Massacre of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing,” Bowman said. “But, just to be safe, let’s extinguish the fire. No sense in leaving a beacon for anyone.”

  With the White Bull raiding party, the next day

  White Bull gave the reins of his pony to Running Elk, and then climbed to the top of the hill. He knew the warrior’s secret of lying down behind the crest of the hill so that he couldn’t be seen against the skyline, so he lay on his stomach, then sneaked up to the top and peered over. There, on the valley floor below him, he saw two white men. It was obvious that the whites had no idea they were in danger. It would be easy to count coups against them. He smiled, then slithered back down the hill into the ravine where Running Elk and the others were waiting.

  “Did you see them?” Running Elk asked.

  “Yes,” White Bull answered.

  “How many are there?”

  “There are two white men.”

  “Only two? But we are thirteen,” Running Elk said. “Where is the honor in thirteen attacking two?”

  “Where is the honor in the whites killing Many Buffalo and One Feather? Where is the honor in attacking White Deer and Quiet Stream and White Deer’s children?” White Bull replied. “Have you forgotten how the blood ran hot in your veins?”

  “No, I have not forgotten.”

  “We will claim coups on these white men, then we will show Mean to His Horses that the Crow can be as good warriors as the Cheyenne.”

  “When do you attack?” One of the others asked. He was Face in the Wind, a Shoshone. Standing Bear and Jumping Wolf were also present.

  “Now,” White Bull replied. He pointed down the ravine. “We will follow the ravine around the side of the hill. We will attack them before they suspect our presence.”

  Doyle Clayton and Oliver Bowman had gotten an early start this morning and were well into their trip when Clayton saw a substantial group of Indians coming toward them from the east.

  “Look over there, Oliver,” Clayton said. “What do you think that is all about?”

  “I don’t know, but there are too many of them to suit me. I think we should get out of here,” Bowman answered.

  The two ranchers urged their horses into a gallop, keeping it up for at least two miles until they came into the breaks of the Yellowstone River. There they dismounted, pulled their rifles from the saddle-sheaths, then slapped their horses to keep them running, hoping that would draw off the Indians. Finding a spot in the sand dunes next to the river, they hunkered down to wait for the Indians. The Indians poured over the bluffs, then crossed over the sand dunes so that the two ranchers were surrounded. Bowman and Clayton had cover from the front, but no cover behind except for the river.

  One of the Indians tried to sneak up from the river, but Clayton shot him. For the rest of the day, the cattlemen and the Indians exchanged shots, though Clayton’s response was measured to preserve ammunition. They warned each other not to waste a bullet until they had a good, clear target.

  The two were well-positioned, and for the first hour or so they were able to hold the Indians off, killing no fewer than four of them. Finally, the Indians quit trying to advance on them, but stood off and fired arrows from over a hundred yards away, launching them high into the air so they would rain down on the other side of the dunes.

  Clayton was hit in the arm, and again in the side. Bowman pulled both of the arrows out.

  “Damn,” Clayton said, grunting with pain. “Those things go in easier than they come out.”

  “I know, but we can’t leave ’em in or they’ll start festerin’, and the next thing you know you’ll have gangrene,” Bowman said.

  Bowman was bandaging Clayton’s arm when one Indian came over the top of the dune to claim coups. Clayton was lying on the ground, and even though his left arm was being bandaged he was holding his pistol in his right hand. When the Indian appeared over the top of the dune, Clayton raised his pistol and shot him at point-blank range. After that, no other Indian tried to breach their defense.

  That night Clayton developed a fever. “I’m going to die,” he said.

  “No you ain’t.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m goin’ to die, so here’s what I want you to do. I want you to leave me here. It’s nighttime so I think you can get away.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ you here by yourself.”

  “Leave, damnit!” Clayton said. “Don’t you understand? You are our only chance. If you can get away, you can bring help back.”

