Massacre of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Let’s go meet him,” Regret said.

  “Wait until he gets a little closer,” Davis replied. The two men watched the Indian as he rode across the last three hundred yards, then when he was within one hundred yards of them, they rode out from the tree line where they had been waiting and started toward him. First Davis, and then Regret held up their right hands as they approached him. Mean to His Horses held his right hand up as well.

  “Hello, Chief, it is good of you to come,” Regret said.

  “You have guns to sell?” the Indian asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How many guns you have?”

  “Many guns, and I can get many more.”

  “I will buy.”

  “With gold,” Davis said. “I’m only going to deal in gold.”

  “In gold.”

  “Then we have a deal.”

  “Where are the guns?”

  “I will deliver them to you. I did not bring them with me until I knew we would have a deal. Where is the gold?”

  “You will have gold when I have guns,” Mean to His Horses said.

  Davis chuckled. “Why, Mean to His Horses, you mean you don’t trust the white man?”

  “You will get gold when I get guns,” Mean to His Horses repeated.

  “All right, I’ll go along with that.”

  “Why?” Mean to His Horses asked.

  “Why what?”

  “You are white, I am Indian. If you sell guns, I will make war on white man. Why do you sell?”

  “I think the white man has done the Injun wrong,” Davis said. “I will sell the guns to you because I want to see justice done.”

  “I think you lie,” Mean to His Horses said.

  “What?”

  “I think you sell guns because you want the gold I will give you, and you do not care if I make war on the whites.”

  Davis laughed. “You are a pretty smart Injun,” he said. “You are right. I want the gold.”

  Mean to His Horses nodded, then he looked toward the tree line near where Davis and Regret had waited for him. He held his hand in the air and four mounted Indians emerged from the woods, riding toward them.

  “What the hell?” Davis said. “Where did they come from?”

  Sheridan

  Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, Ike Peters, Jim Dewey, and Billy Taylor were in the Fireman’s Exchange Saloon, having just arrived in Sheridan on board the North Mist riverboat. Relatively flush, having the money they took from the bank plus the money they got from selling their horses to the army, they were sitting around a table drinking, planning their next move, when they heard the name of Falcon MacCallister.

  “Ha!” one of the others in the saloon said, laughing as he told the story. “I wish ole’ Pelham had been here with his camera so he coulda’ took a picture of Slayton when MacCallister stood him down.”

  “Yeah, we could hang it up on the wall here so’s Slayton would see it ever’ time he come in,” another said.

  “Maybe there ain’t no picture, but don’t forget the writer feller that was with them,” one of the others said. “And I’d sure like to read what he wrote about this. I seen him writin’ somethin’ no sooner than Slayton went out of here with his tail tucked up between his legs, like as if he was a beat dog or something.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard tell that the biggest reason MacCallister and Buffalo Bill are famous in the first place is because that writer feller made them famous. Can’t think of his name, though.”

  “His name is Ingraham,” Lucy said. “Prentiss Ingraham. And he is a real good writer, because I have read some of his books.”

  “Ha! I wonder if Slayton will turn up in any of his books,” the bartender asked.

  “Excuse me, gents,” Ebersole said, interjecting himself into the conversation. “This here MacCallister feller you are talking about. Would that be Falcon MacCallister?”

  “It would indeed,” one of the talkers replied. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. He is an old friend of mine,” Ebersole said. “But who is this gentleman, Slayton, you are talking about?”

  “Slayton ain’t no gentleman, Mister, and that is for sure and certain. He ain’t nothin’ but a bully. You see Lucy’s eye there? How it’s black? Slayton done that to her.”

  “But he got his come uppance,” Lucy said. “Slayton thinks he is pretty good with a gun, only, as it turns out, he wasn’t good enough to go against MacCallister.”

  “MacCallister kill him, did he?”

  “Kill him? Nah, he didn’t kill him, and that’s what makes it so good,” the bartender said. “MacCallister just stood him down, made Slayton shuck out of his gun belt and leave it here.”

