Massacre of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Want to join up again, do you, Davis?” Depro asked.

  “No, nothin’ like that. This is somethin’ else,” Davis said.

  “Well, speak up.”

  Davis shook his head. “I’d rather talk to you in private. I’ll buy you a beer.”

  Depro chuckled. “Well, bein’ as you are a rich civilian now, I reckon I can let you buy me a beer all right. You boys carry on without me,” he said to the other troopers at his table.

  Davis followed Depro through the crowd of loudtalking, often laughing soldiers to a table in the far back corner where another civilian was sitting. When the civilian looked up toward them, Depro recognized Lee Regret. Like Davis, Regret had once served in Depro’s platoon.

  “Now if you’re plannin’ on tellin’ me that Regret wants to re-enlist, you can just forget about it,” Depro said.

  “Nah, he don’t want to enlist neither,” Davis said. “But he’s in on what I got to talk to you about.”

  “Hello, Sarge,” Regret said.

  “Regret,” Depro replied.

  “Regret, how about get us another beer? And get one for the sarge,” Davis said.

  Regret nodded, then got up from the table and headed toward the bar.

  “Regret is your dog-robber now, is he?” Depro asked.

  “I know you and Regret never got along, but he’s a good man,” Davis said.

  A moment later Regret returned with three beers and passed them around.

  Depro took a swallow, then wiped the foam from his moustache. “All right,” he said. “What is it you want to talk about?”

  “Money,” Davis said.

  “What about money?”

  “I know how you can make some,” Davis said.

  “You know how I can make some money?”

  “A lot of money,” Davis replied.

  Fort Keogh, Wyoming Territory

  Established in August 1876, Fort Keogh was located on the right bank of the Yellowstone River, just west of Miles City and two miles above the mouth of the Tongue River. Established by Colonel Nelson A. Miles, by order of Brigadier General Alfred Terry, it was intended to serve as a base of supply and operations against the Sioux Indians. Construction of permanent buildings commenced in 1877. Originally called “New Post on the Yellowstone,” the “Cantonment on Tongue River,” then “Tongue River Barracks,” it was finally designated Fort Keogh on November 8, 1878, in honor of Captain Myles Keogh, Seventh U.S. Cavalry, killed in the Battle of Little Big Horn on June 25, 1876. The post was one of several established during this period for the purpose of subduing the Indians of the northern plains and securing permanent control over them.

  The fort was substantial, consisting of several buildings, including quarters for officers and men, barns, warehouses, and mess halls. Stationed at the fort were four troops of Buffalo Soldiers, the Ninth Cavalry, with their headquarters and band, under Major Fredric Benteen. Here too, were three troops of the Sixth Cavalry, under Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin Whitehead.

  As a general rule, the officers did not frequent the Trooper Saloon in Miles City, because to do so would put them in close social contact with the enlisted men. Close social contact between enlisted and officers was frowned upon, so the officers plied their social intercourse in the Officers’ Open Mess on the grounds of the fort. Because there were no black officers, all of the Ninth Cavalry officers were white, and thus, in the mess at least, the officers of the Ninth and the Sixth commingled.

  When Major Benteen stepped into the Officers’ Open Mess there were several of the officers engaged in a spirited discussion and one of them looked up as Benteen came in.

  “Major Benteen was there,” a lieutenant said.

  “I was where, Lieutenant Purvis?”

  “At Little Big Horn.”

  Benteen sighed in resignation. In the last ten years he had been asked thousands of questions about the fight at Little Big Horn, and he was reasonably certain that there could be no question he had not heard.

  “Tell me, Major, why did Custer refuse to take the Gatling guns? Don’t you think that if he had had them, the outcome would have been different?”

  “Custer refused to take the guns and I concurred,” Benteen said.

  “But why? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Think about it, Purvis. The Gatling gun is wheelmounted, just like a piece of artillery. The topography around Little Big Horn was such that it would have extremely limited mobility. In addition, it is crew-served, which means that two men must be standing upright to fire it, and that exposes them. And finally, they jam up so frequently as to be ineffective, especially in a battle situation as fluid as was the situation at Little Big Horn. One can find a lot of fault with Custer, and God knows I can, because I despised the man. But his decision not to take Gatling guns into the battle was a correct one.”

