Bloodshed of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Colonel MacCallister, it was so nice of you to come visit us.”

  “It was nice of you and the general to invite me,” Falcon said. “I thoroughly enjoyed my visit.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder at Tom Custer, who was now helping Lorena into the ambulance.

  “Tom seems quite taken with Lorena. He”—she paused for a moment—“needs someone, if you know what I mean. I hope that isn’t a problem for you.”

  “No, of course not. Why should it be a problem?”

  “I don’t know. I thought the first night that there seemed to be some mutual interest between you and Miss Wood.”

  “Please, Mrs. Custer, don’t worry about it,” Falcon said.

  The smile left Libbie’s face, to be replaced by a look of anxiety. “I told Autie’s orderly to look after the general. I would never say anything like this to the general’s face but, oh, Colonel MacCallister, of all the engagements Autie was in during the war, of all previous Indian engagements, I have never had such an overwhelming sense of foreboding as I do now.”

  “Look at the size of this force, Mrs. Custer,” Falcon said, taking in the expedition with a sweep of his hand. “John Burkman won’t be the only one looking after the general. Everyone here will be looking out for him, and for each other.”

  “Yes, but you must understand, if there is fighting to be done, Autie always puts himself at the head.”

  “That’s because he is a good soldier,” Falcon replied.

  “Libbie, come, we must go!” Maggie called.

  “I’ll be right there,” Libbie replied and, as she walked back toward the ambulance where Burkman stood holding her horse, Dandy, Falcon walked back with her. Burkman helped her mount; then Libbie nodded to the ambulance driver. The driver returned her nod, then slapped the reins against the backs of the four-horse team, and the ambulance started forward on its thirteen-mile trip back to the post.

  As the ambulance rolled through the encampment carrying the paymaster and Lorena as passengers, and accompanied by Libbie and Maggie on horseback, Falcon stood alongside Custer, who was waving and smiling.

  “Libbie couldn’t hide it from me,” Custer said. “She is nervous about this scout.”

  “I think that is probably true of the wife of any soldier who is going off to do battle,” Falcon suggested, not wanting to give away what he believed Libbie had confided to him in private.

  “Yes,” Custer said. “But that is the way of it, Falcon. A good soldier must divide his time between two mistresses, his wife and the army. And when he is with one, the other must suffer.”

  Falcon turned to start back to where he had left Dorman.

  “Are you going out this morning?” Custer asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dorman was waiting patiently.

  “Are you ready?” Falcon asked.

  “Colonel, it wasn’t me that stood here to watch them pretty women leave.”

  Falcon laughed as well. “You got me on that one, Dorman,” he said. “Did you draw the rations?”

  “I did.”

  Falcon swung into the saddle. “All right. Let’s go.”

  May 21,1876

  Montana Territory

  Falcon had just started across a small stream when a bullet popped by his head and ricocheted off a large rock outcropping right beside him.

  The gunshot was followed by Indian war cries.

  “Colonel MacCallister!” Dorman shouted.

  Dorman’s warning wasn’t needed as, ahead of them, just where the creek curved, a dozen Indians came galloping toward them, whooping and brandishing weapons. The weapons, Falcon noticed, were Henry repeating rifles.

  Falcon drew his pistol and shot the two Indians in the lead. Seeing two of their number go down, the others stopped, experiencing a moment of confusion and doubt.

  “This way!” Dorman called, heading up a small trail that paralleled the stream.

  The Indians, thinking Falcon and Dorman were running from them, gathered themselves and resumed the charge.

  Dorman darted around a rock, and Falcon was right behind him. Once he had the rock between him and the charging Indians, Falcon pulled his horse to stop, jerking back on the reins so hard that the horse almost went down on its haunches.

  “Here,” Falcon shouted. “We’ll fight from here!”

  Falcon jerked the army-issue Sharps from the saddle sheath, then stepped around the rock with the carbine raised to his shoulder. He fired, brought down one Indian, then, using the Sharps as a club, brought down a second. Dorman, having come back in response to Falcon’s call, brought down a third, and now, with his pistol in his hand, Falcon killed two more.

