This writer was on board the Northern Pacific train somewhere east of Bismarck, in company with Buffalo Bill Cody and Falcon MacCallister as part of our remarkable transit across America, when the attack occurred. With the muzzle flashes of their guns lighting up the dark night, eight armed and ferocious robbers attempted a train robbery. Bullets were flying through air as the outlaws went about manifesting their evil deed, and all on board the train were fraught with terror.
All were frightened, that is, except for the fearless duo of Buffalo Bill and Falcon MacCallister. For, unbeknownst to the would-be perpetrators of this dastardly crime, there were, among the passengers, two of America’s most storied heroes. Cool and professional in the face of danger, these two intrepid gentlemen, Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody, engaged the road agents in a deadly gunfight. And whereas the missiles launched by the outlaws flew through the night without finding any targets, the bullets fired by the intrepid duo of MacCallister and Cody wrought a terrible effect among the would-be train robbers. Three of the desperadoes were killed outright when struck by the well-aimed balls, and one was captured. The remaining four retreated into the night like the cowards they are.
Buffalo Bill Cody, as readers of this newspaper may know, is the proprietor and chief performer of the world famous Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Exhibition.
When Ingraham rejoined Falcon and Cody, he was wearing a pistol.
“That’s something new,” Cody said.
“I figured if I am going to live in the Wild West, I may as well dress for the part,” Ingraham said. “Especially in light of the excitement on board the train last night.”
“I won’t ask you if you can use that,” Cody said. “I’m sure you have been in enough wars by now that you can handle it quite well.”
“As well as any of the cowboys in your show, Cody,” Ingraham said.
Cody chuckled. “I don’t doubt it.”
CHAPTER SIX
The last time Falcon had been to Fort Lincoln was in July 1876, having returned to the fort with what remained of the Seventh Cavalry after the disastrous fight at Little Big Horn.1 Because the Seventh had moved to Fort Meade, Dakota Territory, none of the Seventh remained at Fort Lincoln. Nevertheless, memories of the post, the events, and the people of Fort Lincoln came flooding back to him. But it wasn’t for nostalgia alone that Falcon was visiting. Colonel Sturgis, currently the commanding officer at Fort Lincoln, would be an ideal person to talk to with regard to the Spirit Talking movement, and it was for that reason they had come.
Reporting to the adjutant, Buffalo Bill introduced Falcon and himself.
“Lieutenant, I am Colonel William Cody, this is Colonel Falcon MacCallister, and we would like to speak to your commander.”
“You are colonels?” the young lieutenant said.
“I told you that we were,” Cody said.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you aren’t in uniform, and I can’t just let anyone in to see the commander.”
“Perhaps this will help,” Falcon said, showing the letter of commission given him by General Miles.
The lieutenant looked at the letter for a moment, then stood quickly and saluted sharply.
“I beg your pardon, sir!” he said. “Please forgive me for my behavior.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Lieutenant,” Buffalo Bill said. “You were just doing your job. Would that I had an adjutant as dedicated to protecting me from unwanted visitors.”
“Wait here, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’ll be but a moment.”
The lieutenant went into the commandant’s office, but he left the door open and, though neither Falcon nor Cody could hear what he said to Colonel Sturgis, they certainly heard Sturgis’s reply.
“What? Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody are both in my office and you left them cooling their heels outside? Show them in! Show them in at once! No, wait, I’ll do it myself!”
Colonel Sturgis left his office before the lieutenant, and with a broad smile and an extended hand, he greeted Falcon and Buffalo Bill. As it turned out, both men knew him, so it was a greeting more than an introduction.
“You are here just in time for lunch,” Sturgis said. “Please, be my guests.”
“We wouldn’t want to put Mrs. Sturgis out any,” Cody said.
“Don’t be foolish, Cody,” Colonel Sturgis said. “She is the wife of a post commandant. It is her duty, always, to be prepared to feed guests.”
Mrs. Sturgis went all out in preparing the lunch, complete with a chicken consommé, roast beef, roast potatoes, lima beans, and an apple pie for dessert.
“Now, gentlemen, what brings you here?” Colonel Sturgis asked.
“Need you ask?” Cody replied as he carved into his roast beef. “We have traveled two thousand miles for this delightful lunch, and it was worth every mile.” He smiled at Mrs. Sturgis. “And, madam, may I say that this meal is the equal to any I have had in all the courts of Europe?”
Mrs. Sturgis laughed self-consciously. “I know you are just saying that,” she said. “But I am vain enough to appreciate such a comment.”
“But there is another reason, is there not?” Colonel Sturgis asked.
“Colonel, have you ever heard of something called Spirit Talking?” Cody asked.
“Yes, Spirit Talking. The Indians call it Wagi Wanagi,” Colonel Sturgis said.
“Do you think it is likely to cause another Indian War?” Cody asked.
Sturgis stroked his jaw for a moment as he looked back at Falcon and Cody.
“Why do you ask that? Have you heard something that I have not?” he asked.
