Bloodshed of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Same way I came up with one hundred rifles,” Harris said. “I have a contact with the Colorado Home Guard.”

  “Where are the guns now?” Bryans asked. “And how do we get them?”

  “They’ll be goin’ by wagon from Denver to Ft. Junction,” Harris said.

  “With the whole army guardin’ ’em, no doubt,” Richland said. “I can’t hardly see the army shippin’ a couple of Gatlin’ guns out without havin’ a lot of guards.”

  “Only four guards,” Harris said.

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know? I know for same reason I know that they are comin’, and even when they are comin’.” Harris took a telegram from his pocket and showed it to the others. “Like I said, I have a contact with the Colorado Home Guard. This here telegram is from the telegrapher at Ft. Junction.”

  “How’d you get it?” Bryans asked.

  “He sent it to me.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Yeah, I trust him. The telegrapher is my cousin, Graham Potter. He’s in for a share,” Harris said.

  “A whole share?” Richland asked.

  “A whole share.”

  “That ain’t no way right,” Richland said. “I mean, what with us doin’ the work and him gettin’ a whole share.”

  “There wouldn’t be nothin’ to share at all iffen Potter hadn’t arranged to get the guns in the first place,” Garon said.

  “Garon, you go along with this?” Richland asked.

  “Yeah,” Garon said. “I go along with it.”

  “All right, if you don’t have no trouble with it, then I don’t reckon I do either.”

  “What about you, Bryans? Do you have a problem with Potter gettin’ his share?” Harris asked.

  Bryans shook his head. “No,” he said. “As long as I get my share, I ain’t got no problem with that.”

  “Good.”

  “What else has your cousin told us that we can use?” Richland asked.

  “There’s only goin’ to be five men with the shipment, the driver, who is an old man, and four guards. They are treatin’ this like an ordinary supply run, figurin’ if they do that, it won’t raise no suspicions.”

  “Ha. And it would have worked, too, if it hadn’t been for your cousin’ lettin’ us in on it,” Garon said.

  “When are the guns bein’ shipped?” Bryans asked.

  “They get to Denver on the ninth,” Harris answered.

  “You’re sure we can get two thousand dollars apiece?” Richland asked.

  “Tell him, Garon,” Harris said.

  “Cut Nose said he wanted the guns. Clete here told him it was goin’ to cost him a lot of money. Cut Nose said he had a lot of money.”

  “Where do the Injuns get the money?”

  “Ha. They’ve robbed army payrolls, they’ve attacked wagon trains and took ever’thing, they’ve killed prospectors and express riders and taken ever’thing. And since they don’t spend the money among themselves, over the years, the money just builds up,” Harris said.

  “All right, sounds good to me.”

  “There is one little detail that I haven’t mentioned,” Harris said.

  “What is that?”

  “The Sioux are up in Montana somewhere. We’re goin’ to have to go up there and find them in order to deliver the guns to them.”

  “Yeah,” Garon added. “And I’ve been hearin’ that the army is plannin’ to get after the Injuns this summer.”

  “That’s right,” Harris said. “So that means we’re goin’ to have to find ’em before the army does. Otherwise, there ain’t likely to be anyone left to buy the guns.”

  “Wait a minute,” Richland said. “You plan to give them Gatling guns, knowin’ the army is goin’ after them?”

  “Yeah,” Harris said. “That’s my plan.”

  “But, if the Indians have Gatling guns, won’t that be helpin’ Indians kill white men?”

  “You got ’ny kin in the army?” Harris asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Richland said.

  “Then don’t worry about it. Most of the army is dumb Irish or Germans anyhow.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Damn right I’m right,” Harris said. Harris picked up his beer mug and held it out toward the others. “Here’s to two thousand dollars.”

  The four men clicked their mugs together, then drank.

  “Damn,” Bryans said. “I just figured out what I’m goin’ to do with my share of the money.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m goin’ to use it to outfit myself. Then I’m goin’ into the Black Hills and get me some of that gold they say is just lyin’ around up there.”