  In less than one minute, the twelve Indians who’d believed they had a sure thing saw their number decreased by more than half. Only five remained, and they turned and galloped away, leaving their dead behind them.

  “Damn!” Dorman said as he stood alongside Falcon, watching the Indians retreat. “You’re one hell of an Injun fighter, Falcon. I been at this game for a long time, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that.”

  Falcon walked over to one of the dead Indians and picked up the rifle the Indian was carrying. It was a Henry, 44-caliber, rim-fire, lever-action, breech-loading rifle. When he looked at the butt of the rifle, he saw branded into it the words COLORADO HOME GUARD.

  These were the missing rifles.

  “I’ll be damn,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “The Colorado Home Guard is missing one hundred rifles. It looks like we just found a few of them.”

  “You mean, in addition to the Gatling guns we’re lookin’ for, there’s also a bunch of repeating rifles out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That ain’t good.”

  “No, it’s not good at all,” Falcon said. “Come on, help me pick up the others.” Falcon put that rifle aside and for the next minute or so, they wandered through the dead Indians, retrieving rifles.

  “Damn,” Dorman said as he stood over one of the bodies. “This here is Running Bear.”

  “You knew him, did you?”

  “Yeah, I knew the son of a bitch. This here is Cut Nose’s brother.”

  “I take it you weren’t friends.”

  “No, I don’t think you could rightly call us friends. Cut Nose sure set a big store by him, though, seein’ as how he mostly raised him after their pappy was killed. He ain’t goin’ to take too kindly to your killin’ ’im.”

  Falcon chuckled. “Now tell me, Mr. Dorman, do you really think Cut Nose was ready to be friends with me before I killed his brother?”

  Dorman laughed out loud. “Now that you mention it, I don’t reckon you killin’ his brother is goin’ to make matters any worse.”

  “What do you say we get these rifles back to Custer?”

  Moon of Making Fat

  Sioux encampment

  The encampment was temporary only, because the three hundred Indians were on their way to join with others during a time the Sioux called the Moon of Making Fat, at a place called Greasy Grass. Even though it was a temporary settlement, the band of Indians who were following Cut Nose were experienced nomads and they knew how to set up a camp quickly and efficiently.

  The nearly one hundred teepees were arranged in concentric circles with each teepee in a precise position within those circles. As far as the occupants of the village were concerned, it didn’t matter whether they were going to be in position for one night or thirty nights; they carried on as if every location was permanent. The position wasn’t decided by hierarchy, but by precedence, the exact positioning allowing for friends and relatives to be able to locate each other.

  The women were busy carving meat into very thin slices and hanging them up to dry, the children were playing games, the old men were sitting in little groups telling stories of old battles and ancient hunts, and the young men were cleaning recently cured game
.

  Cut Nose was aware of the fact that a large group of soldiers had left various military posts to take to the field, and earlier in the day, he had sent out a dozen warriors to see where they were and if they represented any danger to his band. He was shocked when he saw that only five of the twelve warriors returned. He was dismayed when he saw that one of those who did not return was his brother, Running Bear.

  “Where is my brother? Where are the others?” Cut Nose asked.

  “Running Bear is dead. The others are dead,” One Hawk replied.

  “The Long Knives? Did you see the Long Knives?”

  “No, we did not see the soldiers. We saw only two. Black White Man and Tall Warrior.”

  “Only two, but seven are killed? Did you kill the two?”

  “No, Cut Nose.”

  “Did you kill one of the two?”

  “No, we did not kill one of the two.”

  “Ayieee! Seven were killed but not one of the enemy?”

  “Cut Nose, never have I seen men fight with such fierceness and bravery,” One Hawk said.

  “I did not know that Black White Man was a warrior of such skill.”

  “It was not Black White Man. It was Tall Warrior who fought with such skill. It was Tall Warrior who killed Running Bear.”

