Massacre of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  McLaughlin is in charge of none other than Sitting Bull, unquestionably the most famous of all America’s Indians. Perhaps intimidated by the bearing and dignity of the celebrated chief, McLaughlin has done all in his power to demean and discomfit the noble Sioux leader. Despite his ignoble efforts, Sitting Bull has maintained all the dignity and élan of one of his station. During his audience with Buffalo Bill Cody and Falcon MacCallister, he was straight forward and completely in command of himself. The result of the meeting was just as Buffalo Bill expected. Sitting Bull is not a part of the Spirit Talking movement which has so animated the Indians of late.

  Bismarck

  It was just after midnight in Bismarck, and by now even the saloons were quiet. The Missouri river gleamed silver in the moonlight as Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, Ike Peters, and Jim Dewey walked quietly down 4th Street, heading for the jail, from which a light was shining, dimly.

  Looking around to make certain they weren’t being watched, the four men stepped up onto the porch of the jail. Ebersole tried the door, but it didn’t open.

  “Damn, it’s locked,” he said.

  “It’s supposed to be locked,” Hawkins said. “It’s a jail.”

  “Yeah, but jails are supposed to lock people in, not lock ’em out,” Ebersole said.

  “I got an idea,” Dewey said. “Knock on the door.”

  “Ain’t much chance of surprisin’ him by knockin’ on the door,” Ebersole said.

  “I’m goin’ to pretend to be drunk,” Dewey said. “Knock on the door, when the deputy opens it, tell him you want to put me in jail to keep me out of trouble.”

  “That might work,” Hawkins said.

  “May as well try it,” Peters added.

  Ebersole nodded, then knocked loudly on the door. “Marshal!” he called. “Marshal, you in there?”

  He knocked again.

  The door opened and a young man, wearing the badge of a deputy, stepped back from the open door. He was holding a double-barrel shotgun in his hands.

  “What do you want?” the deputy asked.

  “Our pard here is drunk,” Ebersole said.

  “I ain’t no more drunk than you are, you lyin’ sumbitch!” Dewey said, slurring his words.

  “What does that mean to me, that he is drunk?” the deputy asked.

  “Well, we want you to lock him up tonight so’s he don’t get in no trouble.”

  “Just take ’im somewhere and let ’im sleep it off,” the deputy said. “I don’t have any authority to lock someone up.”

  “What do you mean you don’t have any authority? You’re a deputy, ain’t you?” Ebersole said.

  “I can’t lock someone up just for being drunk. If I did that, the jail would be full every night.”

  “See, I tole’ you I wasn’t goin’ to spen’ no night in jail,” Dewey said. He made a drunken lurch toward the deputy. “You’re a good man, dep’y,” he said as he reached him. “Yes, sir, you’re a good man.”

  The deputy tried to back away from him, but it was too late. Dewey grabbed his shotgun and pointed it straight up, then jerked it away from him.

  “What the hell?” the deputy yelled, but before he could say anything else, Ebersole brought his pistol down, sharply, on the deputy’s head. He fell unconscious to the floor.

  “Billy?” Ebersole shouted. “Billy boy, are you back there!”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Billy answered.

  “Hold on a second. We’re gettin’ you out of here.”

  Ebersole got the key from a hook on the wall, then went into the back of the jail. The cell door was held closed by a hasp and padlock. He tried three keys before he found the right one. The padlock clicked open, then Ebersole removed it and opened the cell door.

  “I know’d you boys wasn’t goin’ to leave me here,” Billy Taylor said with a wide smile spread across his face. Taylor was the youngest of the group, and at first glance most women found him good looking, but upon further examination there was something in his eyes that put them off. One woman said that he was like fine crystal, but with a flaw in its casting. “Yes, sir, I know’d you boys was goin’ to get me out of here, one way or the other.”