  “Major Benteen, you’ve been fighting Indians for over twenty years now. Tell me, do you think we are about to get into another Indian war?” a Captain named Jones asked.

  Benteen who had taken his seat at the table with the others, poured himself a glass of whiskey before he answered.

  “What would make you think that?”

  “It’s this Spirit Talking business,” Captain Jones said. “It was started by an Indian who was at Custer’s last fight, a chief by the name of . . .”

  “Mean to His Horses,” Benteen said, interrupting Jones. “He’s not a chief, he’s a shaman.”

  “Whatever he is, a lot of Indians are listening to him. And I don’t mean just the Cheyenne, either.”

  “Yes, well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Benteen said. “If we do get into another little skirmish, I don’t expect it will come to much. I think the Indians are all whipped now. They are tired of fighting.”

  “Excuse me, Major, but isn’t that what Custer thought?” a newly minted second lieutenant asked. “I mean, from what I read and heard while I was in the Academy, the Indians gave Custer, you, and the rest of the Seventh a pretty good whipping.”

  There was a corporate gasp from the others, and conversation halted in mid-syllable as all stared toward Benteen to see how he would react.

  Benteen said nothing. He lifted his glass to his lips and glared at the young lieutenant. He held the silent glare for a long moment, and as the moment lengthened and the silence stretched out, the lieutenant became visibly shaken.

  “Uh, I didn’t mean you got the whipping,” the lieutenant said. “Everyone knows that you weren’t actually with Custer when he went into battle, that you hung back and—uh . . .”

  “Lieutenant Simmons, I think you had better quit before you get yourself in any deeper,” Colonel Whitehead said. Lieutenant Colonel Whitehead was Benteen’s counterpart, the commanding officer of the Sixth.

  “Yes, sir. I—uh—told Sergeant Templeton that I would look into something with him. I need to leave.”

  “But, Lieutenant,” Benteen said. “You didn’t finish your drink.”

  “I’m not thirsty, sir,” Lieutenant Simpson said as he hurried out of the club, chased by the laughter of all the other officers therein present.

  “You’re going to have to teach me that stare some time, Benteen,” Whitehead said.

  “Yes, sir, I would be glad to,” Benteen replied.

  “But, first, I would be interested in knowing what you think about our current situation. I’ll ask you the same question Captain Jones asked. Do you think there is going to be another Indian war?”

  “Do you think there will be?” Benteen replied.

  “I don’t know,” Whitehead admitted. “I know that Mean to His Horses has been leading some renegades on a tear. There was that massacre of the Kennedy family up in Montana Territory, then the attack on the freight wagons.”

  “Yes, but you said it for what it is. It is a group of renegade Cheyenne.”

  “Not just Cheyenne,” Whitehead said. “There was the Barlow family that got murdered, and those two white prospectors found shot and scalped i
n the Yellowstone Valley. That was down here in Wyoming, and more than likely, it was Crow that did that.”

  “How many prospectors do we have poking around out there right now?” Benteen asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. Twenty or thirty I would say,” Whitehead said.

  “With that many gold hunters out there, don’t you think it is just possible that those two got into an argument with some other prospectors, were murdered, then scalped to make it look like Indians did it?”

  “As I understand, there were also some Indians killed, no doubt reprisals by the whites who live nearby,” Whitehead said.

  “At this point I don’t see a couple of white men and a few Indians getting killed being enough to get us into a war. Especially with the Crow. I have put my life in the hands of the Crow many times.”

  “Yes, but that was then, and this is now. Things are different now.”

  “What is so different?” Benteen asked.

  “I’ll tell you what is different. It is this Spirit Talking business.”

  “As long as they are talking to spirits, they aren’t fighting the army,” Benteen said.

