Massacre of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Rosanna hugged Falcon. “You are the only one in the family who ever comes to see us,” she said. “Is it any wonder that you are my favorite brother?”

  “He’s your favorite brother?” Andrew said. “What about me?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Andrew. Falcon is my brother, you are my twin. And you are my favorite twin.”

  “All right then, that’s better, that’s . . . ,” he paused, realizing then what she had said. Falcon and Rosanna both laughed, then Andrew laughed with them. He reached out to take Falcon’s hand.

  “I agree with her,” he said. “You are also my favorite brother.”

  As Falcon and Cody started toward the gate, Falcon heard one of the reporters behind him call out.

  “Hey! Look there! Aren’t those the MacCallisters? Yes, that’s Andrew and Rosanna, the famous actors.”

  “What are you two doing here?” another asked and, glancing back over his shoulder, Falcon saw that the entire press corps had hurried to their side. He saw, too, that his siblings were handling it with their usual aplomb.

  “It’s Buffalo Bill Cody!” a passenger said as Falcon and Cody stepped into the palace car of the train. Almost instantly the other passengers crowded around him and, obligingly, Cody began signing autographs. Smiling and shaking his head, Falcon found a seat at the rear of the car and watched with bemusement.

  “Do you know Buffalo Bill?” one of the other passengers asked Falcon.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he a real man of the West? Or is he merely a showman?”

  “Trust me, Buffalo Bill is a real man of the West,” Falcon said. “He was a Pony Express rider, a buffalo hunter, a soldier, and a scout for the U.S. Cavalry. He is also a recipient of the Medal of Honor.”

  “I thought that was all hokum, just to promote his show,” the passenger said.

  “It isn’t hokum,” Falcon said. “And I’ll correct something else you said. He isn’t merely a showman; he is a showman of the first order.”

  “Is that so? Maybe I have made a mistake in my judgment of him,” the passenger said. “I wonder if I could get his autograph. For my children, of course.”

  “Of course,” Falcon said. “If you ask for it, I am sure he will give you his autograph. I have found him to be most generous in such things.”

  That night, as Falcon lay in his berth, feeling the gentle rocking motion of the train and hearing the sound of steel wheels rolling on steel track, he recalled the last time he had been with Buffalo Bill. The memory was so strong and so real that he didn’t know if it was a memory or a dream.

  It was a time before the Buffalo Bill Wild West Exhibition, when he was still known as Bill Cody. Falcon had been wandering through the West with no particular reason or destination when he found himself in Hayes City, Kansas. He met Bill Cody in the saloon, and because Cody had once ridden with the Pony Express, as had a close friend of Falcon’s, the two discovered a mutual connection.

  The two men were enjoying each other’s company, exchanging stories and gossip, when they learned that a local rancher and his wife had been killed and their eighteen-year-old daughter raped, leaving a soulscarred shell of the vibrant young girl she had been.

  The man who had perpetrated the crime was Drew Lightfoot, a well known desperado who had boasted that he would never be taken alive. Already a wanted robber and murderer, Lightfoot had committed crimes against one of the leading families of the county, and the reward for his apprehension had doubled. He was now worth two thousand dollars, dead or alive.

  “And he says he’ll never be taken alive?” Falcon asked the man who had brought the news to the saloon.

  “That’s what he says, all right.”

  Falcon finished his beer, then stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Cody asked.

  “I’m going to see what I can do about granting that fella’s wish that he not be taken alive,” Falcon said.

  Cody stood up as well. “Do you want company?” he asked.

  “A good friend is always welcome company,” Falcon replied.

  Soon after they got onto Lightfoot’s trail, they learned that he wasn’t traveling alone, but had five others with him, and was riding as the head of a gang of robbers and cutthroats. If that made Lightfoot more formidable, it also made him easier to track, for the Lightfoot gang was leaving a path of murder and robbery all across western Kansas and eastern Colorado.