  “Come on,” Ebersole said. “Let’s get out of here before anyone comes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DeMaris Springs

  It was not unusual for Running Elk to ride into the small town of DeMaris Springs but there was something going on today that was unusual. As he rode down Center Street he saw several people gathered around the front of a hardware store. Curious as to what was attracting so much interest, he guided his pony over to see. There, in front of the hardware store and strapped to boards so they could be stood up, were the bodies of a man, woman, and child. All three had been scalped, and a sign posted over the top of the three bodies read:

  Frank, Ann, And Davey Barlow

  MURDERED BY INDIANS

  Running Elk was mounted, and was behind the crowd of people so at first, no one saw him. Then, a woman happened to turn and seeing Running Elk, screamed. Her scream caused the others to turn, then all saw Running Elk.

  “There’s one of the savages now!” a man shouted.

  “Get him! String him up!”

  Running Elk spoke excellent English, and he was certain he could convince them that they were wrong.

  “We did not do this terrible thing!” Running Elk shouted. “We are Crow! We are friends with the white man!”

  “Get him! Get the heathen!”

  Fortunately for Running Elk, none of the townspeople who gathered around the hardware store were armed. Neither were they mounted, so as they surged toward him, it was easy for Running Elk to slap his legs against the sides of his pony and gallop away.

  Big Horn Basin, Yellowstone Valley

  Before Running Elk could get back home to warn the others, Many Buffalo, an older Crow who was very friendly with the whites, decided to take a wagon into town. He was accompanied by his granddaughter White Deer, her husband One Feather, their two children, and Quiet Stream, who was One Feather’s sister. Quiet Stream was riding into town in order to sell her blankets. One Feather was mounted on his pony, and he rode alongside the wagon, carrying on banter with his wife and children.

  Suddenly a shot rang out, and Many Buffalo fell out of the wagon, dead. White Deer jumped down and tried to run away, but she was shot as well.

  “Quiet Stream! Turn the wagon! Drive back to the village!” One Feather shouted.

  Picking up the loose reins, Quiet Stream turned the wagon around, then drove away as rapidly as possible. Several white men came over the crest of a hill and began chasing her, but One Feather, who had stayed behind, was able to hold them off long enough to give Quiet Stream a head start.

  After running the team for at least ten minutes at full speed, Quiet Stream looked back and, seeing no one, slowed the team to a walk. Then she saw a house ahead, and decided she would stop there for shelter. But as she approached, she was fired at by people within the house, so she knew she had no choice but to continue to run. The children, who were very young, were frightened, and worried about their mother and father.

  Quiet Stream and her two small nephews made it safely back to the reservation only because her brother, One Feather, had succeeded in holding off the white men.

  Back at the point of the initial attack, White Deer, who was shot twice, was lying helpless on the ground when she saw two of the men who had attacked them walk over to Many Buffalo and look down at the old Indian’s body.

  She lay very quietly, pretending to be dead.

  Though she didn’t know them by name, it was Sam Davis and Lee Regret who were leading the posse that had been constituted after the slaughter of the Barlow family.

  “Look at the old son of a bitch,” Davis said, pointing to Many Buffalo’s body. “You know in his life he’s taken a few white scalps.”

  “Yeah, I believe it,” Regret said.

  “I don’t feel all that good ’bout killin’ th
e woman though,” one of the other riders said.

  White Deer knew they were talking about her, and she lay very still, lest they realize that she was still alive.

  “Why not? The Injuns didn’t mind killin’ the Barlow woman and her kid,” Davis said.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “So, what are we going to do now?” one of the other riders asked.

  “We’re goin’ to leave the Injuns a message,” Davis said.

  “Yeah, I reckon this will leave them a message.”

  “No, I mean a real message. We’re goin’ to leave a note. I want the Injuns to know who done this, and why.”

  “What note?”

  “This note. I already got it wrote, and all we have to do is leave it pinned on ’em so’s the Injuns will find it.”

  “How we goin’ to pin it on ’em?”

