Defiance of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “There were none.”

  “So, in your opinion, a relief element from the north would have been able to reach Cahill?”

  “There is no doubt in my mind.”

  “Thank you, Colonel MacCallister. I have no further questions.

  The case for prosecution and defense was concluded by the middle of the afternoon, then the jury retired to reach their verdict. They came back in in less than half an hour and when called up by the trial judge delivered the verdict of guilty.

  “Would the defendant please stand?” the trial judge said.

  Ackerman stood.

  “You have been found guilty of dereliction of duty, willfully disobeying a lawful order, and failure to repair. You are hereby sentenced to be stripped of all rank and U.S. Army accouterments, and to be dishonorably discharged from the service.”

  Immediately after the court-martial proceedings were adjourned, an armed escort was assigned to Major Boyd Ackerman, and he was marched out into the middle of the parade ground where the entire complement of the post had been called to formation. Ackerman, by order of the commanding officer of the post, was in full dress uniform, complete with sash and saber. Colonel Hamilton, Ackerman’s commanding officer, made the first cut, snipping off both epaulettes. That was followed by other officers of the regiment, until not one gold thing remained on Ackerman’s uniform, but lay instead in pieces around him. The last thing to be taken from him was his saber.

  “Sergeant Major!” Colonel Hamilton called.

  Because a noncommissioned officer cannot be in command of a detail that contains commissioned officers, when the sergeant major was summoned, those officers who were standing in front of their commands quickly left their formations. Their places were taken by the various first sergeants.

  The sergeant major came to the front of the formation and saluted sharply.

  “Sergeant Major, dismiss the command and escort Private Ackerman off the fort.”

  “Yes, sir. Private Ackerman, you will remain in position,” the sergeant major called. “First Sergeants, dismiss your troops!”

  “Troop!” the first sergeants called. “Platoon!” came the supplementary commands of the many platoon sergeants.

  “Dismissed!”

  The formation broke up quickly, and as the men returned to their duties, many looked over toward Ackerman, who, until he was escorted off the post, was still in the army, and still standing at attention. But he was no longer a major. Now, he was a private, and all those he had once ranked now outranked him.

  Major Ackerman had been an overbearing, and much disliked, officer who was routinely cruel to his men. Now, “Private” Ackerman was jeered by most of the men who passed by him.

  “Hello, Private Ackerman!”

  “Too bad you’re about to be kicked out of the army, Private. I’d love to see you on stable duty.”

  “Hey, Ackerman, you want to inspect me now?”

  The derisive remarks continued, to the laughter of the men who were gathered around to watch the degradation of the former major.

  After several minutes of the mocking, the corporal of the guard then took charge.

  “Ackerman, until we reach the front gate, you are still in the army, and you are a private. At my command, forward, march!”

  With the entire post laughing, and shouting insults, Private, formerly Major, Ackerman was marched to the front gate, shoved through, then the gate closed behind him. The moment he stepped off military property, he became a civilian.

  One week after Ackerman had been dishonorably discharged, he returned to Fort Ellis in the middle of the night. Although Fort Ellis had a front gate, it was not surrounded by a high stockade fence, but was an open installation. Its security was maintained by a detail of sentries who walked a prescribed route along their guard post. Ironically, it had been Ackerman’s duty to establish the routes the sentries would take, so he knew exactly when he could be at certain parts of the post undetected. He slipped in behind the stables, then, waiting for the sentry to pass, moved from the supply room to the post guardhouse. There were three men in the guardhouse, Sergeant Jay Casey, Corporal Clyde Jones, and Private Marv Boyle. All three men had been tried and convicted for the murder of a saloon keeper in nearby Bozeman. They were to be hanged the next day.

  Ackerman had keys to the guardhouse, which he used to slip inside. Then, in the dark, he moved up to the cell where all three men were sleeping.

  “Casey, Jones, Boyle,” Ackerman said. The words were louder than a whisper but quiet enough that if anyone happened to be passing by they wouldn’t hear.

