Bloodshed of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Dorman pulled the rabbit off the skewer, then tossed it back and forth from hand to hand for a few moments.

  “Is it hot?” Falcon asked with a chuckle.

  “No, I’m just playing a little game of pitch and catch,” Dorman replied, laughing.

  Finally, the rabbit cooled enough for him to hold it, and he tore into two pieces, giving one piece to Falcon.

  “You may not want to share that when you hear what I have to ask,” Falcon said.

  “If that’s the case, maybe I’d better share it with you before you tell me what you have in mind,” he said.

  Falcon took a bite of the rabbit. “Oh, this is good,” he said. “What did you do to it?”

  “I rubbed in cayenne and salt,” Dorman said.

  For a moment, the two men ate in silence, enjoying the food.

  “Are you goin’ to tell me, or not?”

  “It isn’t what I’m going to tell you. It’s what I’m going to ask you,” Falcon said. “I’m going out on a scout, away from the regiment. I want you to go with me.”

  “We’re goin’ to look for that other gun, aren’t we?” Dorman asked.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Yeah, I heard that Gibbon lost a case of ammunition. You think the Indians got it?”

  “I think we have to assume they did. If they didn’t, we haven’t lost anything by looking for them. If they did and we don’t look for them, we could well ride into an ambush, and I don’t have to tell you how much damage that gun could do on a column of men.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Custer said I could take any scout I wanted, and I chose you.”

  “Well, now, ain’t I the lucky one?” Dorman said. He sucked the meat off a bone, then tossed it aside.

  “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I can find someone else if I have to.”

  “Now here, just a week or so ago, you said you wanted to marry me for my cookin’, but now you are willin’ to run off with someone else,” Dorman said. “You really know how to hurt a fella’s feelin’s.”

  Custer laughed. “What do you say? Will you go with me?”

  “I’ll go,” Dorman agreed. “I ’spect we’d better tell Varnum about it, though.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Falcon and Dorman were about five miles away from the camp. There was no moon and it was very dark, but they were able to find their way by following along the bank of the Rosebud. Because the stream meandered back and forth, they crossed it about five times in the first five miles. When they reached a broken bluff, about ten miles ahead of the camp, Falcon called out to Dorman.

  “Hold up here,” Falcon said. He tried to look at his watch, but it was too dark. Taking a match from his shirt pocket, he struck it by snapping his thumbnail across the head. In the light of the flame, he checked the time, then, extinguishing the flame, he put the watch back in his pocket.

  “What time is it?” Dorman asked.

  “Two fifteen. I wanted to leave last night, because I think we need to put some distance between us and the column if we’re going to have any possibility of moving around without being seen.”

  “I agree,” Dorman said.

  “But, we could be one hundred yards away from the gun now, and not even see it in the dark. So, I suggest we stay here until daylight.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to argue with you about that,” Dorman said. “No, sir, I ain’t goin’ to argue one little bit.”

  June 23, 1876

  Along the Rosebud

  Shortly after Falcon and Dorman got under way the next morning, they came across the Indian trail Reno had found. The trail was at least one hundred yards wide, and the very ground had been plowed up by horses’ hooves and lodge poles. It was easy to follow. The trail was a wide, brown road that stood out vividly against the lush, green grass.

  “Lord in heaven,” Dorman said when they cut across the trail. “How many Indians does it take to make a trail this wide and this deep?”

  “Thousands,” Falcon replied. “Maybe fifteen to twenty thousand.”

  “I don’t think the gen’rul has any idee of this, does he?” Dorman asked.

  “I think he believes the number will be somewhere between eight hundred and a thousand.”

  “If there’s twenty thousand injuns, that means five thousand or more warriors.”

  June 24, 1876

  It was early the next morning when they spotted the gun. There were about six Indians with it, pulling it down the center of the road that had been carved by so many before them.

  “Ha!” Dorman said. “Pullin’ that gun, they couldn’t keep up.”

  “Let’s get after them,” Falcon said, slapping his legs against the side of his horse.