  Chapter Eight

  May 8, 1876

  Omaha, Nebraska

  As the riverboat Far West backed away from its mooring at Omaha, the steam cylinders boomed like cannons, the sound echoing back from both sides of the Missouri River. Scores of people were gathered on the docks to watch the steamboat begin its journey upriver to the town of Bismarck, Dakota Territory. Captain Grant Marsh blew the long, two-tone whistle and it, like the sound of the cannon-like steam cylinders, rolled back across the water, as if answered by another boat.

  “Good-bye, Omaha!” someone yelled from the deck of the boat. “By the time I come back through here, I’ll be rich as Croesus.”

  “If you have that much money, you can buy us all a drink!” someone yelled back from the riverbank, and those ashore and those on the boat laughed.

  The paddle wheel, which was in reverse, stopped, then started again, this time rolling forward. For a moment, it did nothing but churn up the water; then it caught purchase and the boat started moving upstream, searching for the channel. As it did, one of the deckhands went to the bow of the boat and threw over a line, then, pulling it up, called out loudly: “By the mark, eight!”

  The Far West was a stern-wheeler, shallow-draft, wooden-hull packet boat powered by three boilers. It was 190 feet long, and could carry two hundred tons and thirty cabin passengers. On this day, though, there must have been at least seventy passengers, many of whom were making the journey on the deck of the steamer.

  Falcon, who had a cabin, was standing at the stern watching the wheel turn, frothing up the water and leaving a rolling wake for a long way behind the boat.

  “The first thing I’m going to get me,” one of the passengers on the boat said loudly, “is a three-piece suit with a diamond stickpin on my vest. And I’m going to get me a cane, too, one of them black shiny canes, with a silver head. Then, I’m going to walk right down Fifth Avenue in New York and tell them coppers what used to pinch me all them times when I was hungry and I’d take no more’n an apple, that they can just kiss my rich backside.”

  The pronouncement was met with loud laughter from all the other passengers. With very few exceptions, the passengers were all men, all loud and boisterous, and nearly all from Eastern cities and towns. When asked, they would say that they were coming West to make their fortune in gold. Most were clinging to their little treasure of camping and or mining equipment, bought from unscrupulous suppliers who were going to make their own fortune from the fortune seekers.

  Several had maps as well, the maps purporting to show them exactly where to go, and giving such details as: Good water here, adequate firewood here, wild fruit and good fishing here. Falcon, who had been all through the Dakota territory, had seen a couple of the maps. They were not only wrong, they were incredibly wrong—drawn not from any exact knowledge, but simply extrapolated—with a lot of imagination—from published maps. They put rivers, creeks, and lakes where there were none, and mountain passes where only sheer rock walls stood.

  The men would often retire to a part of the boat where they could find some privacy, then sit there and study their maps, learning every detail so they would be well prepared when they started on their quest. Falcon tried to tell one that a “good water” stream that was on his map didn’t exist at all, bu
t the passenger didn’t believe him.

  “I paid good money for this map, mister, from someone who came out here and made his own fortune,” the passenger said. “This here map not only tells me where to find water and such. It also tells me which creek beds are filled with gold.”

  “Whatever you say, friend,” Falcon replied, not wanting to argue with him.

  When Falcon MacCallister boarded the boat at Omaha, he was curious as to why there were so many Easterners on board. He asked Captain Grant Marsh about it, and Marsh replied, his answer accompanied by a snort that betrayed his derision for the passengers.

  “They are gold hunters,” he said. “They are going into the Black Hills to get rich.”

  “What makes them think they can get rich in the Black Hills?” Falcon asked. “What they are most likely to get is to have their scalps lifted. Don’t they know the Black Hills belong to the Sioux? In fact, the Black Hills are sacred to the Sioux.”

  “That doesn’t matter a whit to them,” Marsh said. “These men all have the gold fever, and nothing is going to stop them.”

  “Surely, when they get out there, the army will prevent them from going into Indian territory,” Falcon said.

