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

traveling into dangerous territory, and he needed a clear head. It was a strange fact, but true, that the surest way to get killed in battle was to be angry. The mind had to be calm and settled, or the body would die.
    He took a deep breath of the cool, crisp autumn air, glancing around at the mountain forest he was heading into. The pinyon trees were a deep emerald green, while some other trees Falcon didn’t recognize had already started to change their leaves into brilliant patterns of gold and scarlet. It was the best time of year in some of the prettiest country God ever made.
    He let Diablo find his own pace up the mountain, while he sat back against the cantle and lighted a cigar, letting his mind roam back to happier times.
    After a while, he felt better. His heart had slowed to its normal beat, and his mind was focused. As he neared the spot where the cabin was supposed to be located, he began to search the trail and surrounding brush for Indian sign.
    Finally, he came to a small clearing in the trees off to the side of the trail. He could see a wooden cabin about fifty yards into the forest, with a cleared area around it containing a couple of corrals and outbuildings.
    He eased out of the saddle and pulled his Colt, holding it ready at his side. There was a chance the Indians might have come back for something they missed, and the smell of blood could have drawn wolves or a bear to the spot. In any case, it was wise to be prepared for anything.
    In front of the cabin door he found where two or three people had died. Their blood had soaked into the already reddish-brown dirt, making it a deep crimson, almost black, color. From the way the ground was torn up, he could see they hadn’t died easy.
    Earing back the hammer on his pistol, he slipped in the door of the cabin, standing with his back against the wall until his vision adjusted to the gloomy interior.
    His nostrils dilated, and his stomach churned at the smell of dried blood, excrement, and seared flesh that still hung on the air like a malevolent fog. Blood and body fluid stains were splattered on walls and floors and wooden furniture all about the cabin. The place had the appearance and odor of a slaughterhouse.
    As he walked through the tiny room he found two dresses, one adult and one child size. They had been torn off the females of the family. In the corner against a far wall was a reddish clump of meat. Falcon squatted before it and poked it with his Arkansas Toothpick, a knife with a long, stiletto-type blade ten inches long and razor-sharp. He almost lost his breakfast when he realized it was a human liver.
    He whirled away from the grizzly find and searched the rest of the cabin, finding nothing of interest except that all of the cabinets were emptied of foodstuffs and supplies and a crude gun rack nailed to the wall was bare, with two empty crushed boxes of .44 cartridges on the floor nearby.
    As he stood there, hands on hips, looking at the empty cupboard, the door behind him gave a tiny creak. He whirled, bringing his pistol up.
    â€œHold on there, Sonny Jim,” said a man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in buckskins, with knee-high leather moccasins on his feet, a bushy beard on his face, and he held what looked like a Sharps .50 caliber rifle cradled in his hands pointing at Falcon.
    â€œJust what’re you doin’ in this here cabin?” he asked.
    â€œI’m looking around,” Falcon answered, his pistol still pointed at the man’s gut.
    The figure leaned to the side and spit a wad of tobacco out of his mouth onto the floor. “What say we both put these guns up and palaver fer a spell?”
    Falcon holstered his Colt. “All right, but outside if you don’t mind. I need some fresh air.”
    â€œIt is a bit ripe in here, ain’t it?” the man said as he backed out the door of the cabin.
    Outside, Falcon took a deep breath, trying to clear the stink of death from his lungs.
    The man