Massacre of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “You made the choice of a battlefield commander,” Falcon said. “There are very few men who have ever actually been in that position, which means there are very few who have the slightest idea of what it is like to make life-or-death decisions in the blink of an eye. And, as I told you, your decision to help Reno probably saved my life.”

  “Poor Marcus,” Benteen said. “He has fallen on very hard times, you know. He was cashiered from the army for public drunkenness and lewd behavior, but I have heard from some of the officers who served with him that it was all a put-up deal.”

  “Where is he now?” Falcon asked.

  “He is in Washington, D.C., working as a very lowlevel clerk. He tried to get a book published about his role in the battle, but it was rejected. I uh,” Benteen cleared his throat. “I sent him some money a few months ago. I hated to embarrass him that way, but I knew that he was just barely hanging on.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Falcon said.

  “Godfrey, Larned, Varnum, they have all abandoned him,” Benteen said.

  At that moment, the current dance having ended, Colonel Whitehead returned to the table, breathless and sweating. “I tell you,” he said. “I don’t know how the ladies are able to dance every dance as they do. One dance is enough to wear me out. Fred, you must put your name on some of the dance cards, I’m sure the ladies would be happy to dance with you.”

  “Thank you, Colonel, but I’ll defer to the younger offices and NCOs. Besides, as none of my men are here, I feel a little out of place.”

  “Surely, Major, you aren’t suggesting that the dance be open to the colored soldiers?” Colonel Whitehead said.

  “No, Colonel, not at all,” Reno replied. “I just made the comment that, as they cannot participate in the dance, I, as their commanding officer, feel that I should not be here as well.”

  “Well, I think that is foolish. But, it is certainly your right to make such a decision. Oh, dear me, the sergeant major’s wife is headed straight for me with that look in her eyes. I guess I must dance with her.”

  Colonel Whitehead excused himself and joined the sergeant major’s wife as the regimental band swung into the next tune.

  “Did you hear about Tom Weir?” Reno asked.

  “I know that he died,” Falcon said.

  “You remember that he wanted to go help Custer, but got no farther than the very next hill. By the time he got there it was too late. It’s obvious now that Custer and all his men were already dead, and the Indians were coming hard toward Weir. He barely made it back in time.”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “Weir resigned his commission almost immediately after we got back to Fort Lincoln. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He went back to New York City. I got a letter from one of his friends there who said that he was afraid Tom was losing his mind. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t leave his apartment. All he did was lay around and drink whiskey. Toward the end, he wouldn’t even talk to anyone, nor would he get out of bed. His depression got deeper and deeper, and his drinking got worse and worse, until one day he lay down to take a nap, and he never woke up.

  “All that in less than six months,” Benteen said. “The young, aggressive, courageous officer who stormed the hill in his attempt to go to the rescue of his commander was, within six months of that date, a helpless, drunken, despondent invalid, dying in bed in a fifth-floor walk-up apartment in New York.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next morning as Falcon was shaving in his room at the BOQ he heard a knock at his door. With the towel draped across his shoulder and half his face still lathered, he took the few steps to the door and pulled it open. A tall, muscular black soldier was standing there. The stripes on his arm indicated that he was a sergeant.

  “Colonel MacCallister?”

  “Yes, I’m MacCallister.” Falcon still wasn’t all that comfortable with referring to himself as Colonel MacCallister.

  The black sergeant saluted. “I’m Sergeant Major Coletrain, sir,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant. “Major Benteen has assigned me to you, Colonel Cody, and Colonel Ingraham for the day.”

  “What do you mean he has assigned you?”

  “Aren’t you three gentlemen catching the boat, goin’ down river?” Coletrain asked.

  “We are.”

  “I’ve got a team connected to the CO’s carriage. I’ll be driving the three of you to the steamboat dock.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “No, sir, it’s my privilege to thank you,” Coletrain said.

  “Thank me for what?”

  Coletrain chuckled. “I reckon when someone like does a thing, you don’t always know all the good that’s goin’ to come of it. But some time ago you killed an outlaw by the name of Luke Mueller. Down in Arizona, it was.”

  “I remember,” Falcon said.

  “I was in Arizona at the time, the Ninth was fightin’ Apaches then. I was married to the prettiest young girl you ever did see. She was a laundress at the post.

  “Well sir, one day when she was goin’ into town, Luke Mueller raped her, and kilt her. When I found out who done it, I was plannin’ on desertin’ the army to find him and kill him. Only he run across you, and you kilt him instead.

  “I wish it had been me that kilt him, but thinkin’ back on it, dead is dead, and I never got myself in trouble with the army. So, Colonel MacCallister, as you can see, I do have somethin’ to thank you for.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” Falcon said.

  “Yes, sir, well, what is done is done,” Coletrain said. “You can go on outside to the carriage if you want, I’ll get the others.”

  Sergeant Major Coletrain drove the others down to the riverside where the Queen of the West, a very shallowdraft riverboat, was tied nose in to the bank. The riverbank was crowded with people who had just arrived, those who were departing, those who were seeing people off or welcoming them. There were also several others there, just for the excitement. The ticket agent was sitting at a table in front of the boat, checking the tickets of those who had already booked passage, and selling tickets to those who had not yet done so.

  Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham were among the latter, so they stood in line for a moment until it was their time. Looking up at them, the ticket agent smiled.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Buffalo Bill Cody?” the ticket agent asked Cody.

  “I get that a lot,” Cody said.

  “It must make you angry, being compared to that phony,” the ticket agent said.

  “Oh, sometimes it does,” Cody said with awry smile.

  “All right, one ticket to Sheridan,” the ticket agent said. “Your name, sir?”

  “Cody. William F. Cody,” Cody said.

  “Cody, Will . . . ,” the ticket agent looked up in surprise. “You—you mean you really are Buffalo Bill?”

  “Guilty,” Cody said.

  “Oh, Mr. Cody, I’m so sorry,” the ticket agent said. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just shooting off my mouth. I, uh, I’m sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it, friend,” Cody said.

  Falcon was still chuckling as he stepped up to the table.

  “Yes, sir,” the nervous ticket agent said. “Your name?”

  “McCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”

  “What? Are you the Falcon MacCallister?”

  “I don’t know,” Falcon replied. “I may be, since I am the only Falcon MacCallister I know.”

  “I’ve read about you,” the ticket agent said. “I—well, just a minute, let me show you.”

  The ticket agent reached down into a case that was on the ground by his table and pulled out a book. The title of the book was Falcon MacCallister and the Mountain Marauders.

  “This is a real good book,” he said.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Ingraham said. “Would you like me to autograph it for you?”

  “Don’t tell me you are . . .”

/>   “Prentiss Ingraham,” Ingraham said, answering the ticket agent before his question was completed. “And you have chosen well. This is one of my personal favorites.”

  The ticket agent shook his head. “My wife isn’t going to believe this,” he said.

  Half an hour later, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham were aboard when the captain stepped to the front rail of the wheelhouse.

  “Draw in the gangplank,” he shouted, and two deckhands responded by pulling in the ramp by which all had boarded.

  “Cast off all lines!”

  With that accomplished, the pilot called for fullreverse engine, and the stern paddle pulled the boat away from the bank to the middle of the narrow, shallow river; then it turned, nose downriver. The paddlewheel stopped, then started spinning in the opposite direction as the boat started its journey down the Tongue River.

  An hour later, Falcon was standing at the stern, watching the paddlewheel spin through the water, leaving a frothing wake behind them. The river was not very wide and was quite shallow, so the boat was equipped with spars. They had not gone very far when the captain ordered the first use of the spars.

  “Stand clear of the line, sir,” a boatman said as he approached the spar on the starboard side of the boat, the side on which Falcon was standing. “When the line gets taut, if it breaks, it could hurt you bad.”

  “Thanks, I’ll stay out of the way,” Falcon replied.

  “Stand by the spars!” the captain yelled through his megaphone from the Texas deck.

  The boatman who had spoken to Falcon grabbed hold of the spar.

  “Spars in the water!” the captain called through his megaphone.

  The riverman stuck the end of the spar down into the water, then wrapped the line around a capstan. “Aye, Cap’n, spar in the water!” he called back.

  The deckhand who was handling the spar on the other side of the boat repeated the call.

  “Commence sparring!”

  The boatman pulled a lever and the capstan, powered by steam, began putting pressure on the spar, while the same thing was being done to the spar on the port side.

  Sparring lifted the bow of the Queen of the West as if it were on crutches, up and off the sandbar. With the bow raised, the paddlewheel got more purchase in the water and moved the boat forward. Because it was a particularly long sandbar, the action had to be repeated, in a procedure that Falcon knew was called grass-hoppering, or walking, the boat. The procedure had to be repeated several times until, finally, the boat was clear of the sand bar and the captain was able to proceed downriver at a rapid clip.

  As the boat continued down the river, Falcon examined the banks sliding by. He saw a lot of deer coming down to the river to drink, amazingly unafraid of the huge fire bellowing, and the thundering monster that was moving down the river. He also saw elk, bighorn, and even a couple of bears coming down to get a drink.

  Once he saw three Indians on horseback, high on an overlook as they watched the riverboat pass by on its downriver transit. Shortly after they crossed from Montana territory into Wyoming territory, they saw a young white boy and girl standing on rock jutting out into the river. They were waving and Falcon waved back. Behind them stood a very small log cabin, and in a field alongside the cabin, a man Falcon presumed to be their father was plowing a field.

  “Falcon,” Cody called, and Falcon turned away from the railing to see what his friend wanted.

  “We are getting a card game together in the salon. Come join us.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Falcon replied.

  The salon was the social center of the Queen of the West. Here the passengers could have a drink, take their meals, play cards, or simply engage in conversation. There were many more men on board than there were women, and the women passengers tended to gather in one corner to talk among themselves.

  The game Falcon joined had six players: Falcon, Cody, Ingraham, and three others, all gold hunters. Reynolds, one of the card players, was a veteran of prospecting in the Big Horn Basin, and during the course of the game he was telling the others some of the places they could look for gold.

