Revenge of Eagles

who agreed with Nincha. Finally, after listening to the council, Keytano raised his hands to call for silence.

“Hear me, my brothers,” he said. “We will not make war now. We will send word to the white soldier chief and ask him to use his soldiers to keep the white men from our lands.”

Chetopa made a scoffing sound. “That will do nothing,” he said.

“Perhaps it will do nothing, but we must try.”

“And if it does nothing?”

“Then we will meet in council again,” Keytano said.

After the council broke up, Keytano went to the wickiup of his sister. “May I enter?” he called.

Tolietha stood quickly, the flour of the flat bread she was making still on her hands.

“Yes, my brother,” she answered.

In the war with the whites, many Apache were killed, and many others were captured and sent away. Keytano never thought that he would be chief, but the duty had fallen to him and he tried, always, to do what was best for his people.

When the white government said that all the young ones would have to go away to school, some protested, and said they would flee to Mexico. But Keytano had held them together, and told them that it would be good for their people to learn some of the ways of the whites, especially how to read and write.

Keytano’s own daughter had gone away to school, and just this morning, the trading post had given him a letter that came from her. He had not had time to do anything with it before the council met, but now, Keytano held the letter before him, showing it to his sister.

“I have received this from my daughter,” he said. “I would like one of the young ones to tell me the words.”

Tolietha signaled to one of her children who was being educated in the mission school.

“Read this to your uncle,” she ordered.

The boy, who was about twelve, took the letter from Keytano, opened it, and began to read.

Father,

I have completed my schooling and will be coming home soon. I miss you and my mother, and I miss our home and the mountains.

I have learned much while I was here. Some of the things I learned will be very good, and I believe I can use what I have learned to help our people.

But I think it would be good if the whites could learn some things from us. They do not understand the air, the water, the land, and the mountains. They do not understand the animals and the plants. They do not understand that all people, all animals, all plants, the sky, the water, the land, are all a part of the whole.

They do not understand how to live with life.

They know only how to live without life.

Finishing the letter, the young boy gave it back to Keytano.

“It is good that she is coming home,” Keytano said. “I will tell her mother this good news.”

Falcon MacCallister was tired. He had been traveling for nearly two weeks now, riding on a combination of stagecoach and train. He was on a train now, having connected with the Southern Pacific at Sweetwater. He had boarded the train late last night, and as it had come south through the Sonora Desert, Falcon had been unable to get comfortable in the hard seats of the day coach. He was in a day coach because there was neither a Wagner nor Pullman parlor car attached to this train, it being considered a local. He had just sat back down after walking around to stretch out the kinks, when the front door opened and the conductor started through the car.

“Calabasas! This is Calabasas!” the conductor called, passing down the aisle. Falcon, who was sitting on the right side of the car, stared through the window as the train began to slow, then finally squeal to a stop. He saw a low-lying adobe building with a white sign hanging from the roof. The sign read CALABASAS, ELEVATION 4000 FEET.

Falcon stood up, reached into the overhead rack, and pulled down a canvas grip, his only luggage. When he stepped down from the train a moment later, he saw a man with a badge, holding a shotgun, standing by the express car. The agent in the express car was handing down a canvas bag to another man; then he and the armed lawman started up the street. Falcon had obviously just witnessed the transfer of a money shipment, and he wondered idly how much might be in the little canvas bag that they were guarding so carefully.

Right across the street from the depot was the Railroad Hotel. Falcon walked toward it, picking his way through the horse droppings. A dog slept on the front stoop of the hotel, so secure in its right to be there that it didn’t even open an eye as Falcon stepped up onto the porch.

Falcon pushed open the door and a small, attached bell jangled as he stepped inside. There was nobody behind the desk, but the jingling bell summoned the clerk from a room that was adjacent to the desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need a room,” Falcon said.

“Very good, sir,” the clerk said, turning the registration book around for Falcon to sign.

The clerk handed Falcon a key.

“That’ll be fifty cents a night,” the clerk said. “Three dollars if you stay an entire week. That saves you fifty cents.”

“I’ll take it one night at a time,” Falcon said, handing the clerk half a dollar. “Does a bath come with it?”

“Indeed it does, sir,” the clerk said. “We have bathing rooms on every floor.”