Cry of Eagles (19 page)

“Ten of us,” another voice cried. “That about does it, MacCallister. Tell your boys it's over. We're through and done with it.”

“Where's Nance?” Falcon shouted.

“He rode out just now. He quit. Him and all his brothers and kin went with him. We ain't stayin' here and takin' no lead for him.”

“Ride out, then,” Big Bob told them again. “But don't none of you come back. You're dead if you do.”

“We understand. You've seen the last of us.”

* * *

Falcon walked up to Mustang, leading his horse.

“Where are you off to?” Mustang asked.

“I got things to settle with Nance Noonan,” Falcon told him.

He swung into the saddle. “Noonan made brags about what he was going to do. I aim to see he doesn't do them.”

“I'll get my hoss and go with you.”

“No, boys. You stay here until John Bailey gets him a few permanent hands hired.”

Wildcat noticed then that Falcon had tied a bedroll behind his saddle, and his saddlebags were bulging with fresh supplies.

“Dean opened the general store for me,” Falcon explained. “And I stocked up with what I'll need on the trail. I met with Willard, and he knows what to do with my money.”

“No good-byes for John Bailey and his family?” Dan asked.

Falcon shook his head. “No. John will understand. I'll write him a letter once I get back to Colorado, and make certain my kids are all right.”

The men shook hands all around.

“Good luck with your new lives, boys,” Falcon told the mountain men. “I might drift back up this way one of these days.”

That was probably a lie, and the mountain men knew it.

“See you, boy,” Big Bob said, lifting a hand in hail and farewell.

Falcon sat his saddle for a moment, smiling at his friends. Then he turned his horse and rode out of town. He did not look back ...

* * *

Falcon chuckled to himself as the memories made pictures in his mind. Looking back on it almost made him wish he had gone back to look up the old mountain men who'd helped him in that battle, but then he realized he'd been right not to. They were a strange breed, as fierce as mountain lions and as proud as peacocks. To a man they hated the idea of dying of old age in their cabins. That, and their intense loyalty to anyone they chose to call a friend, explained why they were always ready to join in a fight.

No, he thought,
it is better this way.
They would want to be remembered as they were, not as the old men they were fast becoming.

From the semi-darkness ahead, Falcon heard the Indians he was following give a long, triple hoot like an owl. He knew they had come to the edge of the camp and were signaling a sentry. He quickly reined Diablo up and studied the surrounding terrain. Then he walked the stud up the side of the mountain slope into heavy brush until they were a couple of hundred yards off the path the sentry was watching. He tied the animal next to an exceptionally tall pinyon pine just below a distinctive outcropping of the ledge above them on the mountainside. He wanted to be sure to be able to find his mount if he had to leave the area in a hurry. He knew the odds of his getting to the camp, doing what he had to do, and escaping with his hair still attached to his skull were only about fifty-fifty.

After Diablo was seen to, with plenty of fresh grass nearby to graze on, Falcon started his long walk up the mountain. He'd left the horse a good ways away from the Indian camp so the animal wouldn't be tempted to nicker or call to the Indian ponies that were in the valley up above.

Luckily, the moon was at three-quarters and there were a few scurrying clouds in the winter sky. The moonlight was bright enough for Falcon to see where he was going and to avoid stepping on twigs or sticks and thus alerting the Indians to his presence, and the clouds provided occasional periods of almost total darkness so that he would be able to move freely without fear of being seen when he got near Naiche's camp.

As it turned out, even in the moonlight Falcon smelled the campsite long before he saw it. The pungent odor of roasting mule and perhaps other things he'd rather not think about tickled his nose and made his stomach growl, even though he knew he'd rather eat a live snake than anything cooked up by Apaches. He knew Indians would eat things that would make a billy goat puke, but evidently his stomach didn't care, for it continued to make sounds as he climbed toward the source of the smells. He patted his abdomen and then rubbed it vigorously to try and make it settle down.

It'll be a hell of a note,
he thought to himself,
if you lose your scalp 'cause your stomach is howling for food.

A low sound from up ahead, as if someone tried to stifle a cough, reminded Falcon he was not alone on the mountain. He stopped dead still and stood motionless next to the trunk of a pinyon tree, scarcely breathing.

After a moment, he picked out a shadow next to a juniper bush that was slightly darker than the surrounding leaves and branches. He stared past it, letting the image fall on the corner of his eye. Without really knowing quite why, he had found over the years that was the best way to see dim objects in limited light. A doctor in Denver had once told him it was because the cells of the retina that are most sensitive to light are arranged around the periphery of the retina, but Falcon didn't care why. He was just satisfied to know the trick worked when he needed it.

