to watch the tracks, Hawk led the way into the forest. The Indians had not taken the trail, but ridden straight up the side of the mountain through scattered cacti and creosote bushes and small stands of pinyon trees, as if trying to hide their trail.

  After they had traveled about a hundred and fifty yards into the thick overgrowth, Hawk’s horse suddenly whinnied in a harsh squeal and reared up on his hind legs, almost throwing Hawk to the ground.

  “What the—” Hawk exclaimed, fighting the reins.

  Falcon filled his fist with iron and rode up beside the man, fearing an attack.

  He slowly holstered his gun and blinked startled eyes at what he saw facing them.

  One of the settler’s heads was impaled on a spear, stuck into the ground, facing the Indians’ back trail with a leering stare, blood trailing down the spear. The eyes were black with flies and a trail of red ants were making their way up the wood from the ground.

  “Damn,” Hawk said in a husky voice. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”

  “I haven’t, either,” Falcon said. “But I heard that the soldiers over at Fort Grant, the prison fort for Apaches and other lawbreakers in Arizona Territory, once did that to an Indian as an example for the others not to try to escape. His name was Delshey, and it was said that his grinning, fleshless skull stood in the entrance to the fort for months, greeting all who entered.”

  “You think maybe the ones done this is from Fort Grant?”

  “Could be, or it just might be their way of warning anyone who tries to trail them what is waiting for them up ahead.”

  Falcon and Hawk took the head and buried it in the soft sandy loam of the mountainside. As they walked back to their horses, Falcon picked up the spear and wiped the blood and insects off, sticking it under his saddleskirts alongside Diablo’s flank.

  “What you want with that old spear?” Hawk asked.

  “The same thing the Indians used it for.”

  “I don’t get ya.”

  “We’re going up against at least ten Indians, who’ve already proven they’re vicious killers. I’ve heard there’s another fifteen or twenty headed this way who may join up with the ones we’re after. The only chance the two of us have to come out of this with our hair is to spread a little fear into the men we’re hunting, perhaps make them careless.”

  “Go on.”

  “That means we’ve got to be every bit as ruthless as they are, and this spear is going to let them know that we’re on their trail and we mean to give them no quarter.”

  Falcon stepped into the stirrups and swung into line behind Hawk as he followed the Indi
ans’ trail. As the old scout rode along, Falcon could hear him talking to himself in a constant monotone. He guessed his many years of being alone had affected him in some way. I just hope he’s good with that Sharps, Falcon thought, his eyes searching the forest on either side of them for ambushers as they rode.

  When dusk began to fall, they made a cold camp, unable to build a fire that would give their position away. Falcon took out some biscuits and roast meat he’d bought at Campbell and Hatch’s before leaving Tombstone. He gave a couple to Hawk, and they sat on their saddles under a pinyon tree and had supper.

  After he took a deep swig from his canteen, Falcon glanced at Hawk. “One of our problems is going to be water. From what I hear, the Dragoon Mountains are damn near as dry as the desert.”

  Hawk chuckled. “You’re shore right there, Falcon. That’s one of the things that keeps the army from bein’ able to track the Injuns. Most of the blue-bellies are too dumb to find water to conform out here. They ain’t taken the time to learn how to find the hidden springs, or to mark on their maps where the few streams are located.”

  “You figure you can do that?”

  Hawk shrugged. “Been doin’ it for years. They’s certain signs you look for, and you can dig down a foot or two and find water ever time. It ain’t tasty, but it’s wet, an’ it’ll keep you alive.”

  “Good,” Falcon said. “That’s one less thing we have to worry about.”

  “How do you think we ought to handle it when we find the Injuns?” Hawk asked around a mouthful of meat and bread.

  “If we knew they had only single-shot rifles or bows and arrows and if we caught them by surprise we could probably take on ten at one time.”

  “What makes you think otherwise?”

  “I can’t see four men and their womenfolk trying to settle out here without weapons. I didn’t find any at the cabin, so the Indians have whatever the settlers had, plus whatever they got from the men whose horses they stole.” He shook his head. “I think we’ve got to assume they have repeating rifles and act accordingly.”

  “That means followin’ ’em to their camp an’ then pickin’ ’em off by ones and twos,” Hawk said.

  “Uh huh.”

  “You think we’re good enough to do that and stay hidden where the rest of the band cain’t find us?”

  Falcon leaned back against his saddle and pulled his hat low over his eyes. “I guess we’ll soon find out.”

  Hawk looked around at the darkness surrounding them and grunted. “I was afraid you was gonna say that.”

  From underneath his hat brim, Falcon answered. “Of course, if the leader of this band is Naiche, his name’s going to be a powerful draw to the other young bucks in the territory. I figure word will have gotten out by now that he’s on the warpath, and others will be straggling in to join him in twos and threes from just about every direction. One thing’s certain, we’re going to have plenty of targets long before we catch up with the main band.”

  Hawk drew his pistol and laid it on his chest as he lay back to sleep. “You’re just full of good news, Falcon.” He pulled his hat down low, murmuring, “An’ I thought it was gonna be easy.”

  Chapter 9

  Falcon and Hawk were up and on the trail before dawn. They rode slow, taking their time and watching both their back trail and the land in front of them.

  The band of Indians they were following were headed generally due northwest, though they cut back and forth often, changing directions to make their tracks harder to follow.

  Just before noon, as they approached the crest of a hill overlooking a valley below, Diablo’s ears perked up and he gave a soft snuffle, wagging his head back and forth. Falcon quickly covered his nose to keep him from nickering, for it was obvious he either smelled or heard other horses.

  “Yo, Hawk,” Falcon called softly.

