Bloodshed of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “What if they don’t come?”

  “They got no choice,” Harris replied. “They can’t sit there forever, and when they start up again, this is the way they have to come.”

  “Sergeant Major O’Leary, what are we sittin’ here for?” one of the soldiers asked.

  Still holding the reins, O’Leary raised his hand and scratched his nose as he studied the road ahead.

  “Look up there,” he said. “What do you see?”

  “I don’t see nothin’ in particular,” the soldier said. “Fact is, it looks like the road stops there.”

  “No, laddie, the road don’t stop,” O’Leary answered. “Sure ’n I’ve drove this before, and ’tis always a bit of wor-ryin’ I do about here. The road goes out into the creek bed for a bit, then comes back, you see.”

  “How deep does the water get?”

  “Tis only six to eight inches is all. That is, if you stay in close to the bank.”

  “So, if the road goes on, why have we stopped?” the soldier repeated.

  “Think about it,” O’Leary replied. “If you was a brigand, wantin’ to do mischief by us—now where do you think would be the best place to be?”

  “Right here?” the soldier replied.

  “Aye, laddie, right here,” O’Leary replied.

  “Well, what are we goin’ to do, Sergeant Major? We can’t just sit here all day.”

  O’Leary raised the reins and snapped them against the back of the mules. “We’re goin’ through, laddie, we’re goin’ through,” he said.

  The wagon started forward.

  The two lead soldiers went into the water first, followed by the wagon, then the two trailing soldiers.

  “Hey, what’s the name of that town?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “What town?” another replied.

  “You know what town. The one that is just real close to Ft. Junction. What’s the name of it?”

  “La Porte.”

  “They got ’ny women there?”

  “Yeah, they got women there. Of course they do. They got women in any town. That is, if you’ve got any money.”

  The other soldiers laughed.

  “You men, quit your blabberin’ about women and the like, an’ keep your eyes open,” O’Leary called out to them.

  “We’re lookin’, Sergeant Major, we’re—uhn!” The solder’s remark was cut off in mid-sentence by the sound of rifle fire. The bullet caught him in the chest, and he went down.

  “Somebody’s shootin’ at us!” one of the others shouted, but his warning was unnecessary because by then several guns were firing.

  Within a few seconds, all four soldiers were in the water.

  O’Leary recognized at once what had happened, and he slapped the reins against the back of the team, urging them to break into a gallop.

  Harris and the men with him had not expected the driver to react so quickly and, before they realized it, O’Leary was out of the water and on the road, moving as fast has his team could pull him.

  Richland fired at the wagon, but missed. Cocking the lever, he raised the rifle for a second shot.

  “No!” Harris cried out, knocking the end of the rifle down. “Don’t shoot!”

  “What do you mean, don’t shoot? What did you do that for?” Richland asked.

  “Yeah, he’s getting away!” Garon shouted.

  “We can’t take a chance on killin’ one of the mules! We’re goin’ to need them to pull the wagon,” Harris said. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere. Get mounted. Let’s get after him.”

  By the time the four men were mounted, the wagon was at least two hundred yards ahead of them.

  “Hyah! Get up here!” Harris shouted, slapping his reins to both sides of the neck of his horse. He was well mounted, and his horse broke ahead of the other three, closing quickly on the wagon.

  Harris rode right up alongside the wagon, then, raising his pistol, he shot the driver from less than ten yards away. The driver fell forward, but he didn’t fall from the wagon. The mules pulling the wagon continued at a gallop.

  Harris rode up to the lead mule of the team, then reached down and grabbed the harness. Pulling back, he yelled for the team to whoa and, after another twenty or thirty yards, the team did come to a stop. They stood there in their harness, breathing hard and blowing, as Harris’s three partners rode up.

  “You got him,” Bryans said. “I thought for sure there he was goin’ to get away.”

  Harris stared at him, but said nothing. Instead, he rode around to the back of the wagon. Lifting the canvas flap, he looked inside and smiled.

