Bloodshed of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Here, Captain McCaskell stopped reading for a moment and he looked up at Libbie.

  “Please, Captain, continue,” Libbie said in a small voice.

  McCaskell cleared his throat again, then continued.

  “No officer or soldier who accompanied him has yet been found alive. His trail from the point where Reno crossed the stream passes along and in the rear of the crest of the bluffs on the right bank for nearly or quite three miles; then it comes down to the bank of the river, but at once diverges from it, as if he had unsuccessfully attempted to cross; then turns upon itself, almost completing a circle, and closes. It is marked by the remains of his officers and men and the bodies of his horses, some of them strewn along the path, others heaped where halts appeared to have been made. There is abundant evidence that a gallant resistance was offered by the troops, but they were beset on all sides by overpowering numbers. The officers known to be killed are”—gain, McCaskell looked up—“General Custer; Captains Keogh, Yates, and Custer; and Lieutenants Cooke, Smith, McIntosh, Calhoun, Porter, Hodgson, Sturgis, and Reilly, of the cavalry. Lieutenant Crittenden, of the Twelfth Infantry, along with Acting Assistant Surgeon D. E. Wolf, Lieutenant Harrington of the Cavalry, and Assistant Surgeon Lord are missing. Captain Benteen and Lieutenant Varnum of the cavalry are slightly wounded. Mr. B. Custer, a brother, and Mr. Reed, a nephew, of General Custer, were with him and were killed. No other officers than those whom I have named are among the killed, wounded, and missing.”

  “Mrs. Custer, is there anything I can do for you?” Dr. Middleton asked.

  “Yes,” Libbie said. “Would you hand me my shawl, please? I have taken a chill.”

  The three men, all of whom were already sweating, for the day had dawned quite warm, looked at each other. Then, Lieutenant Gurley got the shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “If I can do anything,” McCaskell said. Then, turning, he, Dr. Middleton, and Lieutenant Gurley started to leave.

  “Captain McCaskell!” Maggie called. “Is there no message from my husband for me?”

  McCaskell looked at Maggie, wondering for a moment if she did not understand what he had just told them.

  “No, Mrs. Calhoun. I’m sorry. There are no messages.”

  Tears began streaming down Maggie’s face. She had just lost a husband, three brothers, and a nephew.

  “Captain, wait,” Libbie said. “There are many wives who will have to be informed. Please, let me go with you.”

  Libbie followed Captain McCaskell and his notification team, first to the officers’ quarters to inform their wives, then down to laundress row to inform the wives of the enlisted men. She stood by as, one by one, they were told, offering what solace she could, even as her own heart was broken.

  She knew this was exactly what her husband would want.

  Or, would have wanted, if he was alive.

  It was just after noon when Libbie returned to the commandant’s quarters. Mary had lunch prepared, but neither Libbie, nor Maggie, nor even Lorena felt like eating.

  Libbie looked around the house, at the furniture that she and Custer had hauled all over the country, at the hunting trophies Custer had bagged, at the table where Custer sat to write his Galaxy articles, at the piano, and at the photos hanging from the picture rail: her favorite of Custer, and one of General Sheridan.

  The home was large and comfortable, and in no place she had ever been had she been more comfortable. But this was the commandant’s home, and Brevet General G.A. Custer was no longer the commandant. She was no longer the commandant’s wife, and, as a matter of fact, she was no longer an army wife.

  How cruel life was, she thought at that moment. Other wives, upon learning of the untimely death of their husband, would at least have the comfort of their home until they recovered. She would not. As of this moment, Libbie Custer was not the resident of this house. She was merely a visitor, someone who would be forced to leave, not only this house, but the entire army.

  As Libbie was contemplating the terrible turn of fate that had befallen her, Falcon was shown in by Mary.

  “Oh, Colonel MacCallister,” Libbie said, standing and walking over to him. He embraced her, and held her for a long moment as she wept into his shoulder. Looking around, Falcon saw Lorena sitting in a chair near the wall.

  “Where is Maggie?” Falcon asked Lorena.

  “She has taken to her bed,” Lorena answered. “This has been terribly hard on her, too.”

  “Yes, I imagine it has.”

  “Did—did you see Tom before—before this all happened?”

  “Yes,” Falcon said. “And he had a message for you.”

  “A message? What sort of message?”

  “He said for me to tell you that he thought it might have worked.”

  Tears sprung anew to Lorena’s eyes. “He said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, he said it exactly that way? That he thought it might have worked?”

  “Yes. I think Tom had a premonition. That was his way of wanting me to tell you that he loved you.”

  “Oh,” Lorena said, and now the tears were coming harder. “Oh, thank you, Falcon. Thank you for telling me that.”

  “Libbie,” Falcon said, lifting her head and looking at her. “I have the general’s last letter for you, when you are up to reading it. Do you want it now?”

  “Yes, oh, please, do give it to me now.”