  At the sound of Falcon’s whisper, Hawk immediately reined to a stop and picked his Sharps up from where it was resting on his saddle horn. He glanced back over his shoulder, and Falcon held a finger up to his lips and slipped out of the saddle to the ground.

  Hawk did the same, anxiously peering back and forth, looking for whatever it was Falcon had heard.

  Falcon got down on his belly and crawled to the top of the hillock and peered over. Entering the valley below, at a distance of about three hundred yards, were four braves. They were riding bareback, and two were carrying what appeared to be single-shot rifles, while one had an old musket cradled in his arms.

  Falcon waved Hawk up beside him and pointed, a questioning look on his face.

  “They must be some renegades on their way to join the ones we been trailin’,” Hawk said in a low voice. “They’re comin’ from the wrong direction to be a part of Naiche’s group.”

  “You think you can pick one or two off with that long rifle of yours?” Falcon asked.

  Hawk showed his teeth in a nasty grin, licked the end of his finger, and wiped off the front sight of the Sharps.

  He spread his feet out, digging his toes in the sand, his elbows in the dirt holding the Sharps up to his eye to take aim while Falcon backed out of sight then sprinted to his horse.

  He climbed into the saddle and got his Stevens shotgun ready, holding it in his left hand, the reins in his teeth, and his Colt in his right hand.

  When Hawk’s Sharps exploded, knocking the big man back against his braced feet, Falcon spurred Diablo into action, guiding the stud with his knees as he raced over the hill and down toward the valley floor below.

  Another explosion from the Sharps, and he saw a brave go flying, knocked off his pony with his arms flung wide, to land next to the body of another buck.

  The remaining two Indians leaned over their horses’ manes and yelled and whooped as they kicked them into a gallop down the valley toward Falcon.

  One put his rifle to his shoulder and fired, the bullet singing a death song as it buzzed by Falcon’s head.

  Falcon eared back the hammers on the Stevens with his left hand and fired from the hip, taking the lead buck full in the chest with a double load of buckshot. The molten pellets tore the man in two, flinging his lifeless body to the ground and splattering his companion with blood and gore as he rode by.

  Falcon fired with his Colt, but missed as the brave waved a tomahawk and leapt from his horse onto Falcon, knocking them both to the ground.

  Falcon’s shotgun and Colt were knocked from his grasp, and he wrapped his arms around the Indian as they rolled over and over in the dirt.

  He twisted his head to the side just in time and received only a glancing blow from the tomahawk as he frantically reached for his Arkansas Toothpick.

  Falcon managed to wrap his fingers around the handle of his knife as the buck reared back for a killing blow, his eyes wide and reddened with killing fever. The twelve-inch blade of the Toothpick flashed in the sun as it slid under the Indian’s ribs and pierced his heart, killing him instantly.

  With a bloodcurdling scream he collapsed on top of Falcon, pinning him to the ground. Falcon lay there, every muscle in his body aching and his head pounding as he tried to catch his breath. That had been too close. He reminded himself not to underestimate the Apache. They were fearless riders and fierce warriors. It was not going to be easy to go to war with them and survive.

  After a few moments, Hawk came riding up, his Sharps resting on his thigh.

  “You alive under there, Falcon?” he called in a lazy voice, as if asking about the weather.

  With a mighty heave, Falcon pushed the dead man off his chest and struggled to his feet. “Yeah, but just barely,” he answered.

  Hawk grinned, leaning to the side to spit tobacco juice onto the dead Indian. “Good, ‘cause I was just gittin’ used to havin’ company along.”

  Falcon picked up his Stevens and Colt, brushing dirt and grass off them before putting them away. “That was mighty good shooting back there,” he said, pointing to where the first two Indians lay.

  Hawk patted the Sharps. �
�Hell, t’was easy with Baby here. She don’t hardly ever miss.”

  Falcon looked around at the dead bodies and pulled his knife. “Well, time to leave a little message of our own.”

  Two hours later, he stepped back from their handiwork. One of the braves’ heads was on a spear, stuck in the middle of the trail through the valley. The other three, minus their scalps, were hanging upside down from a cottonwood tree, with empty holes where their eyes should have been.

  “You think them Injuns’ll git the message?” Hawk asked, wiping his bloody blade on one of the bodies.

  “Yeah. One of these boys is going to wander through the happy hunting ground without a head, and the others will be forever blind. For all their ferocity, Indians can’t stand the idea of being mutilated after death, because they think that’s how they’ll stay in their afterlife.”

  “Do you think it’ll make any of the ones comin’ to join Naiche change their minds?”

  “I doubt it, but it will send a message to Naiche that someone’s coming after him. He’ll know the army didn’t do this, so it’ll give him something else to think about, maybe even worry him a little until he knows just who it is on his backtrail.”

  Hawk looked up from tying the four scalps to his horse’s mane. “Well, I think it must be gittin’ on toward noon. How ’bout we make a noonin’?”

  Falcon glanced over his shoulder. “All right with me, but do you mind if we head on up the trail for a ways first? I don’t particularly relish the view here while I’m eating.”

  * * *

  Falcon made a fire of very dry wood, putting it next to a large boulder under a slight overhang so the smoke would be dispersed by the time it rose into view above them. While he brewed coffee in a pot and fried some fatback and beans, Hawk gave him his first lessons in finding the hidden springs and underground water in the high desert regions of the Dragoons.

  “First, you look for any kind of bird activity, ‘cause they knows where the water is. If’n you see some doves flying toward a particular spot, ’specially at dusk when they come in to drink after feeding all day on grain, you can be fairly sure they’s water somewhere’s nearby.”