MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  For the “Fourth Endurance,” Yellow Hawk faced north. “I call upon katiyimo, the enchanted mesa, and ptesan-wi, White Buffalo Woman, to give me the vision I seek,” he said aloud, his voice sounding strange to him inside the dark, steam-filled lodge.

  Then the vision came, and when Yellow Hawk stepped out of the sweat lodge, his body, mind, and spirit cleansed, he knew what he would do.

  Yellow Hawk informed the elders that he would speak at the council fire that night, and the elders gave him permission. Because Yellow Hawk was young, curiosity as to what he might say was high, and nearly every young man of the village gathered around the council fire that night to hear what he would say.

  After the pipe was smoked, Standing Bear, who was the chief of the elders, rose to speak to those who had gathered.

  “When we hold a council fire, all are invited to attend, but most do not come,” Standing Bear said. “Tonight I see many here, and I see many of our young men. I think this is because we, the elders, have told Yellow Hawk that he may speak and I think that has filled the young people with interest to see what he will say.”

  Standing Bear turned to Yellow Hawk. “You may speak,” he invited.

  Yellow Hawk stood, and then addressed the assembled people of the village.

  “I do not need the permission of Standing Bear to speak,” he said. “I did not ask the elders for permission to speak. I told them that I was going to speak. I can do this, because I am Yellow Hawk.”

  There was a murmuring reaction from those who had come to the council, for the young did not speak to the old in such a manner. But his insolence did get the attention of all.

  “In the sweat lodge I was there for all four endurances. At the end of the Fourth Endurance, White Buffalo Woman appeared before me.”

  There were gasps from those who were gathered around the fire, for White Buffalo Woman was the most sacred of all their totems, and if Yellow Hawk received a vision from her, they wanted to hear.

  “And what did White Buffalo Woman tell you?” one of the elders asked.

  “She said I should call upon those who are brave, and those who want to win honor for themselves to follow me on a path of war.”

  “War?” one of the elders asked. “There is no war now! And that is as it should be, for war causes our wickiups to be empty and our women to cry.”

  “You are old and frightened,” Yellow Hawk said with a tone of derision. He turned to others. “I am leaving this reservation. Those who are brave of heart, come to me tomorrow at the place of the Weeping Rocks.” Weeping Rocks referred to a nearby waterfall.

  “Do not do this, Yellow Hawk!” the chief of the elders shouted as Yellow Hawk left the council. “You will do nothing but bring sorrow on the rest of us.”

  “All who are cowards and who have fear in their hearts can stay here and hide behind the skirts of this woman,” Yellow Hawk said pointing derisively toward the elder who had called out to him. “All who are not cowards, but who have courage, follow me, for I will lead you to glory!”

  Mounting his horse, he rode away.

  Sky Meadow Ranch

  Though the first structure Duff had built was little more than a cabin, he now occupied a house that was as fine as any that could be found anywhere on the Wyoming range. Made of debarked logs fitted together, then chinked with mortar, it was sixty feet wide and forty feet deep, with a porch that stretched all the way across the front.

  Sky Meadow was situated between Bear and Little Bear creeks, both streams year-round sources of good water, and in an area where good water was scarce, the creeks were worth as much as the gold mine that was on the extreme western end of his property. The view from Duff’s front porch displayed the rich green of gently rolling pastureland down to Bear Creek, which was a meandering ribbon of silver, sparkling in the mid-afternoon sun.

  Beyond the creek stood a range of mountains which not only made for beautiful scenery, but also tempered the winter winds, and throughout the spring and summer, sent down streams of water to make the grass grow green.

  Since Duff MacCallister had immigrated to America from Scotland, he had built Sky Meadow into one of the most productive ranches in all of Wyoming by taking a chance on introducing Black Angus cattle, the first rancher in the West to do so.

  Duff wasn’t new to cattle ranching; he had owned a Black Angus cattle ranch in Scotland. There, however, it wasn’t called a ranch, it was called a farm. And whereas Sky Meadow was now some 40,000 acres, his operation in Scotland was only 300 acres. Duff was a Highlander, meaning that he was from the Highlands of Scotland, but compared to the magnificent mountains in the American West, the Highlands were but hills.