  “Come get a gander at this, boys,” he said. “Two guns, and two cases of ammunition.”

  “Hey, Harris, what about the ammunition?” Garon asked.

  “What about it?”

  “I know you agreed to sell the guns to the Injuns for two thousand dollars apiece. Did you say anything about the ammunition?”

  Harris smiled. “Damn, Garon, maybe you ain’t as dumb as I thought you was. That’s a pretty good idea. We’ll charge an additional five hundred dollars for a case of bullets.”

  “That’s goin’ to be a total of five thousand dollars,” Richland said. “Where are Indians going to get five thousand dollars?”

  “From the Black Hills,” Harris said.

  “What do you mean from the Black Hills?”

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s gold in the Black Hills.”

  “Indians don’t use money.”

  “They don’t use money in their own culture,” Harris said. “But they ain’t dumb. They know that the white folks value gold above everything else, and they know that they can use it to get whatever they want from us.”

  “I just hope they want Gatling guns,” Bryans said.

  Harris smiled. “Oh, they do,” he said. “Trust me, they do.”

  Chapter Nine

  May 11, 1876

  Bismarck, Dakota Territory

  When the Far West landed in Bismarck, the gold hunters streamed off the boat as if in a race to get out into the Black Hills. Many of them hurried to the livery stable to try to buy a horse. The horses were going at a premium price, but even so, they sold out quickly. There were just too many gold hunters, and not enough horses to go around.

  Falcon walked down the gangplank, then was surprised to see Custer standing on the dock.

  “General Custer,” Falcon said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Custer took in all the passengers with a wave of his hand. “Would you look at those fools?” he said. “What in the world has gotten into them?”

  “Gold fever,” Falcon replied.

  Custer snorted. “Yeah, that stupid article in the Tribune. It was picked up by newspapers all over the country.”

  “I thought you approved of it,” Falcon said. “The article seemed to indicate that your expedition was the genesis of all this.”

  “Unfortunately, it was,” Custer said. “But the reports we brought back were greatly exaggerated by the newspaper and, with each telling around the country, the reports grow. Some, I think, would have you believe you could just pull up a plant and find gold nuggets, like peanuts, clinging to the roots.”

  “How many have come here?” Falcon asked.

  Custer shook his head. “I don’t know. Several hundred, I suppose. Maybe even as many as a thousand. They are just lucky that all the Indians have moved west to follow the spring grass. If they were here, I wouldn’t give a plug nickel for the life of any of these gold hunters.”

  “Can’t you do something about it?”

  “Do what?” Custer asked.

  “I don’t know. Stop them from going into the Black Hills, I suppose.”

  “Even if the government would let me do that, which I don’t think they would, I couldn’t do it because I don’t have the manpower. Within a few days, I’ll be leading the Seventh on a march to find the Indians who have left the reservation and bring them back.

  “Well, I’m on Vic,
and I brought Dandy for you to ride back to the post,” Custer said, leading Falcon over to a hitching rail where two horses stood. “You should feel honored. Dandy is Libbie’s horse and she doesn’t let just anyone ride him.”

  “I am honored,” Falcon said. He patted Dandy on the neck. “Dandy’s a fine-looking horse.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, your luggage, sir,” a black steward from the boat said.

  “Thanks,” Falcon replied, giving the steward a half-dollar.

  “Godin,” Custer called, waving at a soldier in uniform.

  “Yes, General?”

  “See that Colonel MacCallister’s luggage gets to the post. Put it in the visiting officers’ room.”

  “Yes, sir,” Godin replied, picking up the leather grip and walking away with it.

  “Your brother and sister get here this afternoon,” Custer said as he swung into the saddle. “I am going to send Tom back into town to pick them up. Tonight, Libbie is planning a big dinner, and tomorrow your brother and sister will perform for us.”

  “I am very much looking forward to the visit,” Falcon said. “I’m sure it will be very interesting.”