  “What?” Casey replied. “What is it? Who’s there?”

  “Come over to the cell door,” Ackerman said.

  By now the other two had been awakened.

  “What’s going on?” Jones asked.

  “I’ll be damned! It’s Major Ackerman,” Casey said.

  “You mean Private Ackerman, don’t you?” Boyle said.

  Ackerman showed them a key. “I am willing to let you men out, if we can come to an agreement.”

  “What? Hell, yes!” Casey said. “Anything you say.”

  “I intend to form a group of irregular soldiers, similar to that commanded by Quantrill during the war. The only difference is, whereas Quantrill made his raids in support of the South, our raids will be completely self-serving.”

  “What does that mean?” Boyle asked.

  “It means that any money we take, we keep.”

  “Yeah!” Boyle said. “Yeah, I’m for that.”

  There were five more men in the guardhouse, all five serving a penalty of six and two-thirds, meaning six months in confinement and forfeiture of two-thirds of their pay. At the conclusion of the six months, they would all be dishonorably discharged.

  Ackerman freed them as well. Then Ackerman, and the eight men he had freed, took horses and tack from the stables and rode off.

  They rode through the rest of the night, so they were twenty miles away by the time any of them were missed back at the fort. Ackerman called them to a halt, then told them his plans for the band.

  “As long as you men are with me, we will conduct ourselves as a military unit,” Ackerman said. “You will address me as Major, and you will regard me as your commanding officer.”

  “Oh, hey, I don’t know about that,” one of the five six and two-third soldiers said. “I didn’t mind bein’ in the stockade all that much, seein’ as I was goin’ to be discharged.”

  “If you went back now, your sentence would be increased from six months to two years for unlawfully leaving custodial confinement. Would you want that?”

  “Well, no.”

  “I want you to join my army,” Ackerman said, holding up his finger. “But in my army, you’ll be paid a hell of a lot more money than you’ve ever made before in your life.”

  “Yes, sir, Major Ackerman!” Casey said. He saluted. “I’m proud to serve you!”

  The others, seeing Casey come to attention and saluting, did so as well. Ackerman, too, came to attention, then returned the salute.

  “Men, with your loyal service, I hereby give birth to Ackerman’s Raiders.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Fort Ellis

  “I hate to lose you, Colonel Hamilton,” General Terry said. “You have been an outstanding officer, with a long and dedicated service. I would say that it is a shame you are leaving the army before you are eligible for a pension but . . .” Terry chuckled, “in your case, I don’t suppose that matters. I hear you’ve bought a ranch as large as Texas.”

  Edward laughed. “Not quite, sir.”

  “But it is one-third the size of Rhode Island, I’m told.”

  “Even that is a gross exaggeration, and Rhode Island is a very small state.”

  Terry laughed again. “It is indeed, Colonel, it is indeed. I know your circumstances, Colonel, and I know that you could have left the army at any time you wanted. Why now?”

  “My daughter was born on an army pos
t,” Edward said. “She’s eighteen years old now. I think she should have the opportunity to see something of this world from other than a military perspective.”

  “Well, I can’t say as I blame you,” General Terry said. “Mary Kate is a beautiful young woman. No doubt you would be fighting off second lieutenants soon. But of course, she is your wife’s daughter. How could she be anything but beautiful?”

  “Or strong willed,” Edward added.

  “Well, what do you expect?” General Terry asked. “She is a MacCallister, after all. And the MacCallister family is, quite possibly, the most storied family of the West. From the Alamo, to the major battles of the Civil War, to the Battle of Little Bighorn, there has been a MacCallister involved.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware that Falcon MacCallister kept Gatling guns from falling into the hands of the Indians during that battle. Had he not done so, Reno and Benteen’s men might also have been massacred.”

  General Terry took out his watch and opened it. “Perhaps we had best go out to the parade grounds. Your retirement parade is set to begin in five minutes.”