  Bowman thought for a moment, then he nodded his head. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go. But I’ll be back.” Bowman handed his rifle and a handful of .44-.40 cartridges to Clayton.

  “You take my rifle and bullets, I’ll just keep my pistol.”

  “All right, if they come after me, I’ll take out as many as I can before they get me,” Clayton said.

  Even though it was relatively cool, Bowman stripped down to his underwear, thinking that if he stayed in the river he would be less likely to encounter an Indian. But shortly after he left, he encountered a mounted Indian riding down the middle of the river. He moved over to stay as close to the bank as he could.

  Bowman stayed in the river, continuing downstream until daybreak. Then, cold and barefooted, he started south across the rocks, cactus, and sage.

  “I think they are both dead,” Jumping Wolf said.

  “I think they are not dead,” White Bull replied.

  “I am going to see. If they are dead, I will count first coups.”

  “I think we should wait until first light,” Running Elk said.

  “I think Running Elk is a coward, afraid to see if the white men are dead,” Jumping Wolf said.

  “I am not a coward, I am pragmatic,” Running Elk said, saying the word “pragmatic” in English. It was a word he learned in the white man’s school, and he thought it fit this situation perfectly.

  “What is pragmatic?” Jumping Wolf asked. He had trouble pronouncing the word.

  “It means I have good sense,” Running Elk replied.

  “I think it means you are a coward,” Jumping Wolf said.

  Running Elk stood and drew his knife. “I will show you who is a coward,” he said.

  Jumping Wolf held out his hand. “I do not want to fight you now. Now I will claim coups on the white men. When I return, I will fight you.”

  “You will not return,” Running Elk said.

  Clayton was trying to stay awake but he kept dozing off. Each time he would doze off he would dream, and in one of his dreams he was talking to Diane, his six-year-old daughter. She was showing him the new dress her mother had made for her doll.

  “That is a very nice dress,” Clayton said.

  “It is the prettiest dress, so I put it on my favorite doll,” Diane said.

  “Yes, I think that is the one I would put it on too.”

  “You had better wake up now, Daddy, because there is an Indian coming.”

  Clayton opened his eyes just in time to see an Indian kneeling over him, with his war club raised.

  “Ahhh!” Clayton shouted, and, raising his pistol, he shot the Indian in the head. The Indian fell across him, dead.

  It was a struggle to get out from under the Indian’s body, but he managed to do so, then he lay there, breathing hard, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

  He vowed not to go back to sleep.

  With the White Bull raiding party

  Jumping Wolf did not come back. Running Elk, White Bull, and the others had heard the shot in the middle of the night, and because Jumping Wolf had carried only a war club with him, they suspected that he had been seen.

  White Bull had left their encampment with Running Elk and eleven others. But in the time they had been here, they knew for sure that four of their number had been killed, and now they believed that Jumping Wolf had been killed as well.

  “Perhaps he claimed coups, then left,” Face in the Wind suggested.

  “Why would he do that? Would he not want to ret
urn and brag of his coups?” Standing Bear asked.

  “Yes, and did he not challenge Running Elk to a fight?” Red Eagle asked.

  “Perhaps he is afraid of Running Elk,” Face in the Wind said.

  “No,” Running Elk said. “Jumping Wolf was a brave warrior. I do not think he feared me. But I think he is dead. I think the white men killed him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham left Cinnabar, they went across the top of the park, then cut south, crossing the Montana border back in to Wyoming Territory. From the lofty heights of Dead Indian pass it was as if they were on top of the world. They could see far down into the valley where the Yellowstone River snaked its way through, and they had a wonderful view of the surrounding mountains, range after range.

  “You know, I write my Western novels about this land, but I’ve never really seen it,” Ingraham said. “The scenery here is magnificent. I love the way the light and shadows play upon the mountains, and down in the valleys. We don’t have anything like this down in Mississippi, I can tell you that for sure.”

  “Look at Falcon,” Cody said. “He is as at home here as a mountain goat.”

