“We will fight and destroy them all,” Crazy Horse said. “We will drive them from our lands forever.”
“We might win the battle,” the more moderate Red Cloud said. “But we will never win the war. Why can’t any of you see this?”
“Bah!” Crazy Horse said. “You have talked and talked and talked with the white man. Has he ever kept his word? No. Seven times you have traveled on the iron horse to see the white leaders in Washington. Seven times they promised this and that, and seven times they lied! The white man has the tongue of a snake. The truth is not in them. You are the only one among us to hold out, Red Cloud. Your influence is gone. I do not wish to hear your words. They are the words of a frightened woman.”
Brave and bold words on the part of Crazy Horse, for Red Cloud was a man who once held a lofty position within the tribe . . . but no more. Crazy Horse had openly helped push along Red Cloud’s decline of power.
Red Cloud rose from the circle in the tipi and left. There was great sadness in the man’s heart, for he had been east many times, once to speak at the Cooper Institute in New York City, where (not surprisingly) there was much pro-Indian sentiment among those men and women who had never been farther west than New Jersey.
Those in attendance had wildly applauded Red Cloud’s words as they were translated. Immediately afterward, the idealists drew up a plan, which was never shown to Red Cloud or implemented. Which was fine, for it wouldn’t have worked anyway. The idealists (not surprisingly) did not understand what most westerners knew practically from birth: the majority of Indians did not want to be civilized, at least not in accordance with the white man’s definition of the word.
On this day, Red Cloud walked away from the council tipi to be alone with his wisdom. “All is lost,” the great chief muttered. “All is lost. For we cannot win. Crazy Horse and Yellow Hair29 could well be brothers, for while they are brave men, they are also fools. One wants to kill all the whites; the other wants to kill all the Indians. All is lost.”
* * *
Falcon arrived at Georgetown days after his father had left and was given Jamie’s message and map. He immediately set out to find the grave of his wife, unaware that his arrival in, and the quick departure out of, the mining town had not gone unnoticed by a group of men who had just missed Jamie.
The men followed the grieving Falcon from a safe distance. They would strike when the time was right. When it came to being dead, one damned MacCallister was as good as the other.
* * *
General Alfred H. Terry had received orders from Washington to pull out of Fort Abraham Lincoln on May 17, 1876, with a massive force of men, including twelve companies of the 7th Cavalry, commanded by Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer. General Sheridan had personally drawn up the plan: General Terry would move west to the Yellowstone, Colonel John Gibbon would move east out of Fort Ellis, Montana, and General George Crook would move north out of Fort Fetterman in Wyoming.
The commanders had been assured they would not do battle with more than five hundred hostiles at any given time.
They were going to be in for quite a surprise. Especially Custer. Briefly.
* * *
Jamie headed straight north through Wyoming, following an established Indian trail that in the years ahead would become a major north/south highway. (The Indian has never been given credit for finding the easiest route through difficult terrain.)
By the time Jamie reached the North Platte River, unalterable events were taking place, occurrences that would end with tragic results for both the Indian and the white man . . . but much more so for the Indian: the tribes were gathering along the banks of the Greasy Grass River in Southern Montana. Thousands of them.
Still, the army commanders were being told again and again by messenger that they would encounter only a few hundred hostiles at any given time, for the Indians had never banded together under one commander and certainly would not do so now. Be assured of that.
Somebody forgot to tell the Indians that.
* * *
Falcon found Marie’s grave and sat by it for a time, trying to make some sense out of her death. He could not. Falcon had brought along a heavy hammer and a chisel, and after looking around for a proper stone, found one, muscled it into place, and began the laborious job of slowly chiseling her name into the stone.
He was intent upon his work, but not so much that he failed to occasionally check his surroundings, for despite all the moves toward civilization, this was still the Wild West. And Falcon had been well-schooled by his father.
Falcon became aware that he was being watched. And not by Indians. Falcon allowed himself a very small smile. He had never seen an Indian this clumsy. He continued his work on the stone, but only after furtively slipping the leather loops from the hammers of his pistols and checking to make sure his rifle was close at hand.
After concluding that his watchers were at least six strong, and probably more, Falcon made several trips to his packs, ostensibly for a drink of water, but really to stuff his pockets full of cartridges for his rifle and pistols. Then he would return to work on the stone.
He worked and waited and wondered.
* * *
Jamie continued to ride north, drawing ever closer to his date with destiny.
* * *
In Valley, Ben F. Washington, after Falcon let him read the message from Jamie to his son, sadly prepared the obituary notice for Marie MacCallister. Then a sudden and sobering thought caused him to put aside his pencil. He wondered, right out of the blue, if he would ever see Jamie Ian MacCallister again.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and wondered why that terrible concern had popped into his brain.
Ben shook his head and returned to his writing.
* * *
“I wish Pa had not gone off on this scout,” Morgan said to his brothers, Jamie Ian and Matthew.
Andrew and Rosanna were touring in the East and would leave for Europe in late June. Their sailing date was scheduled for the 26th of June.
“You got a bad feelin’, too?” Matthew asked.
“Yeah, just like Ian. A real bad feeling about it.”