  “His gun is still here,” one of the others said, laughing. “It’s there behind the bar. Show it to him, Jake.”

  Jake, the bartender, held the gun up.

  “Here it is, Ken,” Jake said. “Only thing is, Slayton ain’t got the gall to come back in for it.”

  “My, my, I wish I had been here to see that,” Ebersole said. “Don’t you boys think that would have been a good show to see MacCallister stand down Slayton?” he asked the others at the table with him.

  At first, Dewey and the others didn’t know what Ebersole was getting at. They certainly would not have enjoyed seeing MacCallister in a heroic role. But seeing the expression in Hagan’s face, they knew to go along with him, and so they enthusiastically agreed that they wish they had been here.

  “It wasn’t just a show,” Lucy said. “Mr. MacCallister came to my aid when Slayton began hitting me.”

  “That’s true,” Ken said. “MacCallister wasn’t just showin’ off or nothin’ like that. Slayton deserved what happened to him.”

  “Where is he now?” Ebersole asked.

  “Who?” Ken replied. “Slayton? Like as not, he’s still down at the livery. He works there. Don’t reckon we’ll see him back here very soon.”

  “No. I mean Falcon MacCallister. Like I said, he’s an old friend of mine and I’d like to look him up. Is he still in town?”

  “No, he ain’t here no more,” Ken said. “He left. Him, and Buffalo Bill and that writer.” He turned to his friends. “Say, that was really somethin’ in itself, wasn’t it? I mean Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill, both here at the same time.”

  “They didn’t stay here long, though,” one of the others said.

  “They couldn’t stay too long. Buffalo Bill is havin’ that big audition up in Cinnabar,” Jake said.

  “What kind of audition? What are you talkin’ about?” Ebersole asked.

  “Why, you know about Buffalo Bill, don’t you? He has a Wild West Show,” Jake said.

  “Yes,” Ken said. “I ain’t never seen it, ’cause mostly he plays it back East, like in New York, and Philadelphia, and St. Louis and the like.”

  “In London and Paris and Vienna too,” Lucy added.

  “Anyhow,” Ken continued, his show has bronco bustin’, and stagecoach drivin’, all sorts of things like that, and it has done made him one of the richest men in the country.”

  “And the cowboys that works for him makes good money too,” Jake said. “That’s why there will be so many showin’ up in Cinnabar to try and get signed on to his show.”

  “Where is Cinnabar?” Ebersole asked.

  “It’s just north of Yellowstone Park. Why? You plannin’ on tryin’ out for the show?”

  “Who knows?” Ebersole said. “I might be interested. When is this audition bein’ held?”

  “It’s a week from now,” Jake said. “It was printed up by the newspaper. Lucy, show him the newspaper article about the audition.”

  Lucy walked down to the end of the bar, then brought a copy of the Sheridan Bulletin over to show to Ebersole.

  Cowboys! Cowboys! Cowboys!

  Come one, come all! If you can ride, or shoot, or rope, come to Cinnabar on the Seventh instant to audition for the BUFFALO BILL CODY WILD WEST EXHIBITION. Cowboys w
ho are selected will become members of the show. Honest wages will be paid, and you will travel to St. Louis, Chicago, New York, London, and Paris. Buffalo Bill will be present to judge and make the selections.

  “And you say that MacCallister went to Cinnabar with Buffalo Bill?” Ebersole asked after he finished reading the article.

  “Yeah, only they didn’t go right there,” Jake said. “They took a stage coach from here to DeMaris Springs. Buffalo Bill, MacCallister, and that writer fella that’s travelin’ with ’em.”

  “Ingraham,” Lucy said. “The writer is named Prentiss Ingraham.”

  “Yeah, Ingraham. Anyhow, the word I heard is that Buffalo Bill is going to build himself a town there. Well not right where DeMaris Springs is, but real close,” Jake said.

  “And like as not, it’ll be the end of DeMaris Springs,” Ken said.

  “That’s pro’bly right. And get this. He’s goin’ to name it after himself.”