  The horse was an army horse, and was neither as responsive nor as fast as Hell. Nevertheless, within a minute, it was obvious that he and Dorman were closing the distance with the Indians.

  When they were within a hundred yards of the gun, one of the Indians looked around. Seeing Falcon and Dorman galloping up behind them, the Indian let out a shout.

  Responding to the shout, the other Indians turned, and seeing that they had the advantage in numbers, started galloping toward Falcon and Dorman. By now, they were within pistol range, and Falcon brought two of them down with two quick shots. The Indians, armed with rifles and war clubs, suddenly decided that the better part of valor would be a quick retreat, and they broke away, two going to the right and two off to the left. Dorman started after those two.

  “Let them go!” Falcon shouted. “We need to get the gun!”

  Reaching the gun, Falcon reined his horse to a stop, then leaped from the saddle. The first thing he saw was a broken axle that had been jury-rigged. That the gun was heavy and had a busted axle, coupled with the fact that the Indians weren’t used to working with wheeled vehicles, made it easy to understand why they had not been able to keep up.

  “Look there,” Falcon said, pointing to a box that was tied to the caisson. “It looks like they did find the ammunition Gibbon lost.”

  “That’s interesting all right, but maybe you had better look there,” Dorman said.

  Looking in the direction Dorman indicated, Falcon saw not the ones they had just encountered, but a new, substantial body of Indians coming toward them.

  “We need to skedaddle,” Dorman said.

  “Too late. As slow as these horses are they would run us down. We’re going to have to fight.”

  “Ain’t goin’ to be much of a fight,” Dorman said. “This ain’t like it was last time where we had somethin’ to be behind. This time we’re goin’ to be standin’ out here naked as a jaybird.”

  Falcon broke open the box of ammunition.

  “Well, now, what do you know?” Falcon said with a broad smile. “Sometimes, you just get dealt the right cards.”

  “The right cards? What are you talkin’ about? They’s got to be at least twenty of them heathens,” Dorman said nervously.

  “There are ten magazines, preloaded with forty rounds each,” Falcon said. He removed one of the magazines and put it into the breach. “Hold the horses,” he said.

  Dorman took the reins of the two horses, then waited as the Indians continued to gallop toward them. A few began firing, but the range was still fairly significant, and they were shooting from the back of galloping horses, so the bullets passed harmlessly over the heads of Falcon and Dorman.

  Falcon waited until they were considerably closer. Then he started turning the crank.

  Within seconds, the Gatling gun had spit out forty rounds. Four of the charging Indians went down with the first fusillade. Falcon’s reaction had been totally unexpected, and the rest of the Indians, surprised by the sudden firepower, stopped their charge. For a moment of confusion, they just milled around. Then, seeing the gun was apparently empty, they renewed their charge.

  Falcon jerked the first magazine out and slapped another one in. Once more, he started twisting the crank, and again the gun star
ted spitting out bullets in rapid fashion. Three more Indians went down.

  By now, the Indians had lost almost half their number. Realizing that continuing the charge would be foolish, the remaining Indians turned and, with whoops and shouts, galloped away.

  “Whoooeee!” Dorman said. Laughing, he took off his hat and slapped it against his knee. “Yes, sirree, that gun is pure somethin’.”

  “Let’s destroy it and get out of here,” Falcon said.

  “Destroy it? Don’t you think we ought to take it back to the gen’rul?”

  “No. In the first place, busted up like it is, I’m not sure we could even get it back to him. And in the second place, he wouldn’t take it if we could. Remember, he was offered a battery of the guns and he turned them down. And those were newer models than this one. This is an older model, because it was going to a state militia.”

  “How are we going to destroy it?”

  “We’ll fill the chamber and barrels with dirt, then we’ll smash the magazines,” Falcon said.

  For the next few minutes, the two men worked quickly, Falcon filling the gun with dirt while Dorman used the war club of one of the dead Indians to destroy the ammunition magazines.