  At the moment Duff was standing on his front porch enjoying the view. His foreman, Elmer Gleason, was sitting on the top level of the steps that led up to the porch. Elmer was wiry and raw boned with a full head of white hair and neatly trimmed beard. He leaned over to expectorate a quid of tobacco before he spoke.

  “I reckon you seen me with Vi, last night,” Elmer said. Vi was Violet Winslow, the attractive widow who owned a business establishment called Vi’s Pies.

  “Aye, I saw you. T’was a foine-looking pair, you made.”

  “I reckon so,” Elmer said. “But I’m a’ feared she’s expectin’ more of me than I’m wantin’ to give. Much like Miss Meagan is with you, I’d wager.”

  “Meagan and I are just very good friends,” Duff said.

  “Yeah, that’s just what I was thinkin’,” Elmer said as he carved off a little more tobacco and stuck it in his mouth. “So, tell me, Duff, when is it we’re goin’ to be a’takin’ them beeves to the Yankee soldier boys.”

  Elmer, who had fought for the South during the Civil War, continued to call the Civil War, the “War of Yankee Aggression,” and to this day referred to the army as “Yankee soldiers.”

  “About a week, I would say. As quickly as we can get two thousand head of cattle rounded up and ready to drive,” Duff said. “Two thousand head at forty dollars a head. I tell you the truth, Elmer, if I don’t sell another cow, this contract alone will make for a very profitable year.”

  “I reckon it will at that. Have you figured out our route, yet?”

  “Yes, we’ll follow the Chugwater to the Laramie River, then the Laramie River to the Platte. I figure we will be on the trail for six, maybe seven days.”

  “Good idea following the rivers like that,” Elmer said. “Cows that have plenty to eat and drink don’t get too discombobulated. And cows that don’t get discombobulated is a lot easier to handle.”

  Duff chuckled. “Aye, we’ll nae be wantin’ to deal with discombobulated cows now, will we?”

  When Duff came to take possession of his land the first time, he was told stories of a ghost that inhabited the old abandoned and played-out mine that was on his property. When he examined his mine, he found that the ghost who had kept others frightened away wasn’t a ghost, and he also found that the mine was anything but played out. The ghost was Elmer, who was “protecting” his stake in the mine. At the time, Elmer was more wild than civilized, and he had been living on bugs and rabbits when he could catch them, and such wild plants as could be eaten.

  By rights and deed, the mine belonged to Duff, but he wound up taking Elmer in as a full partner in the operation of the mine, and that move was immediately vindicated when shortly thereafter, Elmer saved Duff’s life.

  Duff had returned home to find an Angus Somerled waiting for him with a loaded pistol. Somerled, an old enemy, had come all the way from Scotland to kill him.

  “Somerled,” Duff said.

  “Ye’ve been a hard man to put down, Duff Tavish MacCallister, but the job is done now.”

  Duff said nothing.

  “Here now, lad, and has the cat got your tongue?”

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” Duff said.

  “Nae, I dinnae think you would. Would you be tellin’ me where I might find my deputy?”

  “Malcolm is dead.” />
  “Aye, I thought as much. Killed him, did ye?”

  “Aye—it seemed to be the thing to do.”

  “There is an old adage, if you want something done right, do it yourself. I should have come after you a long time ago, instead of getting my sons and my deputies killed.”

  “That night on Donuum Road, I was coming to give myself up,” Duff said. “None of this need have happened. Your sons would still be alive, Skye would still be alive. But you were too blinded by hate.”

  He cocked the pistol and Duff steeled himself.

  Suddenly the room filled with the roar of a gunshot—but it wasn’t Somerled’s pistol. It was a shotgun in the hands of Elmer Gleason. Gleason had shot him through the window, and the double load of twelve-gauge shot knocked Somerled half way across the room.

  “Are you all right, Mr. MacCallister?” Gleason shouted through the open window. Smoke was still curling up from the two barrels.