  “Who is this Tall Warrior? I do not know him,” Cut Nose said.

  “No one has seen him before. We gave him the name because he is very tall and very ferocious. I believe he was born in thunder. That is why we do not know him.”

  “I will know him,” Cut Nose said. Cut Nose pulled his knive, then sliced through one side of his nostril. The cut started bleeding immediately, and profusely. “This wound is my brother, Running Bear,” Cut Nose said. “I will keep this wound fresh, until I have killed the one who killed my brother.”

  “Cut Nose, Crazy Horse comes!” someone called.

  Cut nose dismissed One Hawk, then walked out to greet Crazy Horse.

  As a young man, Crazy Horse had a vivid dream of a rider in a storm on horseback who wore his hair long and unbraided and had set a small stone in his ear. The warrior also had a yellow lightning bolt symbol on his cheek, and several small red dots of hail decorating his body.

  In Crazy Horse’s dream, many tried to claim coups on the warrior, but nobody could touch him. People clutched at the rider, but could not hold him. After the storm, a red-backed hawk flew over the rider’s head.

  When Crazy Horse awakened, he saw, flying over his head, a red-backed hawk, and he knew that it was a symbol for him. Like the warrior in his dream, Crazy Horse wore his hair long and unbraided, and he decorated his face and body with the lightning bolt and dots of hail. He also wore a headdress, adorned with a red hawk feather.

  He was so attired now as he swung down from his horse, upon which he had put a red palm print. Crazy Horse and Cut greeted each other.

  “Where do you take your band?” Crazy Horse asked.

  “I go to join with the others at Greasy Grass.”

  “Join your band with me. I have many Cheyenne and Oglala.”

  “I am Lakota,” Cut Nose reminded Crazy Horse.

  “We have Oglala, Brule, Minneconjou, Cheyenne. We are gathered from everywhere to defeat the white man in battle once and for all. It is in this way that we may forever reclaim our land,” Crazy Horse said.

  “I will join you,” Cut Nose said. “But when I come, I will bring great medicine with me.”

  “What medicine will you bring, my brother?”

  “I will bring gun that shoots many times very fast,” Cut Nose said. He made a cranking motion with his hand, then began making popping sounds.

  “Geetleen gun?” Crazy Horse asked, not quite sure how to pronounce it.

  “Geetleen gun, yes!” Cut Nose agreed enthusiastically. “I will have Geetleen gun.”

  “With Geetleen gun, you will be a chief that many will look up to,” Crazy Horse said. Then, as if noticing it for the first time, Crazy Horse put his finger on Cut Nose’s wound.

  “How?” he asked.

  “It is honor wound for my brother, Running Bear. He was killed by Tall Warrior.”

  “I do not know Tall Warrior,” Crazy Horse said.

  “You will not know him, for I will kill him.”

  “Yes, I can see,” Crazy Horse said. “It is right that you must kill him.”

  Crazy Horse remounted, then looked down at Cut Nose. “When you have Geetleen Gun, you will join me,” he said.

  “Yes, when I have Gatleen Gun, I will join you,” Cut Nose promised.

  With the encampment of the Seventh Cavalry

  Custer raised one of the rifles Falcon and Dorman brought back to camp—sighted down the barrel, pulled the trigger on an empty chamber, cocked it, and pulled the trigger a second time, still on an empty chamber. Then he lowered the rifle and examined it.

  “These rifles do fire faster,” he said. “But the Sharps has greater range. The truth is, if the ammunition manufacturers would do something about the cartridge cases, I do believe the Sharps would be a better weapon.”

  “The Sharps is better for infantry troops, I agree,” Falcon said. “But for cavalry, I think the Henry would be better.”

  Custer sighed. “I think you are right. Unfortunately, the decision is not ours to make.” He handed the weapon back to Falcon. “I’m sure you would prefer to keep this, but if you don’t mind, I would like to pass the others out to my scouts.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  “Well, I just ask, because they are your weapons after all. It is clearly marked on the rifle butt.”