  June 25, 1927

  MacCallister, Colorado

  Once more, Libbie lifted the handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed at the tears. By now, though, the handkerchief was soaked, and young Rosie brought a new, clean, and dry one to her.

  “Thank you, darling,” Libbie said. “Falcon, I have the letter that you brought me that terrible day. Would you like me to read it?”

  “Yes, please do,” Falcon said.

  Libbie removed an envelope from her purse, then pulled out a well-worn and, obviously, often-read letter.

  She began to read:

  My darling, I have but a few moments to write as we start at twelve, and I have my hands full of preparations for the scout. Do not be anxious about me. You would be surprised how closely I obey your instructions about keeping with the column. I hope to have a good report to send you by the next mail. A success will start us all toward Lincoln.

  I send you an extract from General Terry’s official order, knowing how keenly you appreciate words of commendation and confidence in your dear Bo: “It is of course impossible to give you any definite instructions in regard to this movement, and, were it not impossible to do so, the Department Commander places too much confidence in your zeal, energy, and ability to impose on you precise orders which might hamper your action when nearly in contact with the enemy.”

  Your devoted boy, Autie.*

  Libbie looked up after finishing the letter, and even though it was over fifty years later, her eyes glistened with tears.

  “I also have the last letter I wrote to him,” she said. “And, as this letter didn’t get there until it was too late, he never read it. Would you like to hear it as well?”

  Falcon knew that she very much wanted to read it, and he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I would very much like to hear it.”

  Libbie put the letter from Custer back into her purse. Then, she removed a silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes before she took out the next envelope. Like the first letter she read, this one was well worn and often read. Pulling the letter from the envelope, she cleared her throat and began to read.

  “My darling Bo, I feel so badly I was not on board the boat, but I might have found myself so conspicuous on the steamer if you had gone off on a scout.

  “I cannot but feel the greatest apprehensions for you on this dangerous scout. Oh, Autie, if you return without bad news, the worst of the summer will be over.

  “The papers told last night of a small skirmish between General Crook’s Cavalry and the Indians. They called it a fight. The Indians were very bold. They don’t se
em afraid of anything.

  “The Belknap case is again postponed. Of course that worries me. The prosecution is going to call you as a witness. Politicians will try to make something out of you for their own selfish ends. But I hear you say, ‘Don’t cross bridges till you come to them.’

  “I am perfectly delighted with your ‘Galaxy’ War article, but I wish you had not spoken for McClellan so freely. Still, I don’t see how you could have consistently given your opinions of the War without giving him his just due. It finishes Mr. Chandler as a friend, I fear, and for that I am sorry as he can be a very tenacious enemy, and of late has been only a passive friend. I honestly think you would be better off with some policy, with such powerful enemies. A cautious wife is a great bore, isn’t she, Autie?

  “You improve every time you write. There is nothing like this McClellan article for smoothness of style. I have this month’s Galaxy with the Yellowstone article. How fortunate you had left it with Mr. Sheldon. I am anxious about the one you sent by the Buford mail. The mail was dropped in the Yellowstone and they must have attempted to dry it before the fire, for all our letters are scorched. Maggie’s to Jim had been re-enveloped at Buford.

  “I think to ride as you do and write is wonderful. Nothing daunts you in your wish to improve. I wish your lines had fallen among literary friends. And yet, Autie, I wouldn’t have you anything but a soldier.

  “It is the hottest day of the season, yet cold chills are running up and down my back at your description of the Yellowstone fight. I am glad you gave Tom his due. Of course you appreciate his valor as a soldier, yet you do not want to be puffing your own family. Mother will be pleased for ‘Tommie.’ Your mention of him would satisfy the most exacting of mothers.

  “I cannot but commend your commendation of General Stanley. To ignore injury and praise what is praiseworthy is the highest form of nobility. I could not do it. My soul is too small to forgive.

  “I know you have a gift for finding roads, but how nice of General Terry to acknowledge your skill and perseverance that way.

  Maggie and Lorena are entertaining Dr. X and Mr. G in the parlor. I went in, for manners, but was too heavyhearted to stay. Mr. B called. He told me of Buttons’ resignation because Grant treated him unfairly, but it was withheld till after the convention.

  “The wildflowers are a revelation, almost the first sweet-scented I have ever known. The house is full of bouquets.

  “With your bright future and the knowledge that you are positive use to your day and generation, do you not see that your life is precious on that account, and not only because an idolizing wife could not live without you?

  “I shall go to bed and dream of my dear Bo. Libbie.”*

  “As I said, he never got to read this letter,” Libbie explained as she was putting the letter back into the envelope. “It was returned to me unopened by”—she paused for a moment, then glanced over at Falcon—“you. You brought it back to me, didn’t you? You brought this one to me the same time you brought Autie’s letter to me.”

  Falcon nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  Wiping her tears again, Libbie tried to smile. “I know it is foolish to cry after all these years.”

  “It isn’t foolish at all,” Falcon said.

  “What did you do next, Mrs. Custer?” Rosie asked.