Moving slowly, an inch at a time, being very careful not to let his body be outlined against any moonlit areas, Falcon backed up until he could no longer see the sentry.

Once out of sight, he turned to the right and made a wide circle around the lookout, knowing that since he'd already killed one of the warriors who'd been standing guard, Naiche would likely have increased the number of men guarding the camp. He moved through the night like a wraith, silent and deadly, his Arkansas Toothpick in his hand, his other fist doubled and ready to strike if necessary. As before, he dared not use his pistol, for it would mean almost certain death.

After another hour of painstakingly slow progress, Falcon came to an overhang where he could crawl to the edge and have an unobstructed view of the Indian camp below.

He counted five fires scattered around the small area, arranged on both sides of the small stream running through the middle of the canyon. Squaws were roasting large chunks of meat on sticks arrayed over the flames, while some tin and pottery bowls were placed over the coals at the edge of the fires to heat beans and stews with God-only-knew what kind of meat in them.

He looked for the largest wickiup, hoping to find Naiche among the warriors walking around the camp. Sure enough, off to the right of the main body of tent-like structures, he saw the three he'd been tailing sitting talking to the man he thought was Naiche.

The one he and his friends had tied to the cross had tied a bandanna or some sort of cloth over his shaven head, evidently out of shame that he'd allowed himself to be captured alive. The woman, who seemed to have Naiche's ear, was talking in a voice so low that Falcon couldn't make out what she was saying.

He thought it strange for a female to be so trusted by the leader of the renegades, for he knew that women in the Apache tribes generally ranked little higher than dogs. Even so, here was one who carried a Winchester and sat and spoke with the leader as an equal. Occasionally, the other male warrior added something to what she was saying, and Naiche nodded and glanced toward the wounded man. Falcon thought to himself he wouldn't want to be in that particular Indian's moccasins—after failing twice in his master's eyes and getting all of his warriors killed both times. The chief of this band would most likely be very angry with the brave. There was no telling what punishment he would mete out.

Soon the powwow was over, and Naiche waved the three away and retired to his wickiup, presumably to go to sleep.

Falcon tried to make a count of the number of male warriors milling around the fires, but soon gave the effort up as impossible. The Indians moved around too much for him to make an accurate count, and at this distance, in the semi-darkness, he couldn't even be sure if some of the figures were male or female.

He squirmed a bit to get comfortable, and settled in to wait for the camp to get quiet as the rest of the Apaches began to head for their wickiups and sleep.

It was a couple of hours later when Falcon was startled out of a semi-doze by the sound of a stick breaking nearby. He slowly rolled onto his side, searching the ground in the darkness for his knife, which he had evidently dropped in his sleep.

He released the breath he'd been holding when his fingers closed around the handle of the Toothpick. Now, even if he were to be discovered, he had a fighting chance to defend himself.

Falcon held his breath and slitted his eyes to hide their whites as a young man strolled into view, holding hands with a pretty female of a similar age. Falcon knew he was practically invisible, lying on the dark humus of the forest floor with his face and hands blackened and his dark clothes, but the couple was walking directly toward him.

It seemed no matter how quickly he moved, one or the other would be able to sound an alarm before he could silence them both.

Luckily, the man stopped and took the girl by the shoulders, turning her to face him. He said a few quiet words in Apache that Falcon couldn't understand, then gently placed his lips against hers.

After a moment they broke apart, giggling, then the girl turned and ran off back the way they'd come, laughing quietly over her shoulder.

The young warrior muttered some harsh words under his breath before turning and following her.

Falcon released his breath with a whoosh, grinning to himself. He'd heard of a few men being shot, and even one who was hanged, for the stealing of a kiss, but this was the first time he'd seen it save a man's life.

He slipped the knife back in its scabbard and rolled back over to take a look at the camp. The fires had almost burned themselves out, and except for a stray dog or two there was no movement at all among the wickiups.

Since it was obvious there was going to be no mass exodus from the area tonight, Falcon decided it was time for him to seek a more secure hiding place until the next morning. He crawled back from the edge of the precipice and then got to his feet and slipped off into the night.

After a while, he found a shallow cave musty with the odor of a long-gone critter of some sort who'd holed up here in the past. Falcon gathered some nearby brush and pulled it over the entrance, then crawled to the rear of the small enclosure and lay down. He needed to get some sleep. Tired men make mistakes, and tomorrow he was going to need to be at his best to do what he planned to do.

As he drifted off to sleep, he hoped he wouldn't snore too loudly.

Falcon awoke just as dawn was breaking over the eastern peaks of the Dragoons. The cave was so cold he had to brush spicules of ice off his nose and eyebrows. He crawled to the entrance and peered out between the branches of the limb he had placed there to conceal the opening.