  “Aye, I’m fine,” Duff said. “My gratitude to ye, Mr. Gleason.”

  Gleason came around to the front of the cabin and stepped in through the front door.

  “Seein’ as how I saved your life, don’t you think me ’n’ you might start callin’ each other by our Christian names?”

  “Aye, Elmer. Your point is well taken.”

  “Sorry ’bout tellin’ you he was your friend. But that’s what he told me, and I believed him.”

  “And yet, you were waiting outside the window with a loaded shotgun.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, considerin’ that the fella you went to meet in Chugwater was from Scotland, and wasn’t your friend, I just got to figurin’ maybe I ought to stand by, just in case.”

  “Aye. I’m glad you did.”

  Gleason leaned the shotgun against the wall and looked at the blood that was on the floor of the cabin.

  “I reckon I’d better get this mess cleaned up for you,” he said.

  “Elmer, I’m sure you don’t realize it, but you just did,” Duff said.1

  The two men became friends after that, and, over the few years that Duff had been in America, he was given occasional glimpses into Elmer’s mysterious past. Elmer had ridden with Quantrill during the war, and even let it slip that he had once followed the outlaw trail with Jesse and Frank James.

  Although Elmer had never told him the full story of his life, and seldom released more than a bit of information at one telling, over time Duff was able to learn a great deal about him. He knew that Elmer had been to China as a crewman on a clipper ship, and in that, they shared somewhat of a kinship, for Duff had worked his way to America as an able-bodied sailor aboard the sailing ship Hiawatha.

  Elmer had lived for two years with the Indians, married to a Shoshone woman who died while giving birth to their son. Elmer didn’t know where his son, who would be nineteen years old, was now. He had left him with his wife’s sister, and hadn’t seen the boy since the day he was born. He had blamed the baby for killing his mother, though he knew that wasn’t fair. He had left the child unnamed, and uncared for. That was something that Elmer regretted having done.

  Because of the gold mine, Elmer had money now, more money than he had ever had in his life. He could leave Wyoming and go to San Francisco to live out the rest of his life in ease and comfort, but he had no desire to do so.

  “I got a roof over my head, a good friend, and all the terbaccy I can chew,” Elmer said. “Why would I be a’ wantin’ to go anywhere else?”

  “Why indeed?” Duff had responded.

  Chapter Four

  Fort Laramie

  First Lieutenant Clayton Scott of the Fifth Cavalry, United States Army, stood at the mirror as he worked up lather in his shaving cup before using the brush to apply it to his face. He was wearing blue trousers with a yellow stripe that was intersected by the yellow galluses that hung in a loop by each side. Scott’s wife, Sue, was in the bedroom behind him, getting dressed for an evening at the commanding officer’s quarters. There, they would socialize with the other post officers and their wives.

  “Have you heard anything back from your father?” Scott asked. “Has he answered my request?”

  “No, I’ve not heard,” Sue said.

  “Did you write to him, like I asked?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand,” Scott said. “Your father is a general. He could help me if he wanted to. There is no reason why he can’t bring us to Washington and put me on his personal staff.”

  “We’ve talked about this before, Clayton,” Sue said. “You know Daddy doesn’t want to do that. It would look as if he were playing favorites to have his son-in-law on his staff.”

  Scott shaved away the lather, leaving a small moustache in place.

  “He wouldn’t have to put me on his staff. All he would have to do is bring me to Washington. I’ll never get promoted as long as I’m out here in this godforsaken wilderness. The days of real military opportunity, when we were fighting Indians, is over. We serve no purpose here now, and an officer without purpose is an officer without hope of promotion.”

  “Daddy says you’re getting good experience out here,” Sue said. “You are getting experience that the officers back in Washington aren’t getting. He says that if we get into another war, there will be a need for line officers.”

  “What war? It’ll be a hundred years before we get into another war.”

  Scott put on his tunic, then turned and primped in front of the mirror until he was certain everything was just right.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “I hate arriving last, where everyone stares at you.”