“We can’t answer that until we know what you have heard,” Falcon said.
“I know that it has made the Indians a bit more assertive, if not aggressive,” Sturgis said.
“What do you know of Spirit Talking?” Cody asked.
“The best way to describe it would be to call it a religion,” Sturgis said. “Though it is an unholy religion at best. It was started by Mean to His Horses, who was with Crazy Horse during the battle of Little Big Horn. But he was such an unknown then that nobody had ever heard of him. Now, he has a movement following him, and the movement has cut across the nations; not just the Cheyenne, but all the Sioux nations, and even some Indian tribes beyond the Sioux.
“From what some of the Indians have told me, it is a way of talking to the souls of Indians that have already died. The dead know everything, including the future. And the dead have told them that all the white men will soon be leaving. When that happens, the buffalo will come back and the land will return to the Indians.”
“So I will ask again. Do you think this portends war?” Cody asked.
“General Miles thinks that, does he?” Sturgis asked.
“He thinks it is possible, and he thinks that Sitting Bull is behind it.”
“As to whether or not this could lead to war, I can’t answer,” Sturgis said. “As I said, it has made the Indians more assertive. But I believe I can answer as to whether or not Sitting Bull is behind it.”
“And what would that answer be?” Cody asked. “Do you think Sitting Bull is behind it?”
“Absolutely not,” Sturgis said, emphatically.
“Good,” Cody said. “Because I don’t believe he is, either.”
Near the Big Horn River, in Montana Territory
Since leaving the Cheyenne Reservation, Mean to His Horses had gathered almost four hundred followers, including the women and children who had come with the warriors. There were at least two hundred warriors with him, having joined him not only from his own tribe, but from other tribes: Lakota, Oglala, Brule, and even some Shoshone.
Black Rock, who had been a longtime friend of Mean to His Horses, was sitting with Mean to His Horses and others in council.
“We need more guns,” Black Rock said. “Too many of us have only bows and arrows.”
“We took two guns from the ranch of Kennedy,” Mean to His Horses said. “And we took t
hree guns from the wagons.”
“We need many more guns.”
“We will get them,” Mean to His Horses promised.
“Where will we get them?”
“We will get them,” Mean to His Horses repeated, without further clarification.
Near the Meeteetsee River
Nearly one hundred miles away, Pony Face and Red Shield, two Crow hunters, were looking for elk in the open range near the Meeteetsee River. They were off the Crow reservation, but they had no cause for worry. They had a long record of peaceful coexistence with the white man.
Now one band of Crow, under Chief High Hawk, lived on a reservation set aside for them just outside the eastern entrance to Yellowstone Park. And though they had a specific part of the valley set aside for their use, it was understood that they could hunt anywhere in the Valley they wished. In addition, many of the Crow had made friends with farmers and ranchers in the area, often trading with them, sometimes stopping by to visit while on a hunt to take a meal with them, and to leave game for them.
Because of that friendly relationship, when Pony Face and Red Shield saw a couple of white men approaching them, they weren’t concerned. Perhaps they were part of the group of white men who were looking for gold. The hunters approached the white men to extend the sign of peace.
“We are Crow,” Pony Face said, holding his hand up, palm out to show that he was friendly. “We are friends.”
To the surprise of the two Crow hunters, the white men pointed their guns at them.
“We’ve had enough of you Injuns attacking our homes and killin’ our women and children,” one of the white men said.
“You speak of Cheyenne. We are not Cheyenne, we are Crow,” Red Shield said.
“You’re Injuns,” the white man replied.
Pony Face and Red Shield were shot down, even as they were protesting.
Sam Davis and Lee Regret stood over the two bodies, holding their still-smoking guns. The sound of the gunshots echoed back from the nearby mountains.
“Think there are any more around here?” Regret asked.
“We haven’t seen any more,” Davis answered.
“What do we do now?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Davis said. “I don’t think there’s any more of ’em around, but there’s no need to hang around, just in case.”
The day after the shooting, Grey Antelope and Howling Wolf found the two hunters, and when they brought the bodies back into the camp the entire village turned out. Both Pony Face and Red Shield had wives and children, so the mourning was intense.
High Hawk, the tribal chief, called a council to discuss the killing of the two hunters.
“We should kill two whites,” White Bull said.
“The whites already think we have killed two of them,” Jumping Elk said. “Two of the men who hunt for gold were found dead and scalped.”
“It was not an Indian who scalped them,” White Bull said.
“I think they were killed by other white men who hunt for gold,” High Hawk said. “But the white men think that they were killed by Crow.”
“And I think that Pony Face and Red Shield were also killed by men who hunt for gold,” Running Elk said.
“Running Elk, you speak the White Man’s tongue, I think you should go to the white man’s town and tell them that we have found two of our people killed, and ask if they will find and punish the ones who did this thing.”
“I will go,” Running Elk said.