Once he was sure no one was about, he climbed carefully out into feeble sunlight, which gave little warmth, and got slowly to his feet. He stretched and did some slow exercises to get the kinks out of muscles grown stiff and sore from lying on the cold, damp earth of the hole in the ground.

His stomach growled once more, and his mouth watered as he smelled the aroma of breakfast cooking on open fires in the Indians' camp. He ran a dry tongue over gritty teeth, wishing he had thought to bring his canteen from Diablo's saddle.
I'd kill for a cup of hot coffee,
he thought as he used a fallen branch to brush away his footprints near the cave entrance. No need to let the Indians know anyone was there, since he might well have to make use of it again.

Just as he finished wiping away all traces of his presence, he heard the sound of hoofbeats and horses nickering from the camp just beyond the nearby ridge. As quietly as he could, he threaded his way through the dense undergrowth to the precipice and peeked over the edge.

Down below, he saw a couple of older men and Naiche climb on the back of three ponies being held by a younger warrior. Naiche called some orders to several men waiting nearby, but Falcon couldn't make out what they were.

Evidently they're going on a scouting party,
he thought,
since they're aren't enough of them to be a war party.
Since Naiche obviously wasn't going to be moving the base camp any time soon, Falcon decided to head back down the trail toward Tombstone to see if Hawk and the others had made any progress in alerting the army to Naiche's current whereabouts.

Slowly, so as not to make any unnecessary noise, Falcon made his way back up the slope of the hillside toward where he'd left Diablo reined to a tree. He had no trouble picking out the tall pinyon or the distinctive outcropping of the mountain, and found his mount without any trouble.

After rinsing his mouth out and drinking his fill of water from his canteen, he stepped into the stirrups and spurred the horse down the mountain toward Tombstone, glancing back over his shoulder occasionally to make sure no warriors were on his trail.

* * *

Naiche saw the soldiers climbing a steep, winding trail into the Dragoons. Lying flat against a slab of stone, the fifty or sixty soldiers did not concern him as much as the scout who rode out in front of them, his face to the ground, a face all but obscured by twin braids of shoulder-length, orange-red curly hair.

Gray skies threatening snow or ice made it harder for him to see the man's features clearly.

“They have a scout now,” Nana said. “He reads our tracks carefully ... too carefully. Like an Apache, only his hair is the wrong color.”

“I know him,” Naiche answered. “I only know him by his description.”

“Who is he?”

“His hair is red, and long, like an Apache, only he is not one of us.”

Juh squinted into the distance. “Then who is this man who can find our tracks, no matter how carefully we hide them on the rocks?”

“He is called Mickey Free,” Naiche said, remembering the stories. “He is half white. The white-eyes call him The Apache Hunter. Cochise told us about him, one of the last times our great leader talked to Geronimo. I was there. Mickey Free is from this land. He was a boy of ten or twelve when a band of Mimbres captured him and stole the livestock where he was working for a white man. For ten winters, Free lived as an Apache with the Mimbres and Mescaleros, kept as a slave to bring firewood to the lodges. He was kept in chains, and even some of the women beat him with sticks. While he was with our people he learned to track animals and men, to hunt deer and buffalo, and to steal horses from the Arapaho and Comanches. After ten winters, he escaped to live with the whites. He became a scout for the bluecoats. He lived at Fort Verde. He led the soldiers to the big battle at the place called Dry Gulch, where so many of our people were killed. He tracked down the Apache Kid, and led the soldiers to Victorio, following Victorio's tracks for three hundred of the white man's miles, a very long distance. It is said he has the eyes of an eagle, and he hates all Apaches for the way he was treated when he was our prisoner.”

“He misses nothing,” Nana observed, watching as the man Naiche called Mickey Free came to a fork in the trail leading into the Dragoons. The scout stopped for a moment. Without coming down from his horse, he led the soldiers onto the left fork, the direction Cuchillo and his warriors had taken when they started back to camp at Deer Springs canyon.

“You see?” Naiche asked. “He sees the prints of our ponies on solid rock.”

“We must kill him,” Juh whispered, lifting his rifle to his shoulder.

“The range is too far,” Naiche warned. “We must be sure of the bullet that takes his life.”

Naiche saw Mickey Free stop his pinto, then look directly up at their hiding place. “He knows we are watching him,” Naiche said. “He is not afraid....”

“Where did he learn the Apache secrets of covering the trail of a horse?” Juh asked.

“Some say he is more Apache than white man. While he was with the Mimbres, he learned many of our secrets.”

“He will lead the bluecoats to our village,” Nana said. “We must find a way to kill him before he does this. Our women and children will die.”