  “I’m ready,” Sue said.

  “You’re wearing that dress?” Scott asked.

  “Yes, why not? It’s a beautiful dress. My sister gave it to me for my birthday, don’t you remember?”

  “Why aren’t you wearing the dress I bought for you?”

  “I told you, I will wear it as soon as some alterations are made.”

  “Alterations? What kind of alterations?”

  “It’s—a little low cut for my tastes. It shows too much of my bosom.”

  “Nonsense. It doesn’t hurt if you show a little of your titties to the right people. Colonel Gibbon for example.”

  “What?” Sue gasped. “For heaven’s sake, Clay, Colonel Gibbon is a happily married man! And Kathleen Gibbon is my friend!”

  “A lieutenant’s wife can be friendly with a colonel’s wife, but she can’t be friends. On the other hand, you can put the colonel in a good mood, if you know what I mean, and it might pay off for me when the colonel does his Officer Efficiency Reports.”

  “Clay, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You actually want me to flirt with Colonel Gibbon?”

  “Come on, Sue, it’s not like you don’t know how to do it. You think I haven’t seen the way you flaunt yourself in front of Jason Holbrook?”

  “You are just being silly. You know Lieutenant Holbrook has eyes only for Mary Meacham. Why on earth would he be interested in a married woman?”

  “Why indeed? Now put on the other dress like I told you, and make certain that Colonel Gibbon gets an eyeful tonight.”

  “Clay, please . . .”

  Scott pulled his hand back as if to hit her, but he withheld the blow.

  “Do it!” he demanded.

  Fifteen minutes later, now in a very low-cut dress which made her feel uncomfortable, Sue walked with her husband the hundred yards that separated their quarters from a large white building, called by everyone “Old Bedlam.” Old Bedlam was not only the post headquarters, it was also the home of Colonel John Gibbon. A private who was walking guard, halted, and brought his rifle up to present arms in salute.

  Scott waited until he was even with the sentinel before he returned the salute, and by so doing required the young soldier to hold the weapon in an uncomfortable position longer than necessary. Scott giggled as they passed him by.

  “Why did you do that?” Sue asked.

  “Why did I do what?
”

  “Why did you wait so long before returning the salute? You made that poor soldier stand in an uncomfortable position for longer than was necessary.”

  “He is an enlisted man, Sue. Enlisted men are the lowest form of life on the planet. Why should I care whether or not he is uncomfortable? I do such things to remind the enlisted men of the differences in our station.”

  “Daddy would never do such a thing to an enlisted man.”

  “No, your father does such things with junior officers,” Scott replied. “Even to his own son-in-law.”

  Colonel Gibbon’s wife greeted them as they came into the house.

  “Sue,” Kathleen Gibbon said. “You look absolutely beautiful, tonight.”

  “As do you, Mrs. Gibbon.”

  “Please, come in. The post singers will be here shortly, to entertain us. Then we’ll enjoy a good dinner.”

  As they went on into the house, they were greeted by some of the other officers, and by Colonel Gibbon.

  “Lieutenant Scott, I believe you know Lieutenant Pershing,” Gibbon said. “He is on temporary duty with us, down from Fort Assiniboine.”

  “Yes, we were classmates at the Academy,” Scott said. “Hello, John.”

  “Clay,” Pershing replied. He smiled at Sue. “And, Mrs. Scott, please give your father my kindest regards next time you write to him.”

  “I certainly shall, Lieutenant,” Sue replied.

  “I understand that you are serving with the colored soldiers,” Scott said with a smirk.

  “The Tenth Cavalry, yes, they are called buffalo soldiers,” Pershing replied.

  “It is my understanding that an officer can refuse an assignment to serve with colored soldiers, if they want to.”

  “Why would I want to? The buffalo soldiers are very good soldiers, as fine as any I’ve ever served with.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they are,” Scott said sarcastically, lifting an eyebrow, and tilting his head. “But I think you made a big, big mistake, and your career is at a dead end because of that assignment. Mark my words, no one will ever hear of John J. Pershing.”