Free Cry of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page B

file the charges against me. We ain’t got out of this with our scalps just yet.”
    A singsong bullet slammed into a rocky ledge above the major’s head and he ducked down quickly. Perhaps Sergeant Boyd was right about letting the horses go.
    * * *
    Major Tarver bit the end off a long black cigar and stuffed it into his mouth as he listened to the casualty report.
    â€œWe got sixteen men dead, Major, an’ three more missin’. We got twelve wounded, an’ four of those’ll probably die ’fore mornin’.”
    â€œHow many horses do we have left, Sergeant?”
    â€œOnly got nine that can carry a rider. Some’s wounded so bad we’ll have to put ’em down with a gun.”
    â€œAnd where is the scout, Tomo?”
    â€œAin’t seen him since the shootin’ started. I figure he rode off when the first gun banged.”
    â€œI want him tracked down and arrested.”
    Sergeant Boyd shrugged. “How the hell are we gonna track him down, Major?” He leaned to the side and let loose a brown stream of spit from his tobacco. “Far as I can tell, he didn’t leave no tracks when he lit out of here.”
    â€œI intend to have him shot.”
    â€œFirst thing you gotta do is find him, Major, an’ that ain’t gonna be easy in these here Dragoons.”
    â€œA man can’t simply disappear. Send out a detail to look for him.”
    â€œThem Apaches are liable to be expectin’ us, an’ they’ll kill the men we send out.”
    Tarver’s impatience was almost at a breaking point. “I gave you an order, Sergeant.”
    â€œI’ll follow it, sir, only I damn sure ain’t gonna go out there myself. You can have me court-martialed soon as we get back to the fort, but I won’t go ridin’ up this here canyon to look for Tomo.”
    â€œAnd why not?”
    â€œBe the same as committin’ suicide. Them Apaches have left a rear guard to see if we follow ’em. They’ll shoot me deader’n pig slop”
    â€œI intend to put your refusal in my report to General Crook, Sergeant Boyd.”
    â€œPut anythin’ in it you want, Major, only be sure to write down that, so far, I’m still alive ... which is more than you’ll be able to say ’bout any other poor bastards you send into that canyon.”

Chapter 11
    Isa followed the stars unerringly toward the hidden spring in the Dragoons. Using rawhide thongs he was able to bind the rifles together in less cumbersome bundles, making travel easier. By dawn the soldiers would find their tracks using Indian scouts, and only the rocks at higher elevations in the mountains would throw off pursuit, hiding the tracks made by the cavalry’s shod horses.
    â€œThey will be coming soon,” an older warrior named Nana said as he looked behind them.
    â€œThey fear what will happen when we arm ourselves and many more with these rifles,” Isa agreed. “They must follow us and try to get them back.”
    The clatter of iron-shod horses was annoying to Isa, and he wished for the metal tools white men used to remove them, for the sound was like the beating of a drum at the Sun Dance ceremony. It echoed across the desert like a beacon, pointing to their progress.
    â€œMany more young fighters will come when they hear we have the many-shoot guns.” Nana sounded sure of it, and he had seen many more years of war than Isa, more than a dozen, when Cochise was alive.
    â€œNaiche is a wise leader, Nana. He will show us where to strike and where to hide.”
    Nana appeared to frown. “He is wise in the ways of war, but he is foolish and reckless in battle when he seeks enemy scalps. Geronimo is far wiser, always the cautious one, being careful to strike when he is certain of victory.”
    â€œBut Geronimo is in Mexico with only a few warriors. One of us must ride into the Sierra Madres to tell him of our good fortune, that we