Blood of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page B

Colegrave pushing harder and harder to stay at the head of his column and soldiers spurringtheir mounts to keep from being left behind. The lieutenant’s furious glances now and then assuredFalcon that Colegrave understood what he was doing, but just didn’t know what to do about it.
    They crossed the Cimarron at a place where the bluffs outlining the wide valley were more than a mile apart. All along the bottomlands were the smokes, tracks, and marks of settlers settling into a new land. Within view, Falcon counted three distinct settlements scattered across the miles.
    â€œThe ‘great American desert,’ ” Lyles commented,observing a farmstead from a distance. “Fifty, sixty years ago this whole region was declared uninhabitable. Look at it now. Fillin’ up!”
    â€œWell, they’ve got their work cut out for them,” said Falcon.
    Behind him, Private Finch muttered to Private Lester, “So have we ... just keepin’ up with our prisoner.”
    It was no great workout for Diablo. The big black took the forced march like a Sunday stroll, but for two days the cavalry’s horses had been near exhaustioneach time they stopped to rest.
    Of them all, only Sergeant Lyles seemed to enjoy the sport. Falcon noticed how the old topkick’s eyes sparkled with constrained mirth each time LieutenantColgrave spurred his horse to regain the lead position in his patrol.
    For anyone watching as the unit filed across Crooked Creek and lined out toward the distant smokes of a sizeable settlement ahead, just who was bringing in whom would have been a good question.

TEN
    Trails by the dozens converged toward the old ford of the Arkansas River and the seething little settlement beyond. North of the Cimarron had been sand hills, but once past them there was more and more settlements. Every creek and gully, it seemed, was lined with fresh soddies and hardscrabble little steads. There were even patches of raw soil where the grass had been broken out for plowing.
    In the distance, on the River’s south bank, were several sizeable farmsteads. On the nearest one, the charred remains of a burned-out barn stood stark against the background.
    Where there were people, there was always trouble.
    And it all seemed to concentrate toward Dodge. Falcon could almost smell the place, even from upwind.A pall of smoke hung in the air—smoke from dozens of cook fires, blacksmiths’ forges, tannery embers and stoves—before catching the wind above the low hills to feather off to the east.
    Along the main trail, at the edge of town, bales of overripe winter hides were stacked before low-slungsheds, awaiting cartage. Great mounds of sun-bleachedbone sprawled roof-high along wagon paths, and every kind of shack, shed, hovel, and tent crowded the well-marked line where the city limits began. Beyond were more substantial buildings, many of them still sapwood new.
    The main street was a drover’s lane, close to a hundred yards wide where it entered the town, narrowingbeyond a maze of slat-fenced pens and cattle chutes. The railroad depot there was as varnish-new as the iron rails coming in from the east. This was the new railhead for the Texas herds, replacing Newtonand Ellsworth in that trade.
    Most of the structures in the town were squat soddiesand dugouts. But where the street narrowed, high buildings faced across a busy thoroughfare, many of them dressed up in garish false fronts.
    The buildings on the south side of the street backed up to river flats where a wagon camp stood like a second town at the edge of town. Falcon counted at least thirty prairie schooners out there, sharing space with an array of lesser vehicles and a pair of huge Conestogas that dwarfed all the rest. The associated livestock—draft horses, mules, and oxen in various enclosures along the river—num—bered in the hundreds.
    â€œHomesteaders.” Lyles pointed. “First spring flock, headin’