Cry of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

a horizontal crimson streak across each of his cheeks, like warpaint.
    â€œYou want some company?” he asked.
    Hawk pulled out his knife and stuck the point into his thumb. When blood welled up, he wiped his thumb across his cheeks as Falcon had, then stuck out his hand. “To the death.”
    â€œTo the death,” Falcon repeated, taking his hand.
    â€œThen let’s git movin’, partner. We’re burnin’ daylight, an’ I got me some Injuns to kill.”
    Hawk’s words and the hate in them gave Falcon a chill. He wanted to go after the men that did this, but he knew they had to have clear heads. He wondered if Hawk’s anger was going to get them both killed.

Chapter 8
    After sealing their agreement to ride together after the Indians that had killed the settlers, Falcon took a weathered set of buckskins of his own out of his saddlebags and changed into them. When Hawk gave him a questioning look, Falcon explained, “These are my going to war clothes.”
    Along with buckskin trousers and shirt and Apache-style moccasins that rose to his knees, Falcon added a brace of Colt .44 caliber pistols and his Arkansas Toothpick to his belt. He loosened his Winchester .44/.40 carbine in a rifle boot on the right side of his saddle and tied a Standard ten gauge sawed-off double-barrel shotgun to the pommel with a braided rawhide strap, where it would be within easy reach should they be attacked without warning.
    Hawk stepped up to his horse, a buckskin, tan with black mane and tail. He took from his saddlebags a belt and single holster holding an old Colt Army .44 and strapped it on, then stuck an extra pistol in the left side of his belt, butt first for a cross-hand draw. He pulled a small canvas bag full of shells for his Sharps and attached it to his belt next to the scabbard for his Bowie knife.
    While he swung into the saddle, Falcon walked over to the corral and bent close to the ground, studying the tracks that led away from the cabin and into the woods.
    â€œI make it about ten or eleven Indians, leading another five or six horses and mules, which are riderless. The Indians are all riding horses with shoes on, so they must be stolen from either the army or others they’ve killed,” Falcon said.
    Hawk cut another piece of tobacco from the twist in his shirt. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed for a moment before shifting the cud to his left cheek. “That figures. The Injuns never did figure out how to remove horseshoes from their mounts. One thing, though, it’ll shore make it easier to track ‘em crost the mountains. Those shoes’ll leave marks on hard-packed ground an’ rock, whereas Injun ponies wouldn’t.”
    Falcon swung into into the saddle and reined Diablo’s head around until he was heading in the same direction as the Indian band.
    â€œSince you used to be a scout for the army, you want to lead the way?” Falcon asked.
    Hawk spat, hitting a scurrying ground squirrel dead center. “Don’t mind if’n I do. Might be a mite rusty, though. Hadn’t done this for a lotta years, partner.”
    Letting his horse walk at an easy pace, leaning his head to the side to watch the tracks, Hawk led the way into the forest. The Indians had not taken the trail, but ridden straight up the side of the mountain through scattered cacti and creosote bushes and small stands of pinyon trees, as if trying to hide their trail.
    After they had traveled about a hundred and fifty yards into the thick overgrowth, Hawk’s horse suddenly whinnied in a harsh squeal and reared up on his hind legs, almost throwing Hawk to the ground.
    â€œWhat the—” Hawk exclaimed, fighting the reins.
    Falcon filled his fist with iron and rode up beside the man, fearing an attack.
    He slowly holstered his gun and blinked startled eyes at what he saw facing them.
    One of the settler’s heads was impaled on a spear, stuck into the ground, facing