  “Kind of hard to breathe up here though. I’m getting winded,” Ingraham said.

  “That’s because you have those little Mississippi lungs,” Cody said. “You see how big Falcon’s chest is? That’s because it is all lung. He has no heart, no liver, nothing in there but one big lung.”

  Ingraham laughed. “Cody, after that tall tale about the mountain of telescopic glass you told the other day, and this wild tale, you have definitely missed your calling. You should give up show business and become a full-time writer,” Ingraham said.

  “The Life of Honorable William F. Cody, the famous hunter, scout, and guide known as Buffalo Bill, by William F. Cody,” Cody said. “How does that sound?”

  “Everyone in America will want to read it, of that I am sure,” Ingraham said.

  “Hmm, I just may give that a thought,” Cody replied.

  They continued their banter for several more minutes, then Falcon held up his hand.

  “Hold it,” he said.

  “What do you see?”

  “Look, down there. Alongside the river.”

  “Is it an Indian?” Ingraham asked.

  “No, it’s a white man.”

  “What are those clothes he’s wearing?”

  “Long johns,” Falcon said. “He’s wearing nothing but his underwear.”

  Falcon slapped his legs against the side of his horse, urging it into a lope, and the other two followed.

  “I think I know that man,” Cody said as they drew closer to the strange figure.

  When they reached Oliver Bowman, they saw that Falcon was right. He was half-naked and barefoot. In addition, his eyes were bloodshot, and his swollen feet were leaving bloody footprints in the sand.

  “Oliver? Is that you?” Cody asked.

  “Hello, Buffalo Bill. Fancy meeting you here,” Bowman said, just before he passed out.

  By the time Bowman regained consciousness, Falcon had already started a fire and brewed some coffee. He gave Bowman a cup, and Bowman drank it down greedily, not caring that it was so hot that it burned his lips.

  “You wouldn’t have anything to eat, would you?” Bowman asked.

  “Some elk jerky,” Falcon said, offering him a piece.

  Between deep swallows of coffee, Bowman wolfed down the jerky. “I’m mighty obliged to you,” he said. “Sorry to be puttin’ you folks out like this.”

  “Nonsense, you aren’t putting us out,” Ingraham said.

  “It’s nice of you to say so.”

  “Oliver, what are you doing out here like this?” Cody asked.

  “You mean with purt’ nigh no clothes on? I thought if I had to swim it would be easier if I didn’t have my clothes.” He looked at his hand. “I thought I had my pistol with me. Did you see a pistol?”

  “You were unarmed when we saw you,” Cody said.

  “Oh, yeah, I reckon I was,” Bowman said. “I left my pistol with Doyle Clayton. Or, was it my rifle? I don’t remember now. All I remember are the Injuns.”

  “Indians?” Falcon asked.

  Suddenly Bowman seemed to come out of his stupor.

  “My God! Injuns!” he said. “We was attacked by Injuns yesterday, me and Doyle was! He’s still up there, if he’s alive. He’s been shot, I know that.”

  “Where is he?” Cody asked.

  “I don’t know for sure, he’s upriver, that’s all I know. Maybe ten or twenty miles or so.”

  “We’ll find him,” Falcon said.

  “Ingraham, Mr. Bowman doesn’t live too far from here,” Cody said. “How about you take him home?”

  “I thought I might come with you two,” Ingraham said.

  “And just leave Mr. Bowman here?”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess you are right.”

  Bowman began shivering then, from the cold.

  “Here, Mr. Bowman,” Ingraham said, taking a blanket from his saddle roll. “Wrap yourself in this, then climb on to the horse behind me. How far is it to your place?”

  “Ten, maybe twelve miles,” Bowman answered through chattering teeth.

  “Climb up behind me, keep the blanket wrapped around you, and hold on,” Ingraham said. “I’ll get you safely home.”

  “I think we should return,” Running Elk said. “Already we have lost nearly half our number.”