  General Terry and Lieutenant Colonel Edward Hamilton left the Headquarters Building and walked out to the parade grounds, where the entire complement of Fort Ellis was standing in formation under the flagpole. A reviewing stand had been erected, and Edward’s wife Megan and their daughter, Mary Kate, were already there, seated on the stand. Neither General Terry nor Edward would be seated, but would stand at the front and return the salutes of the soldiers as they passed in review.

  “Regiment! Pass in review!” the regimental commander ordered, and as the band played stirring marches, the soldiers, company by company and troop by troop, passed in review. When the parade was over, General Terry presented Edward with his honorable discharge papers.

  One of those watching the parade was Boyd Ackerman. He wasn’t recognized, because he wearing a beard that he had not worn while he was in the army. He was dressed in coveralls and a plaid shirt and was wearing a straw hat with a broad brim that shielded the top part of his face. He couldn’t help comparing the dignity and honor of the event that was ending Colonel Hamilton’s military career with the ignominious end of his own army service.

  “Enjoy it while you can, Edward,” he said. “You will pay for what you did to me.”

  He watched as first Colonel Hamilton’s wife, and then his daughter, gave him a hug.

  “You will pay,” he said again.

  Deer Lodge, Montana Territory

  The train ride from Bozeman to Deer Lodge took six hours, but it was six hours of luxury because Edward had secured tickets in the Palace Car. Unlike the day cars, which had facing seats on either side of the aisle, the Palace Car had big, uncrowded, overstuffed, reclining chairs. They ate in the dining car, their meal served on shining china, with real silverware and sparkling crystal goblets.

  When they reached Deer Lodge, Edward secured a two-room suite on the second floor of the Deer Lodge Hotel. They remained as residents at the hotel for the six months it took to build the house at Brimstone, an exact replica of Denbigh Castle, Edward’s ancestral home in England.

  Eagle County, Colorado

  The metal bit jangled against the horse’s teeth. The horse’s hooves clattered on the hard rock, and the leather saddle creaked beneath the weight of its rider. The rider, Falcon MacCallister, had a weathered face and hair the color of dried oak. But it was his eyes that people noticed. Deeply lined from hard years, they opened onto a soul that was stoked by experiences that would fill the lifetimes of three men. His boots were dusty and well-worn, and the metal of his spurs had become dull with time. He wore a Colt .44 at his hip, and carried a Winchester .44 – 40 in his saddle sheath.

  Falcon dismounted, unhooked his canteen and took a swallow, then poured some water into his hat. He held it in front of his horse. The horse drank thirstily, though Falcon knew that the small amount of water did little to slake the animal’s thirst. The horse drank all the water, then began nuzzling Falcon for more.

  “Sorry, Lightning,” Falcon said quietly. “But that’s the best I can do for now. We’ll be in town in about ten more miles. We’ll spend the night there before we go out to the ranch, and I promise you, once I get you there, you’ll have all the water you can drink; I’ll get you some oats and put you up in a nice comfortable stall. But don’t go flirting with any young filly you might see in there. We won’t be staying but one night, and all you’ll do is wind up breaking her heart.”

  The horse whinnied.

  “Don’t tell me no. I know you. I know you better than you know yourself. I tell you what, why don’t I just walk you for a couple of miles, then ride the last eight? How would you like that? You wouldn’t have to carry my carcass as far.”

  Lightning whickered, and nodded, and Falcon reached up to squeeze his ear.

  “All right, let’s go.”

  Falcon had walked for no more than a mile when he heard whistles and a loud popping sound behind him. Looking around, he saw a stagecoach coming down out of the high country and rolling across the flats, the six-horse team maintaining an easy lope. The wheels of the swiftly moving stage kicked up a billowing trail of dust to roll and swirl on the road behind it, making it easy to track its path.

  As the coach drew closer, Falcon stepped to one side, intending to let it pass, but the driver pulled the coach to a stop as he approached.

