Read Online Cry of Eagles by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œYou think them Injuns’ll git the message?” Hawk asked, wiping his bloody blade on one of the bodies.
    â€œYeah. 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.”
    â€œDo you think it’ll make any of the ones comin’ to join Naiche change their minds?”
    â€œI 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,