Free Cry of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

blood-smeared bodies, his complexion gone pale. “These damn Apaches ain’t human, Major. Only an animal would do something like this to another human being. See how they cut them up like they was hogs at butchering time?”
    Sergeant Boyd grunted. “I been fightin’ the red bastards out here in the west for nearly twenty years, but these Apaches are the worst. It’s on account of that crazy one, Geronimo, that they stay stirred up like this. Then there’s Naiche, probably the worst of the Chiricahuas. He escaped last month with eight or nine young bucks. He’s every damn bit as bloodthirsty as ole’ Geronimo ... maybe worse.”
    Major Tarver turned his attention to the Indian roll call being conducted inside the reservation. Braves dressed in ragged buckskins and dirty cotton trousers were lined up in front of the barracks showing soldiers their identity tags. “Any idea yet how many broke away last night?” he asked, his voice hard as nails.
    â€œBest we can tell, wasn’t but about a dozen, only Private Newman ain’t done with the countin’ yet. Worst is, they got enough rifles for fifty more. Won’t be long ’til more of ‘em start slippin’ off at night to join Naiche an’ Geronimo. Then we’ll have us a real Indian war on our hands.” Boyd said this as though certain of it.
    â€œAgainst savages armed with repeaters,” Tarver added in a dull tone, fully understanding the potential consequences. “There will be a considerable amount of bloodshed, if I’m any judge of the matter.”
    â€œThey stole seventeen horses,” Collins added. “They’ll be hard to ride down. Took some of our best Remount Thoroughbreds, too. Catching up to them won’t be easy. Instead of riding them half-starved Indian ponies, they’re mounted on some of our best saddle stock.”
    Tarver turned to Sergeant Boyd. “Assemble two mounted troops. Make sure they’re heavily armed and well-provisioned. Get three of our best Pawnee scouts ... if they’re sober enough to sit a horse this morning.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Boyd said, turning on his heel.
    Corporal Collins spoke. “I don’t trust our Pawnees, Major, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. That old Shoshone, the one they call Tomo, is the best tracker we’ve got, and he don’t drink nearly so much.”
    â€œFind him, then,” Tarver snapped. “If all four scouts are dead drunk, tie them across their horses until they sober up. We must get those rifles back and corral this batch of renegades, or every goddamn Apache on this reservation will take off into the mountains to join up with them when Naiche and Geronimo hear about this.”
    * * *
    Tomo, a slope-shouldered man of fifty in buckskins with long gray hair in a single plait hanging between his shoulder blades, gave the desert floor a lengthy study. Major Tarver waited impatiently for the Indian to say something.
    â€œGo this way,” Tomo finally said, pointing to the south. “Ride many circles to hide direction they go. Maybe so they go to Dragoon Mountains. Rock there be plenty hard to track horse. Easy to hide in Dragoons.”
    â€œThat’s the way I had it figured,” Sergeant Boyd said with a mouthful of chewing tobacco filling his right cheek. “May as well give up followin’ their tracks an’ head straight for them there mountains.”
    â€œIsa is leading them to some place he knows,” Tarver said. “I figure he aims to join up with Geronimo and Naiche somewhere up yonder.”
    â€œLet’s hope we find these runaways before that happens,” Major Tarver said.
    * * *
    Entering a narrow ravine winding through solid rock, Tarver had an uneasy sensation. “Where the hell is that Shoshone?” he demanded of Sergeant Boyd.
    â€œCan’t say fer sure,” Boyd replied, giving the rock walls on both sides a