  The first man chuckled, then kneeling down he pulled Many Buffalo’s hunting knife from its sheath.

  “You want to see how I pin the note on? Watch,” he said.

  He drove the knife through the note, pinning it to Many Buffalo’s chest.

  “Haw!” the second man said. “I don’t reckon that note’s goin’ to blow away.”

  White Deer knew that her father was already dead, but it was all she could do to keep from crying out when she saw the knife plunged into his chest.

  “What about the squaw?”

  “What about her?”

  “We just goin’ to leave her there?”

  “What do you want to do, bury her?

  “No, nothin’ like that. I was just wonderin’.”

  “Leave her. When they find her, the old man, and the buck we killed, they’ll know we mean business.”

  “Yeah. If this don’t teach ’em a lesson, nothin’ will.”

  “Let’s go.”

  White Deer continued to lie unmoving for a long moment after they left, still terrified that they would come back. She waited until the sound of hoofbeats could no longer be heard before she raised her head. The first thing she saw was the pony of her husband. When she saw the pony of One Feather, she knew that if the pony was without a rider, One Feather must have been killed as well. She also knew that Quiet Stream had driven the wagon away with her children and she could only hope that they were still alive.

  Painfully, laboriously, saddened by the deaths of her father and husband and worried about her children, White Deer managed to mount the pony and ride away. After a ride of well over an hour, she reached the house of Chris Dumey, a settler that she knew, and experienced a great sense of relief at her salvation.

  She stopped in front of the house and stayed on the pony by a great effort because she was still losing blood.

  “Help!” she called. “Please, I have been shot! Mr. Dumey, please help me!”

  The door to the house opened just a crack, and a man thrust a shotgun through the opening.

  “Get out of here Injun,” he said, his voice a low growl.

  “Mr. Dumey, it is me, White Deer! I have been shot. I need help,” White Deer said.

  “If you don’t get now, you’re goin’ to get shot again,” Dumey said. “Now get!” He shouted the last two words, and thrust the gun forward dramatically.

  Somehow the fear helped her overcome the dizziness and White Deer slapped her legs against the side of the pony and raced out of the farmer’s yard.

  She passed at least three other settlers’ homes on her way back to the village, and even though she also knew the people who lived in those houses, she gave them a wide berth.

  It was dark by the time she returned to the village, and because Quiet Stream had already made it back safely with word of the attack, the entire village was in an uproar.

  “We thought you were dead,” High Hawk said.

  “Where is One Feather?” Big Hand, the father of Quiet Stream and One Feather asked.

  “He is dead,” White Deer said. “So is my father. I don’t know where my children are. I don’t know where Quiet Stream is.”

  “I am here, White Deer,” Quiet Stream said. “Your children are safe.”

  Although she had managed to stay conscious during her long arduous ride back home, knowing now that her children were safe, White Deer quit hanging on. She passed out from her wounds, and she was picked up and carried into her tipi where the bullets were removed from her body, and a poultice put over each of the two bullet wounds.

  Big Horn Basin

  It was two hunters from the Crow village who found the bodies of Many Buffalo and One Feather the next day. Constructing a travois, they brought the four back to the village. They had found a piece of paper on Many Buffalo’s body, pinned to him by his own knife.

  The rest of the village wept and shouted in anger at the brutal slaying.

  “Here are some paper words,” one of the two Indians said.

  “Show the paper words to Running Elk,” one of the villagers said. “He has been to the white man’s school, he can read the paper words.”

  Running Elk was as angry and aggrieved as all the other villagers, but he was pleased that he had been chosen to read the paper words. He read the words aloud, in English.

  “We kilt these Injuns because they did not stay where they belonged. We will kill all Injuns who do not stay where they belong.”

  Because not everyone understood him when he read the note in English, Running Elk translated it for them.