  “Of course, I tell this, but with a warning,” he said.

  “A warning about what?” one of the gold hunters asked. “Bear? I know there are bear there. I plan to keep away from them.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ about bears,” Reynolds said. “Though you’d be smart to keep a lookout for ’em. I’m talkin’ about Injuns.”

  “Indians?” Cody said. “But the Crow live there. They are friendly.”

  “Yeah, I reckon they are supposed to be,” Reynolds said. “But we’ve been havin’ a little trouble with them. They’ve kilt a few prospectors, and here just recent, why they kilt a whole family, husband, wife, and their little child.”

  “Are you talking about the Kennedy family? That was Mean to His Horses, wasn’t it?”

  “No, sir, ain’t talkin’ about them. This was the Barlow family, and they lived right there along the Stinking Water River. And the closest Injuns to ’em is Crow.”

  “How do you know it was Indians who did it?” Falcon asked.

  “How do I know? ’Cause they cut ’em up somethin’ awful. And they scalped ’em too. Now I’ve heard of white men killing people for to rob them and such. But I ain’t never heard of no white men scalping other whites. Most especial if it be a woman and a child.”

  “Has the army been called out?” one of the other card players asked.

  “Nah,” Reynolds said. “The people are takin’ care of it their ownselves. Mr. Bellefontaine organized a posse, found some Injuns off the reservation, and kilt a couple of them. Then they left a note, lettin’ the Injuns know the two was kilt ’cause they didn’t stay where they belong. And it told ’em there’d be more killin’ if the Injuns got off their reservation again.”

  “Bellefontaine did that?” Cody asked. “What right did he have to do something like that? Why didn’t he take it to the army?”

  “I don’t know why he didn’t take it to the army,” Reynolds replied. “But seein’ as he purt’ nigh owns the entire town, I reckon that’s about all the right he needs.”

  That evening, as the boat moved slowly, but majestically down the river, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham stood out on the deck, enjoying the cool evening breeze, and looking at the wake of paddlewheel-churned water, breaking white and gleaming in the moonlight.

  Cody lit his pipe, and for a moment the flare of his match cast a golden glow on the faces of the three men. He sucked on the pipe a few times until the tobacco caught, then he exhaled, the puff of smoke caught by the night air and drifting back over the churning paddlewheel where it was broken up.

  “I don’t mind telling you that I have been giving a lot of thought to what Reynolds was talking about at our poker game this afternoon,” Cody said.

  “Do you believe him?” Ingraham asked.

  “I don’t have any reason not to believe him,” Cody replied.

  “What do you know about this man, Bellefontaine?” Falcon asked.

  “Well, I know that we are going to be competitors,” Cody replied. “We’ll be building Cody very close to where DeMaris Springs is, and when the railroad extends this far, why Cody and DeMaris Springs will just naturally be in competition for it.”

  “Is he the kind of man who would send out a posse on his own?” Falcon asked.

  Cody paused for a moment before he answered. “Look, I don’t want you to get me wrong here. I mean, I have already told you that Bellefontaine and I will both be competing for the railroad, so I don’t want you to think that colors my assessment of the man. But to answer your question? Yes, he is exactly the kind of man who would send out a posse on his own, and not just for Indians. Reynolds was correct when he said that Bellefontaine owns the town. And he was also correct when he said that is all the right Bellefontaine thinks that he needs.”

  “I may need to meet this man,” Falcon said.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. You will meet him,�
� Cody replied.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bismarck

  As Ebersole had suspected, Billy Taylor had overheard the conversation that told him that Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill were going to the Standing Rock Agency to talk to Sitting Bull.

  “Talk to Sitting Bull? What the hell do they want to talk to that Redskin for?” Ebersole asked.

  “I don’t know,” Taylor replied. “I never heard the why of it, just the doin’ of it.”

  “Then we need to get there,” Ebersole said.

  “How we goin’ to do that?” Dewey asked. “We didn’t get no money at all from the train holdup.”

  “We was holdin’ up the wrong thing,” Ebersole said. “What we need to do is hold us up a bank.”

  “A bank? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious,” Ebersole said. “Banks have more money, and they don’t move.”

  “Have you took a good look at the bank here?” Hawkins asked. “It’s damn near like a fort.”

  “We ain’t goin’ to hold up the bank here,” Ebersole said. “We’re goin’ to hold up the bank in Tyson.”

  “Tyson? Where the hell is that? I ain’t never even heard of it.”

  “It’s a little town ’bout thirty miles south of the railroad track.”

  Ebersole and the others rode into Tyson just after dark. The town consisted of a single street lined on both sides by squat, unpainted small houses. High above the little town stars winked brightly, while over a distant mesa the waxing moon hung like a large, silver wheel.

  “What do you say we get a drink?” Ebersole suggested.

  Tying off their horses, the five men went into the only building in town that was showing any light. There were two small windows and a door that was open onto the night. There was no sign suggesting that it was a saloon, but because of the light and the sound and the smell of whiskey and beer, they knew what it was.