  “Whoa! Whoa there, horses!”

  The driver set the brake as the trailing dust now came forward, overtaking the coach. Falcon heard some coughing from inside.

  “Falcon MacCallister,” the driver said. “I thought this might be you when I seen you from way back there. I told Darrell it was you. Didn’t I, Darrell? Didn’t I say that I believe that feller walkin’ up there is Falcon MacCallister?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what you said all right,” the shotgun guard answered.

  “Hello, Green. I thought you’d given up driving stagecoaches,” Falcon said.

  “Yeah, well, ever’ thing else I tried was just too damn borin’. What you doin’ out here walkin’? Lightnin’ gone lame?”

  “No, I was just givin’ him a break.”

  “Why don’t you give him a real break? Tie him on to the back, then climb in. You can ride the rest of the way with us into town, and maybe buy me ’n Darrell a drink.”

  “Sounds like a deal that’s too good to pass up,” Falcon said. “I will just take you up on the offer.”

  Falcon tied Lightning on to the back, then climbed into the coach. One of the passengers was a notions drummer, going to MacCallister to sell his wares to the merchants there. The salesman was short, with a narrow, pockmarked face and a hooked nose. The second passenger was overweight, red-faced, and sweating a lot. Falcon recognized the lone woman passenger. It was Karen Bobe, a very pretty blonde who was accompanied by her eight-year-old son, Sterling.

  “Are you the cause for our stopping in the middle of nowhere?” the overweight man asked angrily. “It’s bad enough with the dust coming in through the windows as it is, without having to stop to pick up some saddle bum.”

  “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced, sir,” Falcon said, speaking pleasantly despite the harshness of the man’s words. “But Mr. Orr is a good driver; he’ll have us in MacCallister on time.”

  “No thanks to you,” the sweating man said. “You may be assured, sir, that I will complain to the management about this, and I’ve no doubt but that I can get the driver fired.”

  “Hello, Mr. MacCallister,” the young mother said.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bobe,” Falcon replied, touching the brim of his hat. “I hope John is doing well. Hello, Sterling,” he added, speaking to the young boy.

  “Hello, Mr. MacCallister,” Sterling said.

  “MacCallister?” the overweight bald man said. “Your name is MacCallister?”

  “He’s Falcon MacCallister,” Sterling said. “I’ve read books about him.”

  “Oh, well, uh, look, Mr. MacC
allister, about what I said about you being a saddle bum, I didn’t mean anything by that. I hope there are no hard feelings.”

  Falcon nodded, but purposely didn’t respond. Instead, he looked out the window at the passing countryside.

  “Mr. MacCallister, what’s a fella like you ridin’ in a common stage for?” the drummer asked. “Why, I’d think you’d be ridin’ in your own private coach.”

  Falcon chuckled. “In a way, you might say I am doing that, since I own this stage line.”

  The drummer laughed as well. “I reckon you got a point there.”

  “You own this stage line?” the overweight complaining man said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well I, uh, of course, understand why the driver would stop for you.”

  “Mr. Orr is a good man,” Falcon said without further elaboration.

  Three miles ahead of the coach two men, Harvey Hood and Mo Fong, stood behind a rock, just at the top of a long grade.

  “I gotta take a leak,” Hood said, stepping to one side.

  “Damn!” Fong said. “You have to piss uphill from me? It’s running over my shoes.”

  Hood laughed. “You coulda moved.”

  “You should ’a pissed downhill.”

  “How much longer ’til the stagecoach gets here?” Hood asked.

  “How the hell do I know? Fifteen minutes, half an hour, an hour maybe. I just know it normally gets into MacCallister around noon.”

  Hood looked up at the sun. “Looks to me like it ain’t that far from noon now.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  “How much money do you reckon that coach is carryin’?” Hood asked.

  “How much money you got now?” Fong replied.

  “I ain’t got no money a’ tall right now. I couldn’ even buy a beer if we was in a saloon.”