MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  “I reckon you’re right.”

  “They didn’t have to die, you know,” Caviness said after a moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they didn’t have to die. Lieutenant Scott damn near the same as kilt them. Jones and me both tried to tell him he didn’t have no business ridin’ in between them two bluffs like that, but the son of a bitch wouldn’t listen to us. Then, next thing you know, they’s Injuns on either side, shootin’ down at us.”

  “Yes, well, as many Indians as there were, it probably would’ve happened whether you rode into the draw or not,” Cobb said.

  Caviness looked up in surprise. “What do you mean, as many Indians as there was?”

  “Well, there were fifty Indians to your twenty.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I overheard Lieutenant Scott tell. Are you telling me that isn’t true?”

  “The lieutenant said they was fifty Injuns?”

  “Yes. Are you saying there weren’t that many?”

  Caviness didn’t answer. Instead, he merely continued folding Jones’s spare uniforms and long handle underwear.

  “Caviness, how many Indians were there?”

  “If the lieutenant says they was fifty, I ain’t goin’ to say they wasn’t. I don’t intend to get into no pissin’ contest with ’im.”

  Cobb nodded. “Smart idea,” he said.

  Back in his quarters, Lieutenant Scott was sitting at the kitchen table, writing the report Colonel Gibbon had requested. Sue was kneading bread dough and setting it to rise.

  “Sue,” Scott said. “Listen to this after-action report I’m writing for Colonel Gibbon, and see what you think.”

  Sue quit kneading the bread, and looked over at her husband, whose eyes were gleaming with excitement, as he began to read.

  “On August 15, 1887, Lieutenant Clayton M. Scott set off from Fort Laramie in command of a small cavalry detachment, to pursue a Shoshone raiding party that had murdered as many as eleven innocent white civilians during their brutal rampage.

  “Lieutenant Scott pursued the Shoshones fifteen miles into a place where the river passes between two high bluffs. There, Lieutenant Scott encountered a much larger force then he had been told to expect. Though he attempted to surprise the Shoshone, his soldiers had been spotted and the hostiles, who had the advantage of high ground and cover, began firing down onto Lieutenant Scott’s small detachment, killing three soldiers, they being: Troopers J. C. Jones, Edward Travis, and Marcus Calhoun.

  “Lieutenant Scott ordered that fire be returned, directing the soldiers’ efforts in such a way as to inflict very heavy casualties on the hostile force.

  “But, as the cavalry detachment was greatly outnumbered and unable to mount a successful attack as long as the Shoshone had the advantage of position and numbers, Lieutenant Scott ordered a retreat. As his men galloped out of the confined area, Lieutenant Scott remained back, being the last one to leave, so that he might cover the withdrawal of his troops, and to prevent any further casualties.”

  Scott looked up after he finished reading the report. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sue said. “Why did you write the report, speaking of yourself in the second person?”

  “I felt it would be more professional, that way.”

  “Or, perhaps you found it easier to praise yourself so highly.”

  The smile left Scott’s face and, angrily, he moved toward her. Sue backed away from him, frightened by his appearance and action.

  “You ignorant, worthless bitch!” he shouted. He picked up the bread dough and threw it against the wall. “I should know better than to ask you your opinion about anything!”

  Scott stormed out of the kitchen and Sue, after waiting for a moment to be sure he wouldn’t be coming back, went over to retrieve the bread dough.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wind River Reservation

  Using grasshoppers for bait, Ska Luta had a good day of fishing, and as he left the banks of the swiftly moving Wind River, he was carrying three golden trout home for Elk Woman to cook, and he could already taste them.

  “Unci!” he called as he returned to the small, one-room cabin where he was raised. “Unci, I have fish for our supper!” Even though he knew that Elk Woman was not his grandmother, she was the one who had raised him from infancy, and he had addressed her as such for his entire life.

  When he stepped inside though, he saw Elk Woman lying on the floor.

  “Unci!” he shouted. “Unci! What is wrong?”

  Quickly, he knelt beside her and, putting his hand on her face, felt her move.

  “Ska Luta,” Elk Woman said, her voice so weak that Ska Luta could barely hear the words.

  “What happened, Unci? Why are you on the floor?”

  “I feel that my time has come, Ska Luta. Help me to my bed. I do not wish to die on the floor like a tonkala.”

  “You are not a mouse, Unci. But I will help you to your bed.”

  Ska Luta picked her up and laid her on the bed.

  “He-ay-hee-ee, hecheto aloe!” Elk Woman said, singing the words, “Great Spirit, it is finished.”

  Elk Woman took Ska Luta’s hand and squeezed it as hard as she could, but so diminished was her strength now that she could barely squeeze.

  “I am thankful to the Great Spirit for bringing you to me,” she said. “You have given my life purpose.”

  “Unci, you have done more than that for me. You have given me life, for surely, I would have died.”

  “Your white father’s name is Glee Jon,” Elk Woman said. “I do not know if he is alive.” This was the first time in Ska Luta’s entire life, that Elk Woman had ever spoken the name of his white father.

  “I have no white father, Unci. I have only you.”