“The girls are all tore up about it,” Jamie Ian said. “Pat told me Joleen cried all the night.”
“That’s the same thing Jim told me about Megan.”
“Anybody seen Ellen Kathleen?”
“She’s holdin’ up. But William told me she’s wearin’ a face like a thundercloud.”
“I worry more about Falcon than Pa,” Matthew said. “Pa’s been ridin’ with death all around him for almost sixty years now. Tell you the truth, and it’s a hard thing to say, I don’t think Pa gives a damn anymore. Not since Ma passed. I think he’s ready in his mind to die. But Falcon . . .” He shook his head. “Folks better fight shy of him, mood he’s in.”
Morgan looked at Jamie Ian and smiled. “How’s your boy and Mary Marie doin’?”
Jamie Ian laughed, lightening the somber moment. “That girl keeps him at a flat lope all day long. They’ve been married now, oh, four and half years. Expecting their third child this fall. Red-haired, freckle-faced, and blue-eyed.”
“Way that boy works at the farm, he don’t have time to do much else than some nighttime cuddlin’,” Matthew said with a smile.
“Seems like that’s about all we done, too,” Jamie Ian said. “When you take a look at all the kids in this town.”
* * *
With the waters of the Blue River softly flowing not far away, Falcon heard the men when they made their rush toward him. He turned, dropped to one knee, and drew his right-hand pistol, all in one fluid motion.
“We want him alive!” Asa Pike shouted, just as one of his men pointed a gun at Falcon.
Falcon shot the man in the chest and then threw himself to one side as the men rushed him. He drew his other pistol and opened fire; at nearly point-blank range, his fire was devastating.
The Jones brothers, Lloyd and Bob, were among the first to go do
wn, both of them mortally wounded. Lloyd stumbled backward and lost his balance, finally tumbling over the side of the bank and falling into the river. Bob sat down hard, both hands holding his bullet-perforated belly.
Falcon had no time to observe what Bob did next; he was in a fight for his life without having any idea why the men had attacked him.
The fight was over in less than a minute. The cool mountain air was acrid with lingering gunsmoke, mixed with the faint sounds of a couple of horses galloping away, the moaning of the wounded, and the silence of the dead.
Falcon quickly reloaded and, with a pistol in each hand, began warily walking among the wounded, kicking pistols away from the men and out of reach.
Falcon stood over one dying man and asked, “Why?”
“ ’Cause you a goddamn MacCallister, that’s why,” the man told him, then closed his eyes and died.
34
Jamie began seeing bands of Indians, all seemingly headed for the same place, and that slowed his travel, for he did not want to be seen . . . if he could help it. The Indians he saw were carrying war shields, and many carried both bows and arrows and rifles. That meant only one thing: war.
Jamie was forced to alter his route of travel. He cut east for a time, then once more turned Sundown’s head to the north. Just north of Pyramid Butte, he was scanning the terrain ahead of him and spotted an army patrol. He left his scant cover and rode toward the patrol, smiling as he drew close enough to be able to pick out features.
It was Lt. Cal Sanders.
“Stars and garters!” the young lieutenant blurted. “Mr. MacCallister. I haven’t seen you since El Paso, sir.”
Jamie pulled in close and shook the offered hand.
“The men who were riding with you, sir . . . how are they?”
Briefly, Jamie brought the young lieutenant up to date.
“I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Green. He seemed to be a very fine and capable man. Sir, we heard you were going to scout for the army on this foray. But I don’t think it’s going to amount to very much. We’ve seen only a few scattered bands of hostiles, and they ran away from us.”
“Which direction did they go?”
“West, sir. Always toward the west. But what’s odd about it, is that they always taunted us before they fled.”
Jamie cut his eyes to the Arikara scout riding with the party. He noticed a decidedly worried look in the Arikara’s eyes.
“Did it seem like they wanted you to follow them?” Jamie asked the lieutenant.
“Well . . . yes, it did. But we’re under orders not to engage the enemy. Just report on their movements.”
Jamie looked at the Arikara scout. “What tribe?”
“Lakota.”
“Are you with Custer?” Jamie asked the lieutenant.
“Yes, sir. Under Captain Benteen’s command.”
“That’s good.” Jamie had heard from several good sources that Captain Frederick William Benteen despised Custer, considering the man to be no more than a glory-hungry fool. “Can you take me to Benteen?”
“Of course, sir. If you can wait until tomorrow. We’re on the last leg of this patrol. We were just turning around to head back when you were spotted.”
“That’ll be fine.”
After chatting with Jamie for a few more minutes, Lt. Sanders ordered the patrol to turn back north, with Jamie riding for a time with the Arikara scout. “How are you called?” Jamie asked.
“Jumping Wolf. It is an honor to meet the great Bear Killer.”
“The tribes are gathering to make war, Jumping Wolf.”
“I know. But I cannot convince any officer of that. I have spoken with other scouts, Two Whistles, Spotted Setter, and White Man Runs Him.30 They have seen with their own eyes large bands of Sioux and Cheyenne gathering. But no one believes them.”
“I believe them,” Jamie said. “I’ve seen the same thing.”