  “Yeah, well, if I had as much money as Buffalo Bill Cody, I’d like as not build me a town too. And I’d name it after myself too. I’d call it Hickenlooper,” one of the other saloon patrons said.

  The others in the saloon laughed.

  “Ha. Hickenlooper. Now that would be a name, wouldn’t it? Folks, welcome to Hickenlooper,” Ken said.

  Finishing their drinks, Ebersole and the others left the saloon and walked down Central Street to the livery stable.

  A man came out of the stable to meet them. He was a big man, with stubble on his chin, and irregular, yellowed, broken and missing teeth.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” he asked.

  “Do you have horses for sale?”

  “Horses for sale? Yeah, we got horses.”

  “Good. We’ll need five,” Ebersole said.

  “Five? I don’t know as I can sell you five, that would purt’ nigh clean us out. You’ll have to wait till Mr. Giles comes back.”

  “Is your name Slayton?” Ebersole asked.

  “Yeah, how did you know that?”

  “I’ve heard you are pretty good with a gun, Slayton.”

  “I ain’t bad,” Slayton said.

  “I’ve also heard that you don’t care much for a man named Falcon MacCallister.”

  The smile turned to a frown. “Are you trying to be funny, Mister? ’Cause I don’t like it when folks try to fun me.”

  “No,” Ebersole said. “I’m not trying to be funny at all. In fact, I will tell you why we want these horses. We are on MacCallister’s trail, and we plan to kill him.”

  Slayton’s scowl turned to an expression of surprise and curiosity. “You plan to kill him?” he asked.

  “We do,” Ebersole answered. “MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody.”

  “And that writer son of a bitch who is traveling with them,” Hawkins added.

  “Why?” Slayton asked. “Why are you going to kill him?”

  “Does it make any difference why? As I understand it, you may have a bone to pick him as well. I would think you would welcome the idea that we’re goin’ to kill him.”

  Slayton drummed his fingers on the top rail of a stall and was silent for a long moment.

  “Any of you fellas got an extry gun?”

  “Why do you ask?” Ebersole asked.

  “’Cause my gun and holster is still in the saloon, and I ain’t goin’ back in there to get it and be made a fool of.”

  “There’s a gunshop here,” Dewey said. “I seen it when we got off the boat.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to go buy one, either, for the same reason. But I’ll make you a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?” Ebersole wanted to know.

  “If one of you fellers will go buy a gun for me, I’ll give you these five horses for free.”

  “What? How are you going to do that?” Hawkins asked.

  “’Cause Giles has gone down to Laramie and by the time he gets back, we and his horses be long gone.”

  “We?” Ebersole asked.

  “Yeah,” Slayton said. “That’s part of the deal. I’m goin’ with you.”

  Fort Keogh

  Lieutenant Colonel Whitehead glanced up at Benteen when Benteen came into his office.

  “You wanted to see me, Colonel?” Benteen asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Fred, we have a request that has been approved by General Colby to send troops to the Big Horn Basin in Wyoming Territory. I’m going to ask you to respond to the request with elements of the Ninth Cavalry. And I will leave it to you to decide what the troop makeup would be.”

  “What, exactly, is the problem?” Benteen asked.

  “The request came from a man named Joe Cravens, who is the mayor of DeMaris Springs.”

  “DeMaris Springs? You mean where the hot springs are? I thought that was a geographical location, I had no idea there was a town there.”

  “It isn’t on any map that we have, and I’m not certain that it has ever actually been incorporated as a town. However, there are, as I understand, in excess of three hundred people living there, most of them employed in one way or another by Pierre Bellefontaine.”

  “So then the man calling the shots will be this man, Bellefontaine, not Mayor Cravens,” Benteen said.

  “That would be my guess,” Whitehead agreed.

  “How will Bellefontaine feel about my colored troops?”

  “What is there to feel?” Whitehead asked. “Bellefontaine wants soldiers there to protect him; your soldiers will be doing that. If he doesn’t like it, tell him to protect himself.”

  Benteen chuckled. “Good idea. Who are the Indians I’ll be dealing with? Brule? Sans Arc? Cheyenne?”