  “Please, General, don’t rub it in,” Falcon said.

  Custer chuckled. “I’m sorry, I meant nothing by it. Anyway, it is the Gatling guns that we are worried about now. No sign of them anywhere?”

  “Not yet,” Falcon said. “But we will be going out again tomorrow.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  They had been on the scout for four days when they saw several buzzards making circles over one spot.

  “You see that?” Dorman asked, pointing to the birds.

  “Yeah, I see them.”

  “There sure are a lot of them. Whatever is dead up there is bigger than a rabbit, or a deer,” Dorman said.

  The two riders slapped their legs against the sides of their horses to hurry them into a trot, and they closed the distance in just over a minute. They could smell the stench long before they got there. They saw the wagon first; then, as they drew closer, they saw the two dead mules. Wolves had been at the mules and much of the flesh was eaten away, leaving exposed rib cages and entrails…There was an arrow protruding from each of the mules, and three other arrows sticking out of the wagon.

  “Damn,” Dorman said. “That is one powerful stink. What is it, do you suppose? Prospectors?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t see any bodies,” Falcon said. “Wait a minute, look at this.”

  On the canvas of the wagon, not obvious as they had approached, but now clearly visible, were stenciled words:

  COLORADO HOME GUARD

  “That’s the wagon we’ve been looking for,” Falcon said, dismounting and hurrying over to look into the back. “The guns aren’t here. But I didn’t think they would be.”

  “Whoever took ’em, it wasn’t Injuns,” Dorman said. He pointed to the mules. “And as nearly as I can tell, the mules weren’t killed in any sort of a fight. It looks like they have been shot through the head. Don’t think the Indians would have done that.”

  “I think you are right. Harris evidently decided he would be better off without the wagon,” Falcon said. “These wagons normally take a team of six, they’ve taken four of the mules with them. Two for each gun.”

  “It ain’t goin’ to be hard to follow them,” Dorman said. “Pullin’ them caissons like they are, why, they might as well be leavin’ us maps. Depends on how long a head start they have.”

  “From the looks, and the smell of the mules, I would say we are about
six or seven days behind them,” Falcon said.

  “Seems about right,” Dorman said. “Listen, Falcon, you seen all you need to see here? I got to get away from this stink, else I’m goin’ to start pukin’.”

  “I’ve seen all I need to see,” Falcon agreed.

  “Let’s get on out of here then.”

  Falcon nodded, and the two rode away, following the clear trail left by the gun caissons.

  It came up a thunderstorm that afternoon, and as Falcon and Dorman rode through the rain, it slashed against them and ran in cold rivulets off the folds and creases of their ponchos. It blew in sheets in front of them, turned the trail into mud, and whipped into the trees and bushes.Wicked forks of lightning were followed immediately by thunder, snapping shrilly at first, then rolling through the valleys, picking up the resonance of the hollows and becoming an echoing boom.

  “The rain is washing the trail away,” Dorman complained. He had to yell to be heard over the storm.

  “True,” Falcon called back. “But they were going this way when we lost their trail, and there’s really no other way they can go except straight ahead.”

  It stopped raining around nightfall, and though the moon was in the third quarter, it was a surprisingly bright moon that peeked out from behind a large, fluffy, silver cloud. Mud puddles and rivulets of water reflected the glow, helping to provide enough illumination to allow the two men to proceed without danger of misstep in the dark. They continued on until about ten p.m., then tied down for the night.

  May 26, 1876

  When Clete Harris awoke that morning, he saw Cut Nose and at least thirty other Indians standing there, looking down at him.

  “What the hell?” he shouted in a loud, startled voice. “Garon! Bryans! Richland! Wake up!”

  “Damn!” Garon said, waking then to see the array of Indians.

  “Bryans, I thought you were keeping guard,” Harris said.

  “I was,” Bryans answered. “But at four, I turned it over to Richland.”

  “You have Geetleen guns?” Cut Nose asked.

  “Gatling guns, yeah, I’ve got two of them,” Harris said.