Naiche recalled more of what Cochise told him, of how Free went after an Apache cousin of Victorio for the army's pay. Free found the Apache and killed him. His body was too heavy for Free to carry, since he only had one horse. To prove to the army that he'd found the right Indian, Free cut off the Apache's face, wrapped the skin and hair in the dead man's jacket, and dropped the rotting trophy at the feet of Al Sieber, the most notorious chief of scouts for the soldiers, in order to earn his reward at Fort Verde.

“Cochise said Free can track a shadow on a rainy night,” Naiche said, again studying Free as he stopped to look up at their hiding place among the rocks.

“All men die when a bullet strikes the right place,” Juh said. “Let me get in front of him and I will kill him. I can still see with these old eyes.”

Naiche considered it. Nana and Juh were experienced in the ways of war, and both warriors were good shots. “We wait, until Free comes to the right place.”

Nana frowned. “He knows we are here. See how he looks up at the mountain? The spirits are guiding his eyes to us. It is bad medicine.”

“Is it possible he could have the power of the spirits with him?” Juh asked.

Before Naiche could answer, Free halted the soldiers again and pointed up at the mountain where Naiche and the others were in hiding.

“He tells the bluecoats we are here,” Naiche said. “He is warning them.”

“What will we do?” Nana asked. “How can we lay a trap for the soldiers if Free is telling them where we are?”

Naiche found he was facing a new problem. Not only were four strange men with warrior-like instincts entering the Dragoons from another direction, killing and desecrating the bodies of his warriors, but now the dreaded Apache hunter, Mickey Free, was leading a large force of bluecoats toward their village from the north.

“We are surrounded by enemies,” Juh observed. “The other white-eyes are approaching, and we can find no way to stop them or surprise them with an attack. Now this curious man with long red hair comes, bringing many soldiers, and he seems to know where we are, that we are watching him.”

Juh had voiced Naiche's concerns only too well. The four men were only a nuisance because of their small number, but with Mickey Free leading so many soldiers into the Dragoon's higher elevations, it spelled trouble.

“We must move our camp again very soon,” Nana said.

Naiche knew Nana had many winters of wisdom. It would be unwise to ignore his council. “Yes, but before we do we will kill the four whites who cut out the eyes of our warriors and take their scalps.”

“We must find them first,” Juh warned. “Some of our best trackers have been unable to pick up their sign. These four are very clever. They strike, then disappear into the forest like shadow-spirits.”

Nana's and Juh's doubts would spread like a sickness through his younger warriors unless Naiche did something to stop it, and it had to be done soon. “We ride back to camp and pick the best fighters among us, those with battle experience. Then we look for the four white-eyes while the women and younger warriors take down our camp. We will move south, closer to the big river and Mexico.”

“Why do we go south?” Juh asked. “There, the mountains have no trees, and water is scarce.”

“Cochise told me the bluecoats cannot cross the big river into Mexico. Their strange laws make a river into a wall. If the soldiers come close we will escape to Mexico and look for the camp of Geronimo.”

“His wise ways will help us,” Nana agreed. “He may know of a way to kill this Apache hunter, Mickey Free. Geronimo is able to hide from anyone.”

Naiche inched backward on the stone slab, signaling for the others to do the same. Down below, Mickey Free was talking to the leader of the bluecoats. For now, the soldiers were not climbing higher or moving at all.

Naiche hurried to his horse and, using a fistful of mane, he swung over the bay's back. “Be careful where you leave the print of a horse on our return to camp,” he cautioned. “Free will come here to look for our tracks.”

Silently, riding from rock slab to gravel beds in low dry washes, Naiche led his men away from the soldier columns and the Apache hunter. His spirit taunted him while they rode off, for it whispered that a brave war chief would not run and hide from someone like Mickey Free, or the four white-eyes who were coming into the Dragoons.

This called for an all-out attack on the four whites, to rid Naiche and his band of their trickery. Only then could they make plans to ambush the soldiers and kill the red-haired scout who led them.

Naiche wondered about Free. Could a white man, even one who had been a prisoner of the Apaches for ten winters, have learned all their battle secrets? Their hiding places?

It was not possible. Naiche intended to prove it.

As they rode back toward their camp, Naiche's mind was full of plans, things he would have to do. First he would get his women and children safe by moving the camp south. Then he would have to do something about the four white-eyes who were causing them so much trouble. Then there was the problem of what was to be done with Cuchillo. His repeated failures had made Naiche's leadership seem bad.

The Indian leader shook his head to clear it of the ideas buzzing inside. Battle to the death was far easier than the responsibility of being chief to his people.