  Again, Elk woman squeezed his hand, then her hand grew loose, and Ska Luta saw the last breath leave her body.

  Elk Woman was dressed in her finest clothes with a beaded necklace around her neck. Lying on the burial platform with her were her most treasured possessions: a copper kettle, a mirror, and a silver hairbrush.

  The pejula wacasa, the medicine man, sang prayers to the Great Spirit as the drums maintained a steady beat in the background, the beating of the drums representing the connection between “the creature and the creator.”

  “Who speaks for the life of this woman?” the medicine man asked.

  “I speak for this woman,” Ska Luta said.

  “How is it that you have the power to speak for this woman?”

  “I speak for her because she is my grandmother,” Ska Luta said.

  “Can you speak well for her? Can you tell nagi tanka, the Great Spirit, why he should welcome Elk Woman?”

  “I can.”

  “Then, speak for her, Ska Luta.”

  “The Great Spirit did not provide Elk Woman with a child. He did that, because the Great Spirit knew that Elk Woman would be needed to care for another child, one without mother or father, and she would treat that child as her own.

  “I am that child, for it was as a small one, with no mother and no father that I came to Elk Woman.”

  Others spoke for Elk Woman as well, one of the men saying that, because she never had a husband, that every man was a husband to her. This was not said, nor was it understood to be, any kind of a sexual innuendo, but was said and understood to mean that she was a woman who was respected by every man. Several of the women said that because she had no sister, that every woman was a sister to her.

  Finally, the funeral service was completed, and Ska Luta returned to the cabin where he had been raised and sat there, feeling very alone. He thought about the name of his father, the name Elk Woman had given him long ago.

  Glee John.

  With the cattle drive

  Elmer Gleason was the first to awaken and, even before dawn, had laid a fire, started a pot of coffee, and started baking biscuits. Duff was the next one up, and he walked over to the fire a
nd looked at the coffeepot that was sitting on the iron frame that was over the glowing coals.

  “Coffee’s ready, biscuits ain’t,” Elmer said.

  “Coffee’s enough,” Duff said, using his gloved hand to pick up the pot. He poured himself a cup, then walked around to the other side of the chuck wagon and leaned back against it, drinking the coffee as he looked out over the plateau.

  The first gray light of morning was just breaking upon the herd, and the sun, which was still low in the east, sent long bars of light slashing through the ponderosa pine trees, and the morning mist curled around the tops of the trees like wisps of smoke.

  The two thousand head of cattle now milling about on the plateau were acutely aware of smells, sensations, and pines, and though Black Angus were less apt to stampede than Longhorn, or even Hereford, Duff was well aware that they could be spooked by a wolf, a lightning flash, or just about any loud noise. Finishing his coffee, he tossed out the remaining grounds, then saddled his horse.

  “Here,” Elmer said, handing him a bacon biscuit. “You more’n likely won’t be comin’ back for breakfast.”

  “Thanks,” Duff said, taking the proffered sandwich.

  As Duff rode around the herd this morning, he listened with an analytical ear to the crying and bawling of cattle and, hearing nothing out of the ordinary, turned his thoughts to Meagan. He found himself thinking a lot about her lately, and he realized that if he let her, she could replace Skye in his heart.

  But if he did let that happen, would that be dishonoring Skye’s memory?

  No, Skye wasn’t here any longer, and if she were able to look down on him, to speak to him from beyond the grave, he had a feeling that she would approve of Meagan. And why shouldn’t she? Meagan certainly felt no jealousy about Skye. She had let Duff know, in clear and unequivocal terms, that she respected the love that he had for Skye, as well as the fact that she still occupied a place in his heart.

  Within half an hour, the others were up, had their breakfast, and were taking up their positions. Looking toward Meagan, he knew that she was totally unaware that she was the subject of his ruminations. Instead, Meagan was concentrating on getting the herd ready for today’s drive. Duff watched her dash forward to intercept three or four steers that had moved away from the herd. She stopped the stragglers and pushed them back with the others, and Duff watched with admiration. They had gone riding together before, so he was well aware of her equestrian skills, but never had it been more apparent than it was right now. It was almost as if she and the horse were sharing the same musculature and nerve structure.

  Though it was common practice for men to make fun of how much a woman had to have with her when traveling, Meagan had shown up for this drive with only what she could carry in her saddlebags. On the other hand, Duff, Elmer, and the other three men who had come with them had a wagon to haul their stuff. The vehicle was being drawn by a particularly fine-looking team of mules, and it was serving them well.

  When first they left Sky Meadow, it had been the policy for Elmer to detach himself from the drive after breakfast and push on ahead at a faster rate. But since encountering Sergeant O’Riley and the soldiers from Fort Fetterman, where he learned of a warring party of Indians, Duff was keeping the wagon with the rest of the herd.

  With whistles, shouts, and prodding, the herd got underway, moving forward as one great, black wave, slowly but steadily, making approximately four miles per hour. They were capable of traveling faster, but Duff was aware that if they traveled too fast, they would walk off some of their weight. And though his contract with the army was per head, and not per pound, he felt honor bound to get the cattle to them in as good a condition as possible.