“Long Hair is a fool,” Jumping Wolf said bluntly. “I think that many will die, and very soon. He cut his hair short before leaving the fort. Bad sign, I think.”
“What about Bloody Knife?” Another Arikara scout who was Custer’s favorite and a man Custer usually listened to. But not this time.
“Bloody Knife has told Custer that there are more Sioux gathering than his men have bullets to kill them. Custer did not believe him.”
“I do.”
“It is good you do. Perhaps you can convince Long Hair that we are riding toward our doom.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to do that. How about Lonesome Charley Reynolds?” Jamie asked.
Lonesome Charley was a friend of Jamie’s. The two men had scouted together many times in the past.
“There he rides,” Jumping Wolf said, pointing ahead. “Ask him yourself.”
Jamie and Lonesome Charley greeted each other warmly, and Charley shook his head. “It’s bad, Ol’ Hoss. And it ain’t just Custer who’s playin’ the fool. I been out here for months and seen what’s happenin’ up close and personal. The Injuns has been gatherin’ guns by the hundreds. But I can’t convince them brass-buttoned sons of bitches of the truth. Jamie, I think they’s upwards of six to eight thousand Injuns gatherin’.”31
“Eight thousand!” Jamie blurted.
“Yep. At least that.”
“More,” Jumping Wolf said.
“More?” Jamie turned to the Arikara scout.
“More,” Jumping Wolf said stubbornly.
“What the hell are we getting into here, Charley?” Jamie asked.
“Bad trouble, Ol’ Hoss. Real bad trouble.”
Jamie sat his saddle, too stunned to speak.
“Even most of the scouts don’t agree on any set number,” Charley said. “Most of them put the figure at two, maybe three thousand, at most.” He paused and met Jamie’s steady gaze. “I’ve tried to get General Terry to relieve me, but he won’t.”
“You’re that worried about it?”
“You bet I am.”
The men quieted as Lt. Sanders rode up, all smiles. “When we do catch up with the hostiles, gentlemen, it’s going to be a grand fight.”
Lonesome Charley Reynolds looked at the young officer. “Yeah,” he said drily.
* * *
Falcon buried the dead far away from his wife’s grave. He did not mark the shallow, mass grave. One attacker who had survived the fight had told Falcon who had led the ambush. Falcon had seen to the man’s wounds as best he could with what he had, put him on a horse, and told him to go home, adding, “If I ever see you again, I’ll shoot you on the spot.”
“You’ll not see me no more,” the man said. “But Asa will be back. Bet on it.”
“The man must be insane,” Falcon said, then slapped the horse on the rump and sent him galloping.
Falcon spent the rest of the day finishing the marker for Marie’s resting place. Then he tidied up the area and stood for a time by Marie’s grave. Falcon put his hat on his head, walked to his horse, and rode away without looking back. He did not know where he was going. He was just riding. He headed west, toward Utah. Falcon wanted only to ride away his grief; just be alone for a time and let the wind and the rain help cure the ache deep inside him.
He had no way of knowing at the time that he was about to become one of the most wanted men west of the Mississippi River.
* * *
The first thing Jamie heard when he rode into the military encampment was chanting.
Dismounting, Lt. Sanders said, “That doesn’t sound like happy chanting to me.”
“Far from it,” Lonesome Charley Reynolds said. “Them’s the Arikara and Crow scouts singin’ their death songs.”
“Where’s Custer?” Jamie asked.
A sergeant who had walked over to the group said, “He left to meet with General Terry and Colonel Gibbon up on the Yellowstone. I think there’s been a change in plans.”
“There better be,” Lonesome Charley muttered. “Like a full retreat.”
It was May 17, 1876.
Crook would not be in position when Custer foolishly split his forces and jumped the gun and attacked eight days later. Crook and his detachment would be miles south, in Wyoming. There were some who tried to place part of the blame on Crook for the disaster that occurred but that blame lay squarely on the shoulders of Lt. Colonel Custer.
For several days, Jamie and the other scouts, including a French/Indian named Mitch Bouyer, did little except scout a bit and talk.
Custer returned from his meeting on the Yellowstone and ordered his men to make ready for a march.
“Well,” Lonesome Charley said morosely. “Here we go, boys. Make your peace with God.”
The date was May 22, 1876. Noon.
The trumpets sounded, and six hundred men of the 7th Cavalry, in perfect formation, rode past a group of officers, among which was General Alfred Terry.
About a mile away, several of the scouts had gathered, sitting their saddles and watching the scene.
“Real pretty,” Mitch Bouyer said.
“Just darlin’,” Lonesome Charley said.
Custer’s favorite and most trusted scout, the Arikara chief, Bloody Knife, looked at the men and said nothing. But his thoughts were dark. He had already sung his death song.
At General Terry’s side was Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer, his hair neatly trimmed. He wore buckskins, high boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. He was mounted on his horse, Vic.
All around the men was wilderness. There was no sign of civilization, except for the men themselves.
General Terry consulted his timepiece. “It’s time, George,” he said.
Vic was prancing in place, eager to be on the trail. Custer had to keep a tight rein on the strong animal.
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