MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  Meagan sat down in the grass and pulled her knees up under her chin. The constant chatter of the brook soothed her, and she was enjoying the contemplative silence—a silence that was soon interrupted.

  “Would you like some company?” a voice asked.

  “I would love some company,” Meagan said, smiling back at Duff, who was walking down the knoll. He sat down on the grass beside her.

  “Shouldn’t one of us be watching the herd?” Meagan asked.

  “And would ye be thinking now that they’ll take wing and fly away?” Duff teased.

  “Aye, and t’would be a big surprise now if cows suddenly took wing, wouldn’t it?” Meagan replied.

  “Och . . . and now ’tis mocking my accent you’re doing,” Duff said. “The Lord does not love a mocker.”

  Meagan laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that you are so easy to mock.”

  “What are you doin’ out here so late? Didn’t Elmer tell me he was making a bed for you in the chuck wagon?”

  “Yes, and a fine bed it is, too,” Meagan replied. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

  “It has been a long day for you, Meagan, and you got up very early this morning so to make this drive with us. I cannae imagine ye having trouble sleeping.”

  “Sometimes my mind is filled with thought,” Meagan said. “And I can’t turn it off.”

  “What is it you are thinking of?”

  Meagan wanted to tell him that she was thinking of them, wondering where their relationship was heading, but she didn’t.

  “I was thinking about you, Duff Tavish MacCallister. What was your life like in Scotland? What were you like as a boy?”

  “Oh, t’was a good bairn, I was,” Duff teased. “I worked hard on m’ fither’s farm till I was of the age to go into the army. Then I was lucky enough to be selected for Sandhurst.”

  “Sandhurst?”

  “Aye, ’tis like your West Point.”

  “You’ve never told me what that medal is that you wear on your kilts,” Meagan said.

  Duff laughed, “I dinnae wear it on my kilts, lass. I wear it on my tunic. ’Tis the Victoria Cross.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “T’was a bit of a skirmish at a place called Tel-el-Kebir, in Egypt. T’was a poem written about it, if you’d care to hear.”

  “I’d love to hear it,” Meagan said.

  Duff cleared his throat, then placed his right hand across his heart, and extended his left.

  Meagan chuckled. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready for a bit of elocution in the way I was taught by my teacher in fifth year.”

  “Just say the poem, Duff. There is no need to make a speech.”

  “Aye,” Duff said. He began to recite.

  “Ye sons of Great Britain, come join with me,

  And sing in praise of Sir Garnet Wolseley;

  Sound drums and trumpets cheerfully,

  For he has acted most heroically.

  “Therefore loudly his praises sing

  Until the hills their echoes back doth ring;

  For he is a noble hero bold,

  And an honour to his Queen and country, be it told.”

  “That’s a wonderful poem,” Meagan said. “Even without the elocution”

  “Aye, well Field Marshal Wolseley is a foine soldier and a great man,” Duff said.

  North Laramie County

  Three freight wagons were making a trip from the river port at Hartville to the settlement of Raw Hide Butte with two men on each wagon. John English was driving the first wagon, and he was having a spirited discussion with his backup driver, Dan Owen.

  “Have you ever heard of the pygmy people?” English asked.

  “No, what’s that?” Owen asked.

  “It’s little bitty people that live in Africa. They’re so little you can just hold one in your hand.”

  “I ain’t never heard of such a thing, and you ain’t neither. You’re just makin’ that up.”

  “No, I ain’t. I seen a picture once. He wasn’t this high.” English measured a distance between his thumb and forefinger.

  “That was the picture, that wasn’t real.”

  “I don’t know, it looked pretty real to . . .” English stopped in mid-sentence and pointed. “Dan, lookie there. Ain’t them Injuns?”

  “Yeah,” Owen said. “What the hell are they doin’? Looks like they’re comin’ this way.”

  “We ain’t got trouble with Injuns, do we?”

  “John, what’ll we do?” Kingsley shouted. Kingsley was the driver of the second wagon.

  “Let’s get out of the wagons and see what this is about,” English said. “Get your rifles out.”

  English no sooner got the words out before he heard the bark of rifles from the Indians. Owen was hit, and he handed his pistol to English.

  “I am killed—I won’t live ten minutes. You’ll need this.”

  The other four drivers jumped down from their wagons and came to join English. All five took cover behind English’s wagon and began returning fire. Kingsley was hit, and went down with a bullet in his chest. By now the Indians had come up on them, and they were riding in circles around the three wagons, firing at the defenders. A man named Burleson was hit, then Daughtery, then Bell.

  Now only English and Bill Williams were left alive.

  They were both killed on the next pass.

  As the others scalped and mutilated the six drivers, Yellow Hawk climbed into the wagons to see what, of the freight, might be used. Breaking open one crate, he saw twenty Winchester rifles.

  “Woo, woo, woo, ya, ya, hey!” he shouted loudly, holding one of the rifles aloft.

  Chapter Six

  With the cattle drive

  Duff slapped his legs against the side of his horse and urged it into a gallop, dashing alongside the slowly moving herd, then up the side of a small hill where he stopped. Dismounting, he looked back down on the cattle company. It made an impressive sight, a little over two thousand head of Black Angus, three or four abreast and over half a mile long, moving slowly but inexorably alongside Chugwater Creek.

  From this position Duff could see the entire herd. Meagan was the flank rider on the left side, near the front, and Jory Bates was on the same side, riding in the swing position, or near the rear. Jimmy Sherman was riding swing on the right and Jeff Ford was riding drag, bringing up the rear. The wagon was already a mile ahead of the herd, with Elmer sitting straight in the driver’s seat, having gone out ahead of the herd to find their stopping place for tonight, and to set up his chuck wagon so as to have a hot dinner ready for the riders when they brought the herd up. Everyone would be eating lunch in the saddle, lunch being a couple biscuits and some bacon left over from breakfast.

  As the herd moved north, they traveled not in one large mass, but in a long plodding column. This was because there simply wasn’t that much flat ground adjacent to the creek to allow the cows to spread out. That gave the men a big advantage, because it was less likely that the herd would be stampeded that way. Also, with a steady supply of grass and water, and a slow, unhurried walk, there was little incentive to stampede.

  An average day was ten to twelve miles. While on the move, one of the cowboys would be riding as point man ahead of the herd scouting for anything that might represent trouble. Flankers rode on either side of the herd, keeping them moving, while one man rode drag, meaning the rear. This was the least desirable position because the cowboy who rode drag had to swallow all the dust.

  Duff didn’t ride in any specific position, but moved around the herd several times during the day in order to make certain that the cows were proceeding as they should. Often, he would ride for several minutes alongside Meagan. At first, he told himself that he was doing that just to be there on hand if she needed anything. After all, she was a seamstress, not a drover.

  To Duff’s surprised satisfaction, Meagan, who learned quickly, was handling her position superbly. But he found himself r
iding with her quite a bit, not because she needed him to help . . . but because he was genuinely enjoying her company.

  They spoke for a few minutes, then Duff slapped his legs against the side of his horse and rode on ahead. He had gone about five miles ahead, when he saw the chuck wagon stopped. There was a small detachment of soldiers around the wagon.

  “This here is Mr. Duff MacCallister. He owns the cows,” Elmer said. “Duff, these here Yankee soldiers want to talk to you.”

  “Aye, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” Duff asked.

  “I’m Sergeant O’Riley, in command of this scouting party. And would you be for tellin’ this old fool that we ain’t Yankee soldiers?” Sergeant O’Riley said.

  “You’re wearin’ blue, ain’t you?” Elmer asked.

  Duff chuckled. “I