  He had come a long way since moving to America from Scotland. He had raised cattle in Scotland, but he had never made long trail drives there, as he had, so often, since coming here.

  He looked back over at Meagan, and smiled. She was wearing the same clothes as all the other drovers, doing so because, she told him, she wanted to “fit in.” But with the form-fitting denim trousers, and the clinging shirt, she was far from fitting in.

  Meagan, totally unaware of Duff’s scrutiny of her, couldn’t recall when she had been so tired. It was a bone-aching, backbreaking tired, and yet there was an exhilaration that transcended the tiredness. The exhilaration came from the excitement of the drive and from the feeling of doing something that was beyond her normal scope of activity.

  She wasn’t the only one who was feeling the excitement of the drive. She could see it in the eyes and on the faces of the other drovers as well. The excitement was infectious and self-feeding, and it seemed to grow as the drive progressed. It was all around them, like the smell of the air before a spring shower, or the smell of wood smoke on a crisp fall day. But it wasn’t fall or spring. It was summer, and as the day progressed, the sun would beat relentlessly down on the drovers and the animals below.

  Meagan knew, though, that the yellow glare of the early summer sky would mellow into the steel blue of late afternoon by the time the herd reached the place where it would be halted for the night, and then she would be refreshed with a breath of cool air. But that would be twelve hours from now.

  Fort Laramie

  The bright, crisp notes of “Reveille” reached into every barracks, BOQ and married officers’ quarters. Lieutenant Scott rose from bed and started putting on his field uniform.

  “Do you want me to fix some breakfast for you?” Sue asked, sleepily. She was still in bed.

  “No. Captain Kirby has asked that I join him in the officers’ mess,” he said. “I don’t know why Colonel Gibbon didn’t give me command of the troop. I’m the one who found the Indians.”

  “Why should he, Clay? Captain Kirby is commander of A Troop. Of course, if the entire troop goes, it should be his command.”

  “This is army business, Sue. What do you know about it, anyway?”

  “Clay, you’ve only been in the army for two years, six if you count West Point. Remember, I’ve been a part of the army for my entire life.”

  “Being an army brat doesn’t make you part of the army,” Scott said with a derisive sneer.

  “Perhaps not. But it certainly gives me an awareness of protocol and procedure. And I know that it would be a severe violation of protocol to give you command of A Troop, as long as Captain Kirby is its commanding officer.”

  “Sometimes, Sue, I wonder whose side you are on? You’re my wife. You make a big thing about being part of an army family. Well now you are part of my family, and you should want what is best for me.”

  “But of course, I do,” Sue said.

  “I’m not always so sure. If you really did want what is best for me, you would convince your father to bring me back to Washington.”

  “Oh, Clay, let’s not go through all this again.”

  “Don’t worry. It may not be necessary now. We’ve got a real Indian war to fight.” He smiled. “There’s not another officer in my graduating class who has the opportunity I have now. I intend to get the Medal of Honor out of this.”

  “The Medal of Honor? Clay, you have to do something very outstanding for that. And, you have to be put in for it.”

  “I will be,” Scott said, confidently. “Just you wait. I will be.”

  Outside Lieutenant Scott’s quarters, the fort was awakening to a new day. From the stable came the whinnies of horses, and the brays of mules. “Assembly” was played, then he heard the echoing voices of the commanders giving their morning reports, from distant and barely audible, to voices that sounded so close it was if he was on the parade ground with them.

  “A Troop all present and accounted for, sir!”

  “B Troop all present and accounted for, sir!”

  “C Troop all present and accounted for, sir!”

  The sequential reports continued until every troop and every battalion was heard from.

  As he walked toward the officers’ mess, he looked over toward the dismounted formation o
f the Fifth Cavalry Regiment, the formation being taken this morning by Major Allison. It was quite impressive, and he imagined himself standing in front of this very formation being awarded the Medal of Honor.

  As Scott thought of the report he had written for Colonel Gibbon, he smiled. Who knows? Perhaps he would be put in for the medal as a result of the action he had described in that report.

  Out on the parade ground, Major Allison took the reports from the battalion commanders, and then gave the order to present arms. When arms were presented, Allison did an about-face and, with his saber, rendered a salute. At that moment the signal cannon fired, and, as the bugler played “To the Colors,” the flag was run up the pole.

  Scott came to attention and rendered the hand salute.

  “Order, arms!” Major Allison called, and Scott could hear the sounds of carbines being returned to the order arms position.

  Major Allison then dismissed the regiment, and his dismissal was followed almost immediately by the bugler playing “Mess Call.”

  Captain Kirby was waiting inside the officers’ mess and Scott joined him at his table. An orderly brought their breakfast.

  “Eat quickly, Lieutenant,” Captain Kirby said. “‘Boots and Saddles’ in half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, Colonel Gibbon asked that I present a battle report of the detachment I commanded. Will I have time to do that?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  “Would you like to read it?”

  “Yes, it might contain some information that would be helpful to this scout.”

  Kirby read the report. “You left out any specifics as to how Jones and the other two troopers were killed.”

  “Nothing specific to say about it,” Scott said. “They were killed during the battle.”

  “And you say you believe you killed several of the Indians?”