  “Crow.”

  “Crow?” Benteen said. “Are you serious?”

  “The Crow have a reservation just east of Yellowstone Park on the Meeteetsee River,” Whitehead said. “And the complaint is that they have been killing the prospectors and raiding homesteaders.”

  “But the Crow have long been our allies,” Benteen said. “Curly, White Man Runs Him, Half Yellow Face, White Swan, Bloody Knife, they were all with us at Little Big Horn. They were Crow. What would make the Crow go on the warpath against the white man now?”

  “Fred, you know Indians better than I do. In fact, I would say that right now, you are probably the most experienced officer in the army as far as Indian fighting is concerned. You know better than anyone how they get caught up in their cults and rituals. General Colby thinks it is this Spirit Talking that has them all riled up.”

  “He may be right,” Benteen said. “I’ll get my men ready.”

  “How many companies will you be taking?”

  “I think two will be enough,” Benteen said. “I can’t believe that the entire Crow nation is involved. If it is related to the Spirit Talking, it is more than likely going to be just handful of trouble makers.”

  After his meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Whitehead, Benteen walked across the parade grounds to the supply room. When he stepped inside he saw Sergeant Major Moses Coletrain taking an inventory.

  “Sergeant Major Coletrain,” Benteen said.

  Coletrain came to attention. “Yes, sir?”

  “How are you doing with the inventory?”

  “I’m doing very well, sir, thank you. I’m just about concluded.”

  “Are we missing anything?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Not exactly? What does that mean?”

  “The major might remember that we were ordered to turn in some rifles, carbines, and pistols,” Coletrain said. “I had them all packed, ready to go out, but Sergeant Depro shipped them instead. So far, I still haven’t gotten a receipt from Jefferson Barracks saying they arrived, and until I do, I can’t close my property book on them.”

  “I do remember that,” Benteen said. “Not to worry, Sergeant. If something has happened to the weapons, I will see to it that it will be Depro’s fault, not yours.” Benteen looked around the supply room. “Where is Sergeant Depro, anyway?”

  “He took a
one-week furlough,” Coletrain said.

  “One week? As I understand it, he is from Ohio. He can’t get to Ohio and back in one week. Where did he go?”

  “He didn’t tell me, sir.”

  “Well, he isn’t my problem,” Benteen said. “The reason I came over, Sergeant, is because we have been ordered to the field. I am going to take two troops of the Ninth. What I want you to do is get our equipment together for the march.”

  “Yes, sir. Any idea how long you will be gone, sir?”

  “I have no idea, how long we will be gone,” Benteen said. “We are going up into the Big Horn Basin. And it isn’t just an expedition. There is a very strong possibility that we may expect some fighting,” Benteen said. “So I will want 100 rounds of carbine ammunition and 24 rounds of pistol ammunition per man.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get right on it,” Coletrain replied.

  “Oh, and Sergeant, since we will have only two companies going, I am going to leave Sergeant Major Wilder here at the post. That means I will need an acting Sergeant Major. I would like you to fill that position.”

  “Yes, sir!” Coletrain replied proudly.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jim Mountain, Wyoming Territory

  Lee Regret and Sam Davis rode down to the river at the base of the mountain and dismounted. Leading their horses down to the water, they stood holding the reins as the horses began to drink.

  “I don’t see him anywhere about,” Regret said.

  “He’ll be here,” Davis said. “You know Sergeant Depro as well as I do. You know that when he tells you he’s goin’ to do somethin’ that he does it.”

  “Yeah, well, only if he’s goin’ to get somethin’ out of it for his ownself,” Regret said.

  “Well, he is goin’ to get somethin’,” Davis insisted. “He’s goin’ to get his cut of the money.”

  “If there is any money,” Regret replied. “You ever seen any Indians with money?”

  “You were there when we talked to Mean to His Horses. You heard me tell him that we wanted to be paid in gold. He agreed, and that’s what we’ll be dealin’ in.”

  As the two men stood there talking and watching their animals take water, they heard a low whistle from just beyond the tree line on the opposite side of the river.