  They caught up with him in Puxico, Colorado. Passed up by the railroads, Puxico wasn’t even on most maps. Falcon surveyed the town as he rode in. He had seen hundreds of towns like this one, a street faced by falsefronted shanties, a few sod buildings, and even a handful of tents, straggling along for nearly a quarter of a mile. Then, just as abruptly as the town started, it quit.

  In the winter and spring the single street would be a muddy mire, worked by horses’ hooves and mixed with their droppings, so that it became a stinking, sucking pool of ooze. In the summer it was baked hard as a rock. It was summer now, early afternoon, and the sun was yellow and hot.

  The saloon wasn’t hard to find. It was the biggest and grandest building in the entire town, and Cody pointed to it.

  “I’d say our best bet would be to start there,” Cody said.

  “I’d say you are right.”

  Loosening their pistols in their holsters, the two men walked inside.

  Anytime Falcon entered a strange saloon he was on the alert. As he surveyed the place, he did so with such calmness that the average person would think it no more than a glance of idle curiosity. In reality it was a very thorough appraisal of the room. He checked out who was armed, what type of weapons they were carrying, and whether they were wearing their guns in a way that showed they knew how to use them. There were five men sitting together in the back of the room, and they were surveying Falcon and Cody as carefully as Falcon was surveying them. Falcon knew it wasn’t idle curiosity that had drawn their attention, and he was certain they were the men he and Cody were after.

  “Cody,” he said quietly.

  “I see them,” Cody answered just as quietly.

  The bartender stood at the end of the bar, wiping used glasses with his stained apron, then setting them among the unused glasses. When he saw Falcon and Cody step up to the bar, he moved down toward them.

  “Two beers,” Falcon said.

  The bartender had seen the way Falcon and Cody had examined the five men in the back, and he had seen the way the five men had studied them. He poured the drinks with shaking hands, and Falcon knew that they had found their men.

  “Do you know why we are here?” Falcon asked quietly.

  “I reckon I do,” the bartender replied, his voice strained with fear.

  “I’m told there are six of them. I see only five sitting back there.”

  The bartender raised his head and looked toward the stairs at the back of the room, but he said nothing.

  “Would the one upstairs be Lightfoot?” Falcon asked.

  Again, the bartender said nothing, but he answered in the affirmative with a slight nod of his head.

  “Thanks,” Falcon said. He finished the drink then looked toward the flight of wooden stairs that led upstairs to an enclosed loft.

  “You go after him,” Cody said. “I’ll take care of these galoots.”

  “All right.”

  Falcon pulled his gun as he started up the stairs. The five in the back, seeing that, stood up as one, pulling their pistols as they did so.

  “Hold it!” Cody called, pointing his gun at the five. “Drop your guns, all of you!”

  “The hell you say!” one of the five men shouted, and they turned toward Cody.

  Seeing that Cody was now in danger, Falcon called to them from the stairs. “Do what he says!” Falcon shouted.

  One of the five men fired toward Cody and another fired toward Falcon. Even though the five men outnumbered Falcon and Cody, they were at a disadvantage because they were bunched into one big target, whereas their targets
were separated.

  Guns roared as they all began firing. Smoke billowed from the barrels of the guns, filling the saloon with a thick, acrid cloud. When the smoke moved away, the five were lying on the floor. Then, from the room at the head of the stairs, Lightfoot emerged, gun in hand. He fired at Falcon, and a hole the size of a man’s thumb and the height of a man’s chest appeared in the wall right beside Falcon as the heavy .44 caliber slug tore into the wood.

  Both Falcon and Cody returned fire at the same time and Lightfoot, struck by two bullets, tumbled over the banister and, turning in midair, landed on his back on the very table around which his five confederates had been sitting.

  An unexpected roughness in the track jarred Falcon from his sleep and he lay in his berth for a moment, halfway between dream and wake as the scenes of that event, so long ago, gradually faded away. He heard the sound of the train whistle as he drifted back to sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chicago, Illinois

  When Falcon and Cody stepped down from the train in Chicago they were met by a young army lieutenant, accompanied by two enlisted men. Stepping up to Cody, the lieutenant saluted.

