Revenge of Eagles

CHAPTER 17

Two days later, Gibson, Carter, and Wilson found themselves on the west side of the Quigotoa Range, a good eighty miles from the post. The horses were now hobbled, while the men were poking around in one of the many washes that came down from the side of the mountain.

“They say these washes are the best place to look,” Gibson said as he picked through the rocks. “The gold is flushed down after a rain, and collects in the washes.”

“You lied to me, Gibson,” Wilson said.

“How’d I lie to you?”

“You told me if I’d let you and Carter out, you’d take me to your money. You didn’t tell me we’d have to look for gold to find it.”

“Well, hell, boy, gold is money, ain’t it?” Gibson replied.

“Are you sure there is gold out here?” Wilson asked.

“Hell, yes, there is gold,” Gibson said. “Or, if not gold, there’s silver. Why do you think the government is keeping the U.S. Army out here? It’s to keep the Indians off the backs of the prospectors while they look for gold.”

“That’s the truth of it, Wilson,” Carter added. “We’re here to make it safe for the prospectors and the miners.”

“And I’ll be damned if I’m going to risk my neck for someone else to get rich,” Gibson said. “If I’m going to risk my neck, I’m going to risk it for me.”

“Damn right,” Carter said.

“I don’t think I would’a let you two out of jail if I’d’a know’d you was just talkin’ about maybe findin’ some gold or silver.”

“It’s more’n just maybe. It’s out here for real,” Gibson insisted.

“So, what do you think, Corporal, do you have any idea where to look?” Wilson asked.

“You don’t have to call me Corporal anymore,” said Gibson. “We ain’t in the Army right now.”

“Yeah, well, far as the Army is concerned, we are still in the Army,” Carter said. “I mean, it ain’t like they give us papers cuttin’ us loose or anything.” Carter was the smallest of the three, with red, blotchy skin and a nose that was too big for his face.

“I sort of wish we was still in the Army,” Wilson said. Wilson was tall and gangly, and by many years the youngest of the three. “One thing we did while we was in the Army was we got to eat. Which we ain’t been doin’ that much of since we deserted.”

“We didn’t desert,” Gibson said. “We are absent without leave. There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?” Wilson asked.

“Well, for one thing, deserters can be shot or hung,” Gibson said. “But if we are just absent without leave, the most they can do is send us to Ft. Leavenworth for a couple of years.”

“Yeah, but how do we convince the Army we are just absent without leave and not deserters?” Wilson asked.

“’Cause we are still carryin’ a Army-issue pistol, that’s why,” Gibson said. “And as long as we got any part of the Army still with us, well, we ain’t exactly deserted.”

Carter laughed. “Don’t listen to Gibson,” he said. “He’s spoutin’ off that barracks-law bullshit. Don’t fool yourself, kid. If they find us, they’re goin’ to hang us.”

“Even if we’re carrying these pistols like Corporal Gibson said?” Wilson asked.

“Hell, yes, even if we’re carryin’ these pistols. Fact is, that’ll make it worse. They’ll hang us for desertin’ the Army and for stealing Army property,” Carter said, laughing.

“Shit,” Wilson said. “I wish I was back in Missouri.”

“Doin’ what? Walkin’ behind a plow horse?” Gibson asked. “Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life? Plow?”

“So if you don’t want to plow, what do you want? To spend the rest of your life in the Army?”

“No, I don’t really want to do that either. I wasn’t exactly what you would call a good soldier,” Wilson said.

Carter laughed. “I can’t argue there. As a soldier, Wilson, you wasn’t worth shit.”

“Maybe not, but you was both good soldiers. Both of you have been sergeants.”

“That’s true,” Carter said. “Fact is, we both been sergeants more’n a couple of times.”

“I still can’t believe that you both deserted.”

“Unauthorized absence,” Gibson said. “We didn’t desert. You keep sayin’ we deserted like that and you will wind up gettin’ our asses hung.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry none ’bout us gettin’ hung, Gibson,” Carter said, all the humor suddenly gone from his voice. “We prob’ly ain’t goin’ to live that long.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Over there,” Carter said, pointing to the next ridgeline.

“Holy shit.”

Six Apache Indians were coming toward them, riding fast and spread out in a long line.

“Hell, there’s just six of ’em,” Gibson said, pulling his pistol. “We’ll take cover behind those rocks over there.”

“Corporal, I only got about three bullets in my gun,” Wilson said.

“I’ve got a box of ammunition in my saddlebag,” Carter said.

“Forget it, Carter,” Gibson said, holding out his hand to stop him. “You’ll never make it to your horse.”

The Apaches opened fire and bullets began frying the air around the three soldiers, hitting the rocks alongside, then whining off behind them.