  Now the people became painfully aware of the situation. The paper words made it clear that the earlier murders, like these, were not merely the isolated incident of one or two whites. It was an organized movement, designed, no doubt, to run the Indians away from their land so that the whites could look for gold anywhere they wanted.

  “The whites are devils!” White Bull shouted.

  “We should kill them all!” another yelled.

  “Mean to His Horses is right. There can be no peace until the white man knows we are men and not animals to be hunted!” White Bull said.

  “White Bull, do not let the heat of your heart rule the reason of your mind,” High Hawk said. “Mean to His Horses is Cheyenne. The Cheyenne are our ancient enemies. We are friends with the white men. Our warriors have fought at the side of the Long Knives. We have learned many things from our white brothers.”

  “We have learned to be cowards,” White Bull said scornfully. “But I will not be a coward. I will join Mean to His Horses.”

  “I will join him as well,” Running Elk said.

  “Running Elk, no,” High Hawk said. “You have been educated by the white man. You are the future of our people.”

  “If the white people kill us all, we have no future,” Running Elk said. “White Bull speaks for me.”

  “And for me,” another said.

  “All who are brave of heart, come with me!” White Bull shouted. “We will go to Mean to His Horses and ask him to lead us!”

  Trooper’s Saloon, Miles City, Montana Territory

  Though the saloon didn’t cater exclusively to the army, its proximity to Fort Keogh meant that soldiers made up the bulk of its customers. Today was payday for the army, and on this evening the saloon was full. One of the centerpieces of the saloon was its recent acquisition of a lithograph of “Custer’s Last Fight.”

  Sergeant Patrick Connelly was sitting at a table with Sergeant Lucas Depro and several other soldiers. All were asking him about the fight because the Irishman had been with Custer on that fateful scout, taking part in the hilltop fight with Reno and Benteen, where he was wounded. Connelly was pointing to figures in the painting.

  “That lad there is m’ friend Edward Connor, like me, Irish born,” Connelly said. “And Patrick Downing and Charles Graham, Irish born too. And there’s himself, Captain Myles Keogh, as fine an officer as ever drew a breath. Irish he was, like the others.”

  “You were with Benteen, were you?” Depro asked.

  “Aye, though I was with Reno when first we split up. Benteen, you know, came up to joi
n us.”

  “What do you think of Benteen?” Depro asked.

  “Sure now, ’n why do you ask? Would you be wantin’ me to speak unkindly of an officer who shared the dangers of the hilltop fight with myself? For I’m tellin’ you, that I’ll not do.”

  “You know he is here at Fort Keogh in command of the colored troops, don’t you?”

  “Aye, and how is it that I would not know, being as I am on the same post and I’ve known the man for more than ten years now,” Sergeant Connelly said.

  “Maybe what I should have asked is what kind of white man would let himself be stuck with a bunch of colored men?”

  “Don’t you be makin’ the mistake now of thinkin’ that the coloreds don’t make good soldiers, Depro,” Connelly said. “They are good soldiers, the lot of them.”

  “I’ve nothin’ good to say about Coletrain,” Depro said.

  “I know the two of you are workin’ together now,” Connelly said. “’Twas thinkin’ I was, that mayhap the two of you would be gettin’ on just fine.”

  “We ain’t workin’ together,” Depro said. “We’re in the same buildin’, but he’s supply sergeant for the Ninth, and I’m supply sergeant for the Sixth.”

  “But ’tis the same army, is it not?”

  “Not to me, it ain’t. The Ninth is all colored soldiers, the Sixth is all white.”

  “Sergeant Depro, ’tis Irish born I am, but since takin’ the oath to wear this uniform and defend the flag of the United States, I’m more American than I am Irish. Seems to me you could do the same.”

  “Maybe the Irish and the colored are the same,” Depro said. “But don’t include me with you.”

  “Hello, Sarge, can I speak with you for a moment?”

  Looking up toward the speaker, Depro recognized Sam Davis. Davis had been a trooper in his platoon but got out when his enlistment expired.