  “May I answer that, Libbie?” Zane Grey asked.

  Libbie smiled through her tears. “Yes, if you wish.”

  “Libbie Custer has become a very successful writer, writing not only about General Custer, but other books, as well as articles for newspapers and magazines. She writes about public affairs, is considered expert on art, the opera, and ballet. And she is a lecturer, too. She talks about her husband, also about the social and economic status of women.

  “For someone who was left only with a widow’s pension of thirty dollars per month, Libbie has overcome great odds because she is forceful and strong. She is also a very shrewd investor, who has become quite prosperous, and has traveled in England, Germany, Egypt, Turkey, China, and Japan.

  “And,” Zane Grey said, smiling, “I am proud to say that she is not only a fellow writer. She is my friend.”

  “Oh!” Rosie said, clapping her hands gleefully. “Oh, that is wonderful. But—”

  “But what, dear?” Zane Grey asked.

  “Whatever happened to the other lady? To Lorena?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” Zane Grey said.

  “Oh, we kept in touch for a while,” Libbie said. “Lorena returned to Washington and married an English diplomat. When his assignment to Washington was over, they moved to England.”

  “Does she live there now?”

  “No, dear. She and her husband were coming to America for a visit. They were on the Titanic. Lorena survived, but her husband went down with the ship.”

  “Oh,” Rosie said. “That’s awful. She was in love with two men, and both of them died. I wonder where she is now?”

  “She’s in St. Louis, Missouri,” Falcon said, without any further explanation.

  Zane Grey saw that Rosie was about to ask Falcon about Lorena, and sensing that Falcon didn’t want to talk about her, he asked a question of his own.

  “Falcon, whatever happened to Clete Harris, Jim Garon, and Jay Bryans, the men who stole the Gatling guns? Did you ever run across them again?”

  “Oh, yes,” Falcon said. “I ran across them again.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  May 1877

  Green River, Wyoming Territory

  It had been a year since Clete Harris, Jim Garon, and Jay Bryans made good their escape from Montana, leaving just before the climactic battle. They had been able to take advantage of the fact that the Indians were preparing to meet Custer, and that the army was preparing to meet the Indians. They were unmolested as they left the territory.

  After Potter escaped from the post stockade, he left Colorado and met with Harris and the others in Cheyenne, Wyoming. There, they divided the money, which turned out to be over five thousand dollars, then each went their own way.

  High living during the year just past, to include gambling, liquor, and women, had taken all money. It had been Harris who’d gotten three of them together, with a plan that would, in his words, “make us rich again.”

  That was one week ago. Now the three were gathered in a thicket of willow trees, just outside the town of Green River, Wyoming. It was still early in the morning and from there, they could not only see the town, they could hear the sounds of a beginning day of commerce.

  They watched some men as they hitched up a team of mules to a freight wagon; they listened to the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer as he worked a piece of steel, still red hot from the forge. They heard a couple of cows braying to be milked, and from the Chinese laundry came the singsong voices of the “Celestials” as they went about their daily labor.

  “All right,” Harris said. “Do both of you know exactly what to do?”

  “What’s there to know?” Garon asked. “We ride into to town, stop in front of the bank, go in, get the money, then ride out.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that,” Harris said. “Garon, you stay outside with the horses. I want them there when we come out—and I mean I want them there. If we have to leave fast and I see you ridin’ off, I swear I will shoot you myself.”

  “I’ll be there,” Garon promised.

  “Bryans, you go in with me. We won’t shoot anyone unless we have to, but if we have to, don’t stand there with your thumb up your ass. If you hesitate, even for a moment, more’n likely you’re the one that’s goin’ to wind up gettin’ shot. Do you follow me?”

  “Don’t worry. I know what to do.”

  “All right, let’s ride on into town, but let’s not all go in together. I’ll go first. Garon, you wait five or ten minutes, then you come in. Bryans, you come in after that. We’ll sort of meet in front of the bank. That way, nobody will see us all together until it’s too late for anyone to do
anything about it. You boys ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Bryans said.

  “Yeah,” Garon said.

  Harris swung up into the saddle, then looked down at the two. “All right, let’s do it,” he said.

  Harris rode in first. He saw the proprietor of the meat market sweeping his front porch. A dog lay in the sun on the porch, so secure in his position that, even as the sweeper came toward him, he didn’t move. Several kids were gathered in the yard of the school building while a teacher stood out front, watching over them. Two old men sat in rocking chairs on the porch in front of the general store.

  Harris stopped in front of the apothecary, just across the street from the bank, dismounted, then lifted his horse’s left forepaw, pretending to examine the shoe.

  Looking up, he saw Bryans and Garon riding into town as well and, though they weren’t exactly together, they were close enough that Harris thought they should be further separated. All three waited at various places up and down the street until the bank opened. As soon as someone inside the bank turned around the sign reading OPEN, the three men came together. Garon remained in his saddle. Harris and Bryans handed him their reins; then both men went inside the bank.