  When Falcon reached Ft. Lincoln, Custer took him directly to regimental headquarters to introduce him around. There, Falcon met Custer’s brothers; Tom, who was a captain, and Boston, who was a civilian attached to the quartermaster. He also met Autie Reed, Custer’s nephew, and Lieutenant James “Jimmi” Calhoun, who was married to Custer’s sister, Margaret.

  “And these officers are the same as family to me,” Custer said, introducing Captains Yates, Moylan, Keogh, and Lieutenant Weir.

  “And my adjutant, Lieutenant Cooke.”

  “Colonel, it is a pleasure meeting you,” Tom Custer said.

  Falcon glanced toward Custer.

  “I told them you were a colonel,” Custer said.

  “But only in the Colorado Home Guard,” Falcon replied.

  Custer shook his head. “Not true. You were given the reserve commission of lieutenant colonel when you were in Washington, weren’t you?”

  “I was.”

  “Then you have earned the right to be addressed as and given the respect of a lieutenant colonel.”

  “Colonel MacCallister, would you care to go into Bismarck with me this afternoon to meet your brother and sister?” Tom Custer asked.

  “Thank you, Captain, I would appreciate that,” Falcon said.

  “Uh, Tom, see that Colonel MacCallister is provided with a horse,” Custer said. “I don’t think Libbie intended to let him ride Dandy indefinitely.”

  “I’ll pick out a good one for you, Colonel,” Tom said.

  “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

  “Lieutenant Weir will show you to your quarters,” Custer said. “I hope you find them adequate.”

  “I’m sure they will be more than adequate,” Falcon replied.

  “This way, Colonel MacCallister,” Weir said.

  As they walked from post headquarters to the officers’ quarters, Falcon looked out over the parade ground, where he saw scores of men at drill.

  “Recruits,” Weir said dismissively. “We are about to launch the largest Indian campaign this nation has ever seen, and we are doing it with a regiment that is more than sixty-percent recruits. All those men you see out there arrived from Jefferson Barracks no more than two weeks ago. Half of them have never even been on a horse, fewer still have ever fired a weapon, and damn few of them have ever even seen an Indian.”

  “Your other left foot, trooper. Your other left foot!” a sergeant was yelling, the frustration obvious in his voice.

  “Sergeant, I don’t understand. I’ve only got one left foot,” the trooper replied.

  “Well, that ain’t the one you stepped out on now, is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t say sir to me, Trooper. You say sir to officers, not to sergeants. I’m not an officer. I work for a living.”

  The other troopers laughed.

  “Who gave you greenhorns permission to laugh?” the sergeant yelled, bringing on instant silence.

  “Now, let’s try it again,” the sergeant said.

  Falcon smiled and shook his head as he followed Weir across the parade ground toward the long, low building that was the bachelor officers’ quarters. Weir took Falcon into the building, then opened the door to one of the rooms. The room had a bed, a trunk, and a table with a kerosene lantern, pitcher, and basin. Falcon’s leather grip was already sitting on the trunk.

  “This is the room General Terry uses when he visits the post,” Weir said.

  “It’s very nice,” Falcon replied. “And I’m flattered.”

  “Yes, sir, well, General Custer is taken by you and he always does right by his friends. Enjoy your stay, Colonel.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon said as Weir left.

  Falcon checked the lantern and saw that the little kerosene tank was filled, and because the room was a little stuffy, he raised the window slightly. After that, he decided to take a walking tour of the post. When he stepped into the sutler’s store a few minutes later, he saw a major and a captain playing billiards. The major had dark hair, a mustache, and dark eyes. The captain, who looked to be about ten to fifteen years older, had white hair and very pale blue eyes.

  The captain had a cue in his hand and was bent over the table about to shoot, when he looked up and saw Falcon come in.

  The captain took his shot, and there was a clack of balls as the cue ball hit its mark. The target ball rolled into the corner pocket with a clump; then the captain straightened up and looked toward Falcon. “I take it you would be Colonel MacCallister?” he asked.

  “I’m Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon replied, still not comfortable with being a colonel.