  “I don’t think even the army can stop them,” Marsh said. “And, from reading that fool article in the newspaper, I’m not sure Custer even wants to stop them.”

  “What newspaper article?”

  “Lord, Falcon, you must be the only one in the entire country who hasn’t read it,” Marsh said. “It was published out here first, but was picked up by newspapers all over America. Now everyone from Bangor to New Orleans, and from Chicago to Atlanta, is coming out here to hunt for gold.”

  “They say there are nuggets out there the size of pecans,” a nearby passenger said, overhearing the conversation between Falcon and Captain Marsh. “And you don’t even have to dig for it. It’s clinging to the roots—you just pull up a clump of grass and fill your pockets with solid gold.”

  “It’s that easy, is it?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes, sir, it’s that easy. That’s why we’re here.” The passenger stuck out his hand. “Billings is the name. David J. Billings.”

  “Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon replied, taking Billings’s hand.

  Normally, Falcon MacCallister got a reaction anytime he gave his name. Sometimes it was awe, sometimes it was fear, and sometimes it was instant hostility. That was because Falcon and his entire family were well known throughout the West. Dime novels had been written about Falcon MacCallister and his skill with the six-gun.

  But Billings gave no reaction at all.

  “You aren’t from around here, are you, Mr. Billings?” Falcon asked, noticing the complete lack of recognition.

  “No, sir, I’m from Newport News, Virginia. I’m a deepwater sailor, Mr. MacCallister, and I have been for most of my life. I’ve sailed from New York to London, and from Hong Kong to Christchurch. But that has all changed now. Now, you might say I’m a gold prospector. Yes, sir, when I saw the newspaper article, I saw my chance to come onto the beach. Why, I’ve been looking for something like this all my life.”

  “Hey, Billings,” one of the other passengers called.

  “Yes, Jenkins, what do you want?”

  “Come here, would you? Me and Todaro are thinkin’ of formin’ us up a little team and goin’ together. You want to come in with us?”

  “Sure, why not?” Billings replied. “There’s gold enough for all of us.”

  Falcon shook his head as Billings walked over to join the other two men.

  “Come up to the wheelhouse with me, would you, Falcon?” Captain Marsh asked. “I’ve got a copy of a newspaper from Bismarck. This isn’t the first article they’ve run, and I don’t reckon it’ll be the last. But take a look at it, and you’ll see what’s driving all these—fortune hunters.” He set the words “fortune hunters” apart from the rest of the sentence.

  Falcon climbed the ladder behind Marsh, then stepped into wheelhouse. There, the pilot, Dave Campbell, stood behind a huge spoked wheel, steering carefully to keep the boat in the deepest channel of the river. The best view of the river was from the wheelhouse, which was the highest point on the boat and located just aft of the two fluted chimneys. From up there, there was a 360-degree panoramic view of the river as well as the wooded banks along either side. Falcon saw three deer come down to the edge of the river. They stood there for a moment looking at the boat as it passed them by. Then, believing the boat to represent no danger to them, they dipped their heads to drink.

  “Ah, here it is,” Captain Marsh said, pulling a copy of the newspaper from beneath a stack of charts. “Take a look at this, then tell me what you think.”

  Gold in the Black Hills!

  Great attention is being drawn to the Black Hills. Well timbered, and with a goodly supply of water, the Black Hills are known to be rich with gold, with the nuggets, some as large as walnuts, lying freely upon the ground.

  A college geology professor, several mineral experts and scientists, along with men who are skilled in the profession of mining, accompanied the expedition. In the beds of these streams, the expedition reported finding gold in copious amounts. Such a source of gold needs no expensive or dangerous mining for extraction, as it can be easily panned or, in many cases, simply picked up as shining nuggets. It is said that a two-hour stroll along one of these streams could produce enough gold to provide the equivalent of a year’s income for the average worker.

  “Is there any truth to this story about gold in the Black Hills?” Falcon asked when he finished reading the paper.