  With the gun destroyed, they remounted and left the trail they had been following, then went back to the Rosebud to rejoin Custer.

  There were no signs along the bank of the creek that Custer had yet passed, so they knew they were ahead of him. Going back up the Rosebud, they reconnected with Custer at about one o’clock, where the column had stopped alongside one of the tributaries of the Rosebud, called Mud Creek. There, the men had made coffee, though the water was even more brackish here than it had been in the Rosebud and the coffee was almost too bitter to drink.

  When Falcon and Dorman first raised the camp, Custer was gone, having ridden off with Varnum. The two officers returned at about three o’clock and, seeing Falcon, Custer smiled.

  “Hello, Colonel,” Custer said, swinging down from his saddle and handing the reins to his orderly. “Did you find the gun?”

  “Found it and destroyed it,” Falcon replied.

  “But not before he kilt about twenty Injuns with it,” Dorman put in.

  “Really?” Custer replied.

  “I think Mr. Dorman is exaggerating a bit,” Falcon said with a chuckle.

  “A bit maybe, but not much. When we found the gun, we was jumped by a bunch of heathens, but Falcon here turned that gun on ’em and just cut ’em down like a scythe through wheat.”

  Custer frowned. “I thought there was no ammunition for the gun.”

  “You were right to be concerned about the ammunition Gibbon lost,” Custer said. “The Indians had found it.”

  “Well, I’m thankful you found it as well,” Custer said. “I’d hate to think of having to go against that.”

  “To be honest, we probably wouldn’t have had to worry about it,” Falcon said. “The axle was broken; I don’t think they could have ever put the gun in position to give us any trouble.”

  “Nevertheless, you accomplished your mission and should be congratulated. Did you see anything else?”

  “You mighty right we seen somethin’ else, Gen’rul,” Dorman said. “You got ’ny idea how many Injuns is out there?”

  “All the signs indicate that the village might be quite large,” Custer said.

  “Quite large?” Dorman replied. “The village might be quite large? Forget a village, Gen’rul, I believe them Injuns is puttin’ ’em together a city. Goin’ up ag’in ’em’s goin’ to be a lot like tryin’ to attack Denver.”

  “Oh, I think not,” Custer said easily. “Think about it. How would that many Indians sustain themselves in one place? They would run out of wood and game very quickly, and they would either have to separate, or move on. And if there are as many as you say, that’s ideal for us. Indians don’t organize into a cohesive military unit. If they have six hundred warriors, that means they have six hundred individuals, unled and uncoordinated. And you do remember what Euripides said, don’t you?”

  “Euripides?” Dorman shook his head, then spit out a wad of tobacco. “I don’t rightly remember ever meetin’ the fella.”

  Custer laughed out loud. “It’s unlikely that you would have met him, since he died a long time ago. But he said, and I quote; “Ten men wisely led are worth one hundred without a head.’ No, my friend, regardless of how many Indians we may meet, the advantage is ours.”

  After the break, Custer ordered the column to get under way once more and at seven forty-five that evening, they camped again on the right bank of the Rosebud, having come twenty-eight miles that day.

  Dinner that evening consisted of hard bread fried in bacon grease, called skillgilly by the soldiers. As Falcon was finishing his meal, Keogh called over to him.

  “Colonel MacCallister, m’ boyo, come and join us. I’ve saved a snug nook with beautiful grass just for you.”

  “Thank you, Myles,” Falcon replied, carrying his saddle and saddle blanket with him. There he found Captain Keogh, Captain Benteen, Captain Godfrey, Lieutenant Porter, and Lieutenant DeRudio.

  Though the other horses were kept together in a roped-in “stable”, Keogh’s horse, Comanche, was tethered to a nearby tree. As Falcon walked by the horse, it whickered and ducked its head. Falcon rubbed Comanche’s ears.

  “Comanche, you old rake,” Keogh said. “Sure’n you’re tryin’ to make me jealous now, are you, by cavortin’ so with the colonel and here himself bein’ an outsider?”

  “Comanche is a good horse,” Falcon said.