No one in the village believed it to be any kind of organized action against the Indians, because the Crow were friendly with the white man. But it was known that white men could be driven crazy when they were searching for gold, so all were cautioned to be very careful while hunting, and to do nothing to anger the white man.
Bismarck
Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, Ike Peters, and Jim Dewey were at a table at the back of Fireman’s Exchange Saloon. Ebersole was the biggest of the four men, and though no vote had ever been taken, he was the leader of the group simply because he had assumed leadership. Ebersole was bald, but had a dark handlebar moustache. Hawkins was thin and wiry with a nose that was so flat that it made a whistling noise when he breathed. Peters and Dewey were mediumsized with unremarkable features. The saloon was busy with the usual clientele: miners, ranchers, freighters, and soldiers. There were several bar girls working the room as well, but none had approached the four men.
Ebersole folded the Tribune and put it on the table in front of him. He had been reading the article Ingraham wrote about the would-be train holdup.
“Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody,” Ebersole said. “They’re the sons of bitches that messed up our plans. We’d have money now if it wasn’t for them.”
“Yeah, I’m so broke I don’t have two coins to rub together,” Hawkins said.
“Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill,” Peters said. “Who would’ve thought that two men would shoot down Smitty, Hunt, and Collins.”
“And Billy,” Peters added.
“They didn’t kill Billy. Fact is, they got him in jail, right here in town,” Dewey said.
“Yes, and we need to get him out of jail,” Ebersole said.
“Get him out? Get him out how?” Hawkins asked.
“Break him out,” Ebersole said.
“Yeah, I reckon we do owe it to him, seein’ as we run off and left him,” Dewey said.
“Owin’ it to him ain’t got nothin’ at all to do with why I’m wantin’ to break him out,” Ebersole said.
“Well then, if you don’t think we owe it to him, why are you wantin’ to break him out?”
“He was with MacCallister and Cody all the time from where they got him, till they come here. I think he probably knows where they are going.”
“Why do we care where they are going?”
“Because soon as we find out where they are goin’, we are goin’ to track ’em down and kill ’em,” Ebersole said.
“Why?”
Ebersole smiled. “Boys, you got ’ny idea how famous we’ll be if we do that? There won’t be a person in the country who ain’t heard of us.”
“That’s why you want to kill ’em? So we’ll be famous?” Dewey asked. “I always sort of thought that in our line of work we didn’t exactly want to be famous.”
“It depends on what line of work you are talking about,” Ebersole said.
“Now, I don’t have no idea in hell what it is you are talkin’ about,” Dewey said.
“There’s folks all over the country that needs jobs—special jobs—done,” Ebersole said. “If we kill both MacCallister and Cody, we’ll be known as the kind of people who can do those special jobs. We’ll be able to hire out our guns, and we’ll make a ton of money from it.”
“Yeah,” Dewey said. “I guess you have a point there. It ain’t somethin’ I’ve ever thought about, though.”
“How are we goin’ to break him out?” Hawkins asked.
“We’ll do it tonight when the town is real quiet,” Ebersole said. “Like as not they won’t have no more than one man a-watchin’ over things at the jail. We’ll just go in and force him to let Billy go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Big Horn Basin, Yellowstone Valley
When he was but fifteen years old, Frank Barlow joined the army to save the Union. Captured at Kennesaw Mountain, he was one of the youngest prisoners of war in the Confederate Prison of War camp at Andersonville, Georgia. He spent just under a year in the prison where over 13,000 died, emerging from his incarceration weighing only ninety-four pounds. When he went back to Indiana he worked on his pa’s farm until, learning of land to be had simply by homesteading out West, he got married and moved to Wyoming Territory.
It was a gamble and both his family and his new bride’s family had tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant, and his wife Ann backed him in his resolve. Now the gamble seemed to have paid off, and Frank owned a small but successful ranch. Last year he not only managed t
o support his family, he actually turned a profit, and he was already thinking about taking on a few hands to help him run the place.
His son Davey, who was eight years old, had just celebrated his birthday and yesterday he and Ann had thrown a little party for him. He was looking forward to the time when Davey would be old enough to become a full partner in the operation of the ranch.
Frank pumped water into the basin, worked up lather from a bar of lye soap, then washed his hands and face. The cold well-water was bracing, and he reached for a towel and began drying off, thinking about the chicken and dumplings Ann had cooked for their supper. He had worked hard today and the enticing aroma was already causing his stomach to growl.
Barlow had the towel over his face when he thought he felt a presence. Dropping the towel, he was surprised to see two mounted men looking down at him. Where had they come from? He had neither seen nor heard them before this moment.
“Oh, you surprised me,” he said. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
The two men unnerved Frank. There was something about them, suddenly appearing as they did, that left him with a troublesome and unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Are you Frank Barlow?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah, I’m Barlow.”
“Barlow, you’ve got twenty-four hours to get off this property.”
“What are you talking about? Why the hell would I do that?”
“You are occupying land that belongs to the Bellefontaine Mineral Asset Development Company.”
Massacre of Eagles Page 6