  “It’s been two years since Custer’s great expedition into the Black Hills,” Marsh said. “No gold has been brought out yet.”

  “Has the gold rush been this heavy?” Falcon asked, pointing down to the many prospectors on the deck of the boat.

  “No,” Marsh said. “A few have gone in—some have gotten themselves killed, and I think that is what has kept the gold rush down so far. The gold hunters are afraid of the Indians, and rightly so. But now, word is out that Custer will be going after the Indians this summer, and I reckon all the gold hunters figure this is the best time for them to go, seein’ as they figure on Custer keepin’ the Indians busy.”

  May 9, 1876

  Along Buckhorn Creek

  Clete Harris, Jay Bryans, Jim Garon, and Ken Richland were waiting behind a rock outcropping that pushed down so close to the creek that here the wagon road actually had to run out into the water for a short distance. If someone intended to waylay a wagon, this was the perfect place for it, not only because the rocks provided concealment, but also because at this point the wagon driver would have his hands full negotiating the stream.

  Harris was lying on his stomach looking through a pair of binoculars back down the creek. He had seen the dust fifteen minutes ago, but now he could see the wagon as well.

  “Do you see the wagon yet, Harris?” Bryans asked.

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Is it carrying the Gatling guns?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “How do you know for sure? Are they just out in the open?” Garon asked.

  “Sergeant Major O’Leary is driving the wagon,” Harris said. “I don’t think the sergeant major would be driving if the wagon was carryin’ nothin’ more than nails and such.”

  “How much longer?” Richland asked.

  “As slow as they’re comin’, I’d say another ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey, Harris, how much did you say the Injuns would give us for them guns?”

  “Two thousand dollars per gun,” Harris said.

  “Damn,” Bryans said. “They’s two of them guns, they’s four of us, that’s a thousand dollars apiece.”

  “They’s five of us, countin’ Potter,” Richland said. “That’s eight hundred apiece.”

  “No, it ain’t,” Harris said, coming back down from the rock. He dusted himself off. “That’s seven hundred dollars for each of y
ou, and one thousand two hundred for me.”

  “That ain’t fair,” Bryans said.

  “You knew the deal coming into it,” Harris said. “I’m the one that found out about the guns, and I’m the one that went up into the Dakota Territory to meet with Cut Nose. Now if you don’t like the deal, you can just pull out now, and the rest of us will divide up your money.”

  “No, no, I didn’t say nothin’ about pullin’ out.”

  “Harris is right, Richland,” Bryans said. “We did make the deal with him.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was just commentin’ is all.”

  “Well, keep your comments to yourself,” Harris ordered.

  “Hey, Harris, they must be gettin’ a little closer,” Richland said. “I can hear ’em.”

  “Ever’one be quiet,” Harris ordered.

  Harris climbed back up onto the rock and looked back toward the wagon. They had made better time than he thought, and were now just over two hundred yards away. He could hear the squeal of the wagon wheels and the squeak of the harness and doubletree. The wagon was being pulled by a team of six mules, and there were four soldiers riding with it, two in the front and two to the rear. Nobody was on the wagon seat with the driver.

  Harris jacked a shell into the chamber of his rifle, then nodded to the others, suggesting they do the same. They did so. Then, with rifles cocked and ready, they moved into position.

  “Bryans, you go for the soldier front left,” Harris said. “Garon, you take the front one on the right. Richland, you have the back soldier on the right, and I’ll take the back one on the left. Wait until they get into the water, and wait until they are even with us. Otherwise, me and Richland won’t have a shot.”

  The others nodded, then waited.

  As the wagon drew nearer, the four watched as the driver called the team to a halt.

  “What the hell is he doin’?” Richland asked. “What did he stop for?”

  “I don’t know,” Garon said.

  “Let’s go get ’em,” Bryans said, standing up.

  “Get down, you fool,” Harris hissed. “If you give us away now, we never will get the guns. We have to wait until they get here, then take ’em by surprise.”