  “I’m Captain Fred Benteen, this is Major Marcus Reno. Welcome to Ft. Custer.”

  “Ft. Custer?”

  “Oh, wait, that’s right. Custer didn’t manage to get the name changed when he was in Washington, did he? I guess they are going to continue to call it Lincoln, though I don’t know why. Lincoln was nothing but a wartime president, whereas Custer is—Custer.”

  “Fred, you’d better watch that kind of talk,” Reno said. “You never know when you are going to run into someone who has come under his spell.”

  “You may be right, Marcus,” Benteen replied. He continued his scrutiny of Falcon. “Tell me, Colonel. Are you under the spell of our illustrious leader?” he asked.

  “I am not under anyone’s spell, Captain,” Falcon replied pointedly.

  “I see,” Benteen said. Although he had made his shot and the game was still in progress, Benteen walked over to return his cue to the rack on the wall. “I think I should probably see how the training is going with my troops. I hope I haven’t offended you, Colonel, and I hope your stay is a pleasant one.”

  “No offense taken,” Falcon replied.

  “Mr. Smith, I’ll be seeing you,” Benteen said with a wave toward the sutler as he left. The sutler, who was inventorying his stock, waved back. Benteen closed the door behind him.

  “This is just a guess, mind you, but I get the impression Captain Benteen doesn’t care much for General Custer,” Falcon said after Benteen left.

  Reno put his own cue back in the wall rack. “You will find that there are two elements on this post,” Reno said. “There are those, like Cooke and Keogh, Moylan, Weir, and a few others, who believe that Custer walks on water. And there are those like Benteen who have an intense dislike for him.”

  “And where are you in that picture, Major?”

  “I am not on either side,” Reno replied. “I joined the Seventh Cavalry too recently to have an opinion, other than that of an officer deferring to his superior. I hasten to add, by the way, that though Benteen dislikes Custer, and I believe the feeling is mutual, my observation is that they have always behaved toward each other in a proper military manner.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Falcon said. “A person can’t control how he
feels, but he can control how he acts.”

  “Would you join me for a drink, Colonel?” Reno asked.

  “Sure, I’d be glad to,” Falcon replied, turning toward the door at the rear of the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Isn’t the bar in the other room?”

  “We don’t need the bar. I have my own bottle,” Reno said, taking a bottle of whiskey from the pocket of his tunic. Pulling the cork, he wiped the mouth of the bottle with the sleeve of his jacket and handed it to Falcon.

  Falcon took the bottle, held it out in salute. “Here’s to you,” he said…Then he took a drink.

  Reno took the bottle back, then turned it up, taking a long, deep Adams’ apple-bobbing drink.

  “How long will you be with us, Colonel?” Reno asked as he was recorking the bottle.

  “My brother and sister are coming here to perform for the post,” Falcon said. “I’ll stay for that, then probably see the regiment off when you go out on your expedition.”

  “It will be my first encounter with Indians, you know,” Reno said.

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “I was in the war, I’ve been in battle.” Reno pulled the cork and took another drink. This time, he did not offer any to Falcon. “But that was against sane and civilized men. I’ve heard what these savages do, how they will torture a prisoner to death just for the fun of it, and how they will mutilate a body.” He took another swallow. “Even their women and children do that, they say.”

  “Is Major Reno in here?” someone called from the door.

  “Yes, Trooper, I am here,” Reno called back.

  “Major, you said you wanted to be told when the first sergeant had the morning report ready for your signature, sir.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Reno said. He put the whiskey bottle back into his pocket. “Colonel, I hope your stay is a pleasant one,” he said as he left.

  “Thank you, Major.”

  Chapter Ten

  May 11, 1876

  Bismarck, Dakota Territory

  Tom Custer brought an ambulance into town to meet the train. The ambulance was selected because it was well sprung and offered, by far, the best ride of any vehicle on the post. Tom and Falcon had ridden in with the ambulance, which was being driven by young Boston Custer.