Blood of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

shell into its chamber it jammed. The boy suddenly felt very small, and very tired. His arm hurt like fury, making him dizzy. His gun was useless now, and he hadn’t killed anybody. He felt like crying, but he cursed himself and fought back the tears. Didanawa-i —Cherokee warriors—did not cry.
    Half an hour later he watched the prairie schoonerlumbering eastward, and when it was safely away he headed south. He moved slowly, weaving drunkenlyand dangling one arm. He would clean himself at a little creek, retrieve his horse and belongings, clean and reload his rifle ... then he would rest. He needed to rest, until Utsonati’s poison wore off.
    That might take a day, or several. And he would be sick. But the snake had shared its spirit with him, and it would strengthen him if he knew how to make it his own. He would rest, treat his swollen arm with a poultice of sage and mud, and then he would just wait it out. When he could, he would start again.
    He had found his prey—four of them, at any rate—and drawn first blood. True, he had not hurt them much, but next time it would be different. Next time ... next time they would wish that they had never come across a bone cart operated by peaceful harmless Cherokees.
    Woha’li had a war name now, like the didanawa-i of old. Next time those men were in his sights, it would not be just the boy Woha’li they faced. It would be Utsonati, the rattlesnake.
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    MacCallister’s ride to Fort Dodge was one of the strangest journeys he could recall. Except for one crusty veteran with topkick chevrons, the cavalry patrolconsisted of one shavetail state militia officer as green as new clover and a gang of rosy-cheeked State of Kansas recruits who didn’t know horseshit from high ground.
    The second time Lieutenant Colgrave refused to divulge the reason for Falcon’s impoundment, SergeantLyles eased the civilian aside. “He don’t know why he’s got you,” he explained. “He’s just actin’ on orders, an’ don’t know what it’s about. You wanted for somethin’?”
    â€œI am not,” Falcon stated.
    â€œWell, all I can suggest,” the sergeant said, “is just make the best of it. You’re lucky he hasn’t took your guns—”
    â€œHe’ll play hell trying!”
    â€œI suggested as much. Anyhow, you’re not under arrest, but the lieutenant does mean to bring you in.
    â€œHe’s taking me to Kansas, and he doesn’t even know why?”
    â€œThat’s the new army,” Lyles shrugged. “Just like the old army was. Never tell anybody anything, just give orders. These boys here couldn’t wipe their butts if somebody hadn’t issued standin’ orders how to do that. Not bad young’uns, some of ’em, but they’re green as crick moss.”
    Falcon made the best of it. There was nothing to be gained by provoking the lieutenant or any of his green troops. The problem with shavetails and recruits,he had learned a long time ago, was that when confused they became trigger-happy. Many a man had died of no hard feelings, in scrapes with unenlightened soldiers.
    He did set the pace, though. With every mile northward, Falcon pushed ahead, riding alongside Colegrave and easing ahead of him, forcing him to increase his mount’s pace to keep up.
    For Falcon, it was a mildly amusing way of passing the time. He had encountered his share of Cole-gravesin the past—fresh young lieutenants plucked prematurely from the cradle and solemnly designatedas officers and gentlemen. In the field, a lieutenant’sfunction was to be a “leader of men.” In exact military protocol, this meant that he was expectedto always be in front of his charges, never behind them. Among army scouts, it was considered almost a duty to enlighten lieutenants as to how the real world worked.
    Unobtrusively, the plodding march became a sort of race, with