  “Aye, that he is,” Keogh replied. “Twas in a fight against the Comanche on the Cimarron River at Beaver Fork, back in sixty-eight it was, that he showed his true mettle. Two wounds he had, either one of which would have stopped the ordinary horse. But Comanche never lost a step, carried me through till the end. Saved my life, he did. That’s why I bought him from the army, and made him my own personal horse. Yes, sir, I went from Ireland to Italy, where I fought with Papal forces at the Battle of Castelfidardo, served as a Vatican Guard, then came to America to fight in the Civil War. I was at Shenandoah Valley, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Brandy Station, Battle of Five Forks, and Gettysburg, but never once did I come across a horse the equal of Comanche. I named him Comanche after the heathens we did battle with that day.

  “Comanche, that’s a fitting name,” Falcon replied.

  “Say, there’s Reno over there,” Godfrey said. Reno had found a tree and was sitting under it all alone. “Myles, didn’t you invite him to join us?”

  “Aye, lad, that I did,” Keogh replied. “But the major declined. He is a bit of a loner, methinks.”

  “Maybe he thinks he is too good for us,” DeRudio said.

  “Lieutenant, I’ll not have junior officers speak disparagingly of senior officers in my presence,” Benteen said rather sharply.

  “Sorry, sir, I meant no disrespect,” DeRudio replied contritely.

  “We’re sharin’ some personal stories here, Colonel MacCallister,” Porter said to break the pregnant pause. “That is, all of us but DeRudio. DeRudio is spinnin’ yarns, expectin’ us to believe them.”

  “Hey, what do you mean, spinning yarns?” DeRudio complained as the other officers laughed.

  “I didn’t say we weren’t enjoyin’ them, Charley,” Porter said. “I just said we didn’t believe them.”

  The others laughed again.

  “Colonel MacCallister, I have a question,” Benteen said. “The couple who came to entertain us, Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister, they are you brother and sister-in-law?”

  “No, they are my brother and sister,” Falcon replied. “They are twins.”

  “Sure’n didn’t I say as much, Fred?” Keogh asked.

  “You did,” Benteen admitted. “It’s just that if they are your brother and sister, your blood kin, does that mean you also have talent?”

  Falcon laughed. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “When it came to our family, I’m
afraid they got all the talent.”

  “Well, they certainly are entertaining,” Benteen said. “I think when this campaign is over, I shall take a leave, then take my family to New York to see them.”

  “Don’t just go see them in a play,” Falcon said. “Please call upon them socially. I know they will appreciate it.”

  “I will, and thanks.” Benteen stretched, then looked at the others. “If you boys think we are going to camp here all night, you have another think coming. If I were you, I’d quit all the palavering and try to get some sleep.”

  “Do you know something we don’t?” Keogh asked.

  “No, but I know Custer,” Benteen said. “And there’s not a doubt in my little military mind but that we’ll be pulling out of here in the middle of the night.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  June 24, 1876

  Bivouac on Mud Creek

  Because it was a moonless night, it was pitch dark when the camp was awakened at eleven o’clock and told to move out. To Custer’s frustration, however, it was taking some time to get the pack train across the creek.

  Custer kept the column waiting while he went back to check.

  “McDougal, what is the problem here?”

  “The mules won’t take to the water,” Boston said. Both Boston and Autie Reed were with the pack train.

  “Colonel Keogh!” Custer called, using Keogh’s brevet rank. “Are you within the sound of my voice?”

  “Aye, General,” Keogh called from the darkness.

  “Get these mules across the creek.”

  Keogh, astride Comanche, materialized from the dark. Swinging down from the saddle, he looked over at McDougal. “Come on, lad, if you, a Scotsman, and I, a son of Ireland, work together, I’m sure we’ll be to convince these recalcitrant English mules to cross a wee bit of a stream.”

  It took an hour and a half to get the train across the stream; then the column resumed its march. It was so dark, however, that the only way they could maintain unit integrity was for the rearmost man in each troop to pound his cup against his saddle.