Free Blood of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

the Cimarron breaks. Two hours after sundown the western sky was alive with searing tendrils of lightning. An hour later fitful rain rode the winds, and the whole sky was ablaze with sound and fury.
    The little dun was skittish at the first few cascades of thunder. Woha’li had his hands full just keeping the horse attached to his tether. But when he snugged the animal’s lead closer to MacCallister’s big black, on a picket rope close under a limestone shelf, Diablo’s solid presence seemed to calm him. When the first rains hit, both horses crowded the line and edged around, closer to the snug little fire where Woha’li waited.
    Great flares of lightning lit the rainy sky, and thunderdrummed. The air smelled sweet, and seemed to hum and crackle like a den of vipers—a sky full of brilliant rattlesnakes striking downward.
    â€œUtsonati, ” the Indian boy sang quietly, looking skyward and speaking to the lightning in the ancient way of his people, “Anagalisgi, osiyo! Hiwo‘ni-a aga-sga’.”Hello, lightning. When you speak, the rains come down.
    Woha’li was impatient and nervous. Though he spoke some English—far more than the man MacCallisterspoke atsalagi —still he didn’t know much about the tall yoneg who had befriended him. The man was soft-spoken and polite, yet he was very strong, and he moved with the grace and purpose of a warrior. One had only to glance at those pale eyes to know that he could be deadly. He had hair the color of moon-corn, yet he adapted himself so well to the land and the moment that sometimes Woha’li would have sworn he was Indian.
    And he rarely said or revealed more than he had to. Right now, Woha’li had not the vaguest idea where he had gone, or why. MacCallister had simply told him to make camp and wait with the horses, then had disappeared into the shadows.
    Woha’li was thinking seriously about breaking away from the white man, going on alone. He was grudgingly grateful for the things MacCallister had done for him, but he didn’t see that he needed to follow any yoneg around. He had a loaded rifle now, and he knew what he wanted to do.
    The frontal rains came in a rush of wind and spray, and Woha’li pulled back into the shelter of the cut bank. Out in the gully beyond, the slope was screened by scrub cedar.
    The thickets were alive with windsong and with scurrying small things moving up the slope from the riverbed below. A wilderness in motion, seen from above.
    And just overhead, above the rock rim of the ledge, were the rolling flatlands where lightning danced like spider legs walking.
    â€œAnagalisgi, ” his father had told him. “Anagalisgi ale Utsonati ... Tsalagiyahi unali’i gesa. ” The lightning, like Utsonati the rattlesnake, is the Cherokee’s friend.
    In Woha’li beat the heart of a warrior, and vengeanceflowed hot in his veins ... the single-minded resolve to exact retribution upon those who had killed his father and mother. MacCallister was ani-unega —a yoneg. Only a white man. He might return, and he might not. Either way, Woha’li would go on, and he would have his revenge.
    The lightning flared, the thunder rolled, and eyes dark as hawks’ eyes looked out at the flashing wilderness.In his heart, Woha’li was very much a Cherokee warrior. Still, for the rest of him, he was only twelve years old, and he felt lost, cold, and lonely. All the family he had was gone, and the white stranger he rode with had disappeared into the night.
    And down the slope, brush crackled and splintered as the floodwaters from upstream rose steadily in the Cimarron gorge.
    Woha’li’s loneliness only added fuel to the seethingrage that burned within him. Somewhere out there, not far away, were the men who had killed his father and mother. Maybe only a few miles away. Even at night, he could find them. And if he had a very good horse ...
    Hesitantly, he scanned the