  “Colonel Cody, I am Lieutenant Vaughan. If you will come with me, sir, I have a carriage waiting that will take you to your meeting with General Miles.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant, that is most kind of you,” Cody said. “This is Falcon MacCallister. I have brought him with me to meet with the general.”

  “Sir, I don’t mean to be particular, but General Miles said nothing about anyone named Mr. MacCallister. I was told to meet you and provide you with transportation to the general’s headquarters.”

  “I assume, Lieutenant, that the carriage you have brought is large enough to accommodate all of us?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I suggest that you let me handle the general.”

  “Very good sir,” Lieutenant Vaughan replied. “If you will give these two privates your claim tickets, they will secure your luggage.”

  “Thank you,” Cody said as he and Falcon turned over their claim checks.

  Lieutenant Vaughan led Falcon and Cody through the crowded station, then out to the front where an army carriage and an army buckboard stood. The carriage was being driven by an army sergeant, who stepped down to salute as the three men approached.

  “If you gentlemen wish to proceed, we will go on ahead,” the lieutenant said. “Cooper and Dagan will come along behind us in the buckboard with your luggage.”

  “That’ll be fine, Lieutenant,” Cody said, as he and Falcon got into the carriage. They rode on the back seat facing forward, while the lieutenant rode in the front seat facing to the rear. The driver climbed onto his seat, snapped his whip, and they started forward. The team moved out at a trot, pulling the carriage at a rapid pace, but the carriage had good springs, so the ride was smooth and pleasant.

  General Miles stood when Lieutenant Vaughan brought the two men into his office. A tall, slender man, General Miles looked very much at ease in the uniform of an army general, though, unlike most of the other generals in the army, Miles was not a graduate of West Point. In fact, he had been a clerk in a crockery factory when the Civil War began and he had volunteered his services as a private. He was commissioned a second lieutenant shortly after he enlisted, and rose quickly through the ranks, attaining the brevet rank of Major General at the very young age of twenty-six. After the war he was appointed colonel and given command of the Fifth Cavalry. It was there that he met Buffalo Bill Cody, though then Cody was not known as Buffalo Bill and there was no Wild West Exhibition. Then it was simply William Cody, army scout. Now Cody was a world famous show business personality, and Nelson Miles was commandant of the Department of the Missouri, again wearing the rank and uniform of a Major General.

  “Colonel Cody, it was good of you to come,” Miles said. “Please, come over to the nest and have a seat.”

  The “nest” General Miles was referring to was a collection of sofas and chairs in the corner of his commodious office. It was here that he held meetings with his subordinates when he wanted to make them feel comfortable. He was well known among his officers as a no-nonsense general who never invited anyone to the nest on routine matters—nor did he if they had done something to evoke his displeasure.

  “General, I hope you don’t mind,” Cody said, “but as you can see, I have brought someone with me.”

  “Falcon MacCallister,” General Miles said, extending his hand for a hearty handshake. “I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s been a long time.”

  “That it has, General,” Falcon said. “I hope you don’t mind that I came with Cody.”

  “Mind? No, of course I don’t mind. But tell me, are you a member of the Buffalo Bill Wild West Exhibition now?”

  “He sure is,” Cody said, speaking up quickly. “You should have seen him the other day. He raced after a runaway bull and leaped from the saddle to grab the critter by its horns and bring him down. And, I might add, he did this just in the nick of time, because the creature was hell-bent to dash into the audience to work its mayhem.”

  “Isn’t that a dangerous act to be putting into your show?” General Miles asked, concerned about what Cody had just told him. Then he smiled. “Or is that just part of your spiel?”

  “It’s true, all right,” Falcon said. “But believe me, it wasn’t a part of the act. The bull just got away.”