  Whitehead chuckled. “Yes, I guess that’s true. Still, one wonders. I know for a fact that General Miles is worried about it. He thinks Sitting Bull might be leading the Indians.”

  “Sitting Bull? Are you talking about the same Sitting Bull who went into show business with Buffalo Bill Cody? That Sitting Bull?”

  “Yes, the one who led the Sioux in the fight at Little Big Horn.”

  Benteen made a dismissive snort. “Sitting Bull remained in his tipi for the entire fight. He couldn’t lead a bunch of Holy Rollers to Jesus,” he said.

  “What if we do get into a fight?” Whitehead said. “Can we count on you?”

  “What do you mean, can you count on me?” Benteen snapped back, forgetting military courtesy in his response. “Sonny, I was fighting Indians when your mama was changing your britches!”

  “I don’t mean you, personally,” Whitehead restated, quickly. “I meant can we count on your colored soldiers?”

  “Don’t you worry about my colored soldiers, Colonel Whitehead,” Benteen replied. “They are as good as any soldiers I ever served with.”

  Whitehead laughed out loud. “They are as good as any you ever served with? That’s quite a statement isn’t it? I mean, considering that you served with Custer and the Seventh.”

  “I will say again,” Benteen repeated, more slowly and with greater emphasis. “My colored soldiers are as good as any soldier I ever served with.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  After leaving Fort Yates and their rendezvous with Sitting Bull, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham proceeded farther west by rail, leaving the train at Miles City, Montana Territory.

  At Miles City they would take a boat down the Tongue River to Sheridan, Wyoming Territory, but that would not occur for three days. Cody suggested that they pay a visit to Fort Keogh.

  “Good idea,” Falcon said. “I well remember Myles Keogh. He was a good man, and a good officer.”

  After the gate guard was shown their commissioning papers, he saluted, then pointed across the quadrangle to the headquarters building. There were several soldiers out in the quadrangle going through various drills. On one side were a group of black soldiers, and on the other a group of white soldiers.

  “The Ninth and Sixth Cavalry share the post,” Cody explained.

  Once inside the headquarters building, the adjutant showed them in to the office of the post commander, who was also the commanding officer of the Sixth Cavalry.

  “Buffalo Bill Cody, I can’t tell you how pleased we are to have you visiting us,” Colonel Whitehead said.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Cody replied. “May I introduce my friends? This is Falcon MacCallister, and this is Prentiss Ingraham.”

  “Falcon MacCallister,” Whitehead said. “You were at the fight at Little Big Horn, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Falcon said. “I was actually looking for a couple of lost Gatling guns, but wound up with Reno during the fight.”

  “Ahh, there is someone here you should see,” Whitehead said. He held up his finger, as if telling Falcon to wait for a moment, then he stepped to the door and spoke to his adjutant. “Mike, would you have the CO of the Ninth come to my office, please?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant replied.

  “We are sort of a forgotten post here,” Colonel Whitehead said, continuing the conversation. “We don’t get many guests, especially guests of your caliber. How long will you be here?”

  “Just long enough to catch a boat down to Sheridan,” Cody said.

  “Good, that means you will be here for three days at least, for it will be that long until the next boat leaves. Have you a place to stay while you are here?”

  “We thought we would get rooms in the hotel,” Cody said.

  “Ha. Lots of luck with that,” Colonel Whitehead replied. “Chances are there won’t even be one room available, since the boat passengers stay there until the boat leaves. And even if you could get a room, believe me, it is little better than sleeping in a stable. We can put you up here on the post.”

  “We don’t want to intrude.”

  “You won’t be intruding. We have enough vacant rooms in the bachelor officers’ quarters to accommodate all three of you. You are welcome to them.”

  “Thank you, that is very decent of you.”

  “Oh! And tomorrow night, we will have a dance in your honor.”

  “Colonel, please don’t go to any trouble on our part,” Cody said.

  “Trouble? Believe me, Colonel Cody, it’s no trouble. It is an honor and a privilege. And I know the ladies have been wanting to hold another dance. This will be the perfect opportunity to do so. This is difficult duty here for all of us, isolated as we are, but it is particularly difficult for the ladies.”