  “You may return if you wish,” White Bull said. “But I will stay until I have claimed coups.”

  “They are but two men,” Running Elk said. “Where is the honor in killing but two men? Especially as they have already killed so many of us.”

  “That is all the more reason we should kill them,” White Bull said. “There is honor in killing enemy. It matters not how many there may be.”

  Although Running Elk was opposed to it, he knew that he could not abandon White Bull without violating a lifelong friendship, and he could not leave the fight without losing face, so he stayed. But now it had been two days, and the white men were well armed and well dug-in alongside the river, so, despite their many efforts, they had been unable to defeat them.

  Jumping Bear and the others grew frustrated and a few suggested that perhaps White Bull was not the leader for them. White Bull challenged any other to take his place if they could, but none accepted the challenge. Running Elk felt honor-bound to defend White Bull’s position, so he let the others know that he would continue to follow White Bull. But he knew that if the fight went on for one more night and day that the other Indians would leave, and if that happened, White Bull, and by extension he as well, would be disgraced and dishonored.

  White Bull began shooting toward sand dunes where the white men were. Running Elk and the others joined in the shooting.

  As Falcon and Cody approached the spot in the river where Bowman told them Clayton would be, they heard shooting from ahead. The Indians, as Bowman had explained, were located on the east side of the Yellowstone, so Falcon and Cody crossed over to the west side as they continued their approach.

  In this they were lucky, for there was a long, high ridge that ran along the west side of the river, shielding their approach. They rode as close as they could get, then they dismounted, and securing their horses, continued on foot. When they heard one of the bullets whizzing just overhead, they knew that they must be even with Clayton, so they crawled up to the top of the ridgeline and looked across the river.

  There they saw Clayton. They saw too that he was badly wounded, and was moving with great difficulty in order to return fire. He was no longer aiming his shots, but merely shooting to let the Indians know that he was still alive.

  “Clayton!” Falcon called.

  Clayton looked around, as if not certain he had heard his name called.

  “Clayton!” Falcon called again. “We are over here, across the river.”

  “Thank God you have come!” Clayton said. He tri
ed to get up.

  “No! Stay there! We will come to you!” Falcon shouted.

  Clayton got back down as instructed, and Falcon and Cody climbed over the ridge, then ran across the river to join him. The river was deeper than they thought, coming all the way up to their armpits, so it slowed them considerably, but they made it across without incident.

  “Bill Cody, what are you doing here?” Clayton said. “I thought you were in New York.”

  “I was,” Cody answered. “But Mr. Bowman told me you were in trouble, so I asked my friend here to come along, and here we are.”

  “From New York?”

  “Sure, why not?” Cody said, laughing, and trying to make Clayton feel better.

  “Well, wherever you came from, I’m damn glad to see you,” Clayton said. “These Injuns have been givin’ me hell.”

  “Looks to me like you gave that one hell,” Falcon said, pointing to a dead Indian who was lying over to one side.

  “Yeah, he sneaked in last night,” Clayton said. “I guess he figured I was asleep and he could bash my head in.”

  “There are a couple more out there,” Cody said. “I’d say you have put up a pretty good defense.”

  “Yeah, well, between Bowman and me, I’m purt’ sure we’ve kilt at least four or five of ’em. Oh, that reminds me, Bowman! He’s out there somewhere.”

  “Bowman is safe,” Falcon said. “He is the one who found us.”

  “Good for him,” Clayton said. He looked at Falcon. “I don’t reckon I know you. Who are you?”

  “The name is MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Damn! I’ve heard of you,” Clayton said. Despite his wounds, he was able to muster a chuckle. “I reckon if I can’t get the United States Cavalry out here to rescue me, gettin’ Buffalo Bill Cody and Falcon MacCallister would be the next best thing. Maybe even better.”

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Falcon said, easing up to the top of the dune where Clayton had taken shelter. Looking out across an open area, he saw a line of Indians, and he counted eight.