  General Miles laughed. “Buffalo Bill Cody,” he said. “P.T. Barnum has nothing on Buffalo Bill. Our friend, here, is, without doubt the greatest self-promoter on earth.”

  “Tell me, General, what is the emergency? Why did you send for me?” Cody asked.

  “I am sure you have heard of the recent disturbances coming from some of our Western Territories,” General Miles said. “There was an incident where a farmer named Kennedy was killed, along with practically his entire family. They were massacred by Indians. A stagecoach was attacked and two whites were killed. There have been some prospectors killed, and a freight wagon train was attacked.”

  “I have heard of some of it, yes,” Cody said. “The newspapers have carried the reports, though I am always of the belief that the newspapers tend to exaggerate the events to make a better story.”

  “Believe me, there is no exaggeration, these events have occurred. And now we have been getting some disturbing reports from some of the more friendly Indians suggesting that these may not be isolated events, that there may be something afoot among the Sioux. We are also hearing that Sitting Bull himself may be behind it. I know he was with your show for a while.”

  “Yes, he was, but he was only with us for about four months,” Cody replied. “I paid him fifty dollars a week to ride around the ring one time. He was quite a box office attraction, and he wound up making even more money by selling his autograph.”

  “Is it true that he yelled curses at the audience in Lakota?” General Miles asked.

  Cody laughed. “Well, since he was the only member of the show who could speak the language, that is something that only Sitting Bull knows.”

  “Be that as it may, the task I have for you is a simple one, if you will agree to take it. I want you to go to Standing Rock to visit Sitting Bull. Well, it isn’t Standing Rock anymore. Now it is Fort Yates, but most people still call it Standing Rock. Anyway, I want you to speak to him while you are there and determine, if you can, if there is another Indian uprising in the making. And if there is, I want you to find out if he is a part of it. Though I have no doubt but that he will say he isn’t.”

  “I’m sure he will say that he isn’t a part of it, General, and he will be telling the truth,” Cody said. “I do not believe for one moment that he is instigating another Indian uprising.”

  “General, are you talking about Wagi Wanagi?” Falcon asked.

  “Wagi Wanagi?”

  “Spirit Talking.”

  “Yes, Spirit Talking, that’s it,” General Miles said. “I’m told it has all the Indians in
a frenzy.”

  “The Indian behind Spirit Talking is Mean to His Horses, not Sitting Bull,” Falcon said.

  “Falcon is right, General. I think you are making a mistake,” Cody said. “I am absolutely positive that Sitting Bull has nothing to do with this.”

  General Miles stroked his moustache as he looked at Cody and Falcon. “Have I chosen the wrong man for the job, Colonel Cody? Have you become so enamored of him that you will believe anything he tells you?”

  “General, if you will allow me, I have a suggestion,” Falcon said.

  “By all means, Falcon, if you have any ideas please share them with me. This is too important to let something pass without exploring every avenue.”

  “With your permission I will accompany Colonel Cody,” Falcon said. “Although I have no doubt but that the colonel is capable of determining whether or not Sitting Bull will be telling the truth—it is also possible that the two of us will sharpen the perception.”

  General Miles nodded. “Yes, an excellent idea, Colonel MacCallister.”

  “Colonel MacCallister?” Falcon replied.

  “Bill Cody is already a colonel in the Army Scouts, and, for the duration of this assignment, I am appointing you as well. Both of you will be paid accordingly, though,” he looked at Cody and chuckled, “as much money as you make with your Wild West Exhibition, I’m afraid any army pay you draw would be an insult.”

  “I will serve for the honor of service, General, not for the money,” Cody said. “And one can never be insulted by honor.”

  “Indeed, one cannot,” General Miles said. “Falcon, if you will raise your right hand, I will administer the oath of your service.”

  Raising his right hand, Falcon took the oath, repeating it word-for-word after General Miles.

  “I, Falcon MacCallister, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign or domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”