  There was a knock on the door, and looking toward it, Falcon saw Fred Benteen.

  “You sent for me, Colonel?”

  “Yes, Major, you have an old friend here I thought you might like to see. Colonel Falcon MacCallister.”

  Benteen looked over at Falcon. “I thought your colonel’s rank was temporary from the State of Colorado.”

  “It was, then,” Falcon said. “Now I have another temporary rank, this time from the U.S. Army. I see you have been promoted to major.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re just passing through,” Falcon said.

  “But they are going to be here for a few days,” Colonel Whitehead said. “I have asked them to stay in the BOQ. The ladies will be planning a dance for tomorrow night, and they will be our special guests.”

  “I’m sure the ladies will appreciate that,” Benteen said. “Colonel, I must get back to my men. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  The dance the next evening was held at the Suttler’s Store. For twelve officers, there were six wives present, as well as Colonel Whitehead’s daughter, who was eighteen. Of the thirty non-commissioned officers assigned to the base, there were thirteen wives present. In addition, there were two unmarried laundresses. That meant that, for the dance, there were forty-five men and twenty women. Every woman’s dance card was full.

  Falcon danced once with Mrs. Whitehead, once with Elaine, Colonel Whitehead’s daughter, and once with the wife of one of the NCOs. Bill Cody and Prentiss Ingraham were much more active, dancing nearly every dance with the ladies who thought it a great thrill to dance with someone as famous as they both were.

  For the most part, Falcon sat at a table with Colonel Whitehead, who graciously allowed his wife to dance with all the soldiers, officers and NCOs who did not have wives of their own.

  “Did Sitting Bull shed any light on this Spirit Talking business?” Colonel Whitehead asked.

  “Nothing that we didn’t already know,” Falcon said.

  “Mean to His Horses is bad news. I suppose you heard about the Kennedy massacre?”

 
“Yes.”

  “Roman Nose, Crazy Horse, Tall Bull, none of them were as brutal to civilians as Mean to His Horses has been.”

  “There is a difference, though,” Falcon said. “They were all part of their established tribes, and it was during a time of war between the Indians and the white man. Mean to His Horses is a renegade, pure and simple.”

  “That’s true,” Colonel Whitehead said. “There is another big difference.”

  “What is that?”

  “Roman Nose, Crazy Horse, Tall Bull are all dead. This son of a bitch is still alive.”

  Benteen was a late arrival at the dance and when he arrived, Whitehead excused himself.

  “I need to dance with my own wife or I’m going to hear about it,” he said.

  “Mrs. Benteen isn’t here?” Falcon asked.

  “At the moment, she is in St. Louis,” Benteen answered.

  The two men sat in silence for a moment.

  “Well?” Benteen said.

  “Well?” Falcon replied, confused by the cryptic comment.

  “Aren’t you going to join the chorus?”

  “What chorus would that be?”

  “The chorus that says I betrayed Custer, that if I had brought my battalion up quickly enough, I could have joined him and the outcome would have been different. ‘Benteen, big Sioux village come quick, bring packs. P.S. bring packs.’ Is there one person in America now who is not aware of that last message from Custer?”

  “Major, you forget. I was with Reno that day,” Falcon said. “If you had not come to Reno’s aid, I might not be here today.”

  Benteen was silent for a long moment. Finally he gave a relieved sigh and shook his head.

  “I thank you for that, Colonel,” he said. “It is good to hear something from someone who was there, and who knows all the details and nuances. Sometimes I think I am going to be like Judas Iscariot—damned for all eternity because I betrayed Custer.

  “I didn’t like the man, and I’ve made no excuses about that, but damn it, I did what I thought was best that day. Custer had the largest battalion, he had competent officers, I had no idea that he was in such dire circumstances. Reno was the most inexperienced officer in the entire regiment, and he had only half as many men with him as Custer had. Given the choice, I thought Reno and his men were in more danger than Custer.”