The Indians began riding back and forth in front of them. They were excellent horsemen, and as they passed by in front, they would lean down behind their horses, always managing to keep their horses between them and the soldiers.

The three returned fire and for the next several seconds, the valley rang with the echo of gunfire.

“I’m out of shells!” Wilson screamed in panic.

Carter fired, then pulled the trigger to fire again. His hammer fell on an empty chamber.

“Damn! I am too!”

“I saved three bullets,” Gibson said pointedly.

“Saved three bullets? What do you mean?” Wilson asked. “Three bullets ain’t goin’ to do us no good! There’s six of them!”

“But there’s only three of us,” Gibson said pointedly.

“Three of us? What do you mean?”

“Let’s do it,” Carter said, understanding immediately what Gibson was talking about. He got down on his knees, crossed himself, then bowed his head.

Seeing him, Wilson realized what was about to happen.

“Oh, shit,” Wilson said quietly, shaking his head. “Oh, shit, no. We can’t do this!”

“Johnny, trust me, you don’t want those heathens to take you alive,” Gibson said. It was the first time he had ever called the young soldier by his first name.

“Do it, Mickey,” Carter said to Gibson. “Do it before it’s too late.”

Gibson looked at Wilson.

Wilson’s bottom lip was trembling, but he nodded his head in the affirmative. “Yes,” he said. “Do it.”

“God be with us, boys,” Gibson said. He put the gun to Wilson’s temple and pulled the trigger.

“Hurry, Mickey, hurry!” Carter said.

Gibson shot Carter. After that, he put the barrel in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Nothing!

Had he miscounted?

He tried again, still nothing.

By now the Apache realized what he was doing and, incensed by being cheated of their prisoners, they rushed him.

“No!” Gibson screamed. He grabbed one of the pickaxes they had been working with and had the fleeting satisfaction of burying it halfway into the head of one of the Indians. But before he could pull it out, he was jumped on by three more, and despite his struggles, they were able to subdue him, tying his hands and feet with rawhide.

Falcon stood in the stirrups for a moment, just to stretch away his saddle ache, then urged his horse on. That was when he saw the vultures.

They were circling too warily, too cautiously, for it to be a small animal. And there were far too many for them to be attracted to one thing.

Falcon had seen them gather like this before, over the battlefields during the war in which he and his brothers had fought on opposite sides. He’d seen them since the war as well, during his wanderings through the West. Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, he hurried it on for the next mile until he saw what was attracting the vulture’s attention.

Three naked bodies lay white and bloating in the sun. Two of the bodies were just lying there, and one of those he recognized as Private Wilson, the young private who had challenged him and Sheriff Corbin at the gate when they visited Fort Lowell. Private Wilson and the man lying beside them were not mutilated in any way. Both had gunshot wounds in the temple, the bullet holes black with encrusted blood.

The third man was staked out on the ground, his arms and legs spread out. His penis had been cut off and, from the amount of blood that had pooled between his legs, it had happened while he was still alive. His eyes were cut out, and his scalp had been lifted, but Falcon was more than reasonably sure that this was Corporal Gibson, the corporal he had encountered on that same visit to Fort Lowell.

“What were you three doing out here?” he asked. “I’m sure Colonel Dixon did not send out a three-man patrol.”

Looking around, Falcon saw a shovel, a pretty good-sized hole, and a few rocks that had been broken into smaller pieces. That told him all he needed to know.

“I’ll be damn. You three men were deserters, weren’t you?” he said. “Figured you’d come out here and dig yourself up some of that gold you heard people talking about.” He sighed. “You should’ve thought about it a little more.”

Picking up the shovel, Falcon enlarged the hole enough to be able to take all three bodies. Then he cut the corporal loose and dragged him and the others over to where he had been working. He pushed them down into the hole, covered them with dirt, then moved a few rocks over the top of the grave.

When he was finished, he looked down at the grave.

“Corporal Gibson, you were an asshole, but you deserved better than this. You others as well,” he said aloud.

Then recalling a legend that brought comfort to cavalrymen, he recited a poem:

Halfway down the trail to Hell,

In a shady meadow green,

Are the souls of all dead troopers camped,

In a good old-time canteen.

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddlers’ Green.

According to the legend, no man who had ever served in the cavalry could have possibly lived a life that was good enough to earn him a place in heaven. On the other hand, the cavalrymen had all served enough penance on earth to keep them from going to hell. The alternative to heaven or hell was Fiddlers’ Green, a place where the water was cool, the beer was plentiful, there was always bacon with the beans, and the dance-hall girls were friendly.

“Save me a place, troopers,” Falcon said, making a half-salute. “It’ll be a lifetime for me, but only a drink or two for you.”

Turning away from the hasty grave, Falcon mounted his horse and started out in pursuit of the Indians who had done this.

The Indian trail was surprisingly easy to follow. Falcon was certain that the Indians he sought were being led by Chetopa, and Chetopa either didn’t think there were any white men capable of trailing him ... or he was so confident in the strength of his band that he didn’t care if anyone trailed him or not.

Falcon caught up with them in late afternoon, then stayed well back of them so that they were totally unaware of his presence. He stayed on their trail for the rest of the day, actually enjoying the chase almost as if he were playing a game of chess—move and countermove. And what made this particularly enjoyable to Falcon was the fact that he was controlling all the moves.

When night fell, Falcon became much more careful in his tracking. That was because he knew that Chetopa would not travel at night, and he didn’t want to suddenly ride in on them. In order to prevent that, Falcon decided to dismount. He led his horse through the darkness, picking his way very carefully so as not to dislodge any stones that would give him away.

Then, on the desert floor in the darkness ahead, he saw the glow of a campfire.

He smiled.

If they had known they were being trailed, they would have made a cold camp. So far, he still had the advantage of secrecy.

As Falcon ground-hobbled his horse, he thought of Diablo, who had served him faithfully for so many years. Diablo was old, and enjoying a well-earned retirement on Falcon’s ranch back in Colorado. He found himself wishing he had Diablo with him now, rather than the horse furnished him by the sheriff in Oro Blanco. He and Diablo were simpatico. He could get the response he needed by just thinking things, and that had gotten him through some very tight spots over the years.

This horse was not Diablo, but Falcon had to admit that it had served him well, and he patted his mount affectionately on its face a couple of times.

“You’ve done a good job, and don’t let anyone ever say otherwise. Now, what I want you to do is stay here and be quiet until I get back.”

Falcon looked around, marking the position so that he could find his way back in the dark. Then, he started toward the Indian camp.

The moon was full, and there were a few clouds in the sky. From time to time one of the clouds would pass over the moon, and when it did so, it would shine silver during its transit. At those times a shadow would fall across the desert floor, and Falcon utilized those opportunities to advance forward.

Whenever the moon was out, he would try to remain in the shadows of a saguaro cactus or a rock outcropping. Sometimes he would find a depression and move forward in defilade.

As he approached the camp, he could smell something cooking over the fire. He didn’t know whether it was a rabbit, a snake, or some bird they had killed. Whatever it was, he was glad they were cooking, because the smell of cooking would mask any scent the Apache or one of their horses might get of Falcon as he approached.

He heard one of the Indians say something, and the others laughed. He was surprised by how close it sounded, and he stopped, remaining perfectly still, barely breathing, for a long moment.

Standing there, still and quiet, gave Falcon the opportunity to look around. That was when he picked out a shadow within a shadow, noticeable only because it was even blacker than the surrounding darkness.

The shadow moved, then coughed.

The shadow was an Indian, a guard perhaps, though Falcon knew that Indians rarely posted guards.

The Indian guard stood up and blew his nose onto the ground. That gave Falcon the opportunity to move forward several feet. He advanced through the night as silently as the clouds overhead. As he came closer to the Apache on guard, he pulled out his Arkansas toothpick.

The Indian shouted something toward the camp, and one of the ones around the fire lifted a chunk of cooking meat and looked at it, then shouted back. Evidently the Indian was hungry.

Well, Falcon would take care of that.

Falcon moved closer, ever closer, until he was but inches behind the rock the guard had chosen to use as his backrest. The guard sat back down, then leaned back against the rock.

The rock only came halfway up the Indian’s back, which was very good for Falcon’s purposes. Falcon raised up, put his arm around the Indian, and clamped his hand down on the Indian’s mouth.

The Indian tried to shout something, but Falcon had him so clamped down that only a very muted sound escaped.

Falcon drew his knife across the Indian’s neck in one quick slice, severing his jugular. Falcon jerked his hand away as blood gushed from the wound. The Indian fell back, flopped a few times like a fish out of water, then died.

Falcon cut around the base of the Indian’s scalp, then turned him over on his belly. Putting his foot in the middle of the Indian’s back, Falcon grabbed the Indian by his hair, then jerked. The scalp came off cleanly.

Falcon debated for a moment or two as to whether he should take the scalp with him. Then he decided against it. Instead, he cut a coup stick, put the scalp on the stick, then rolled the Indian over on his back and forced open the dead man’s mouth. He then stuck the bottom of the coup stick into the open mouth, using it as a support mount for the stick.

Falcon left then, creeping away as quietly and as carefully as he had arrived.

Let them find their brother, neatly and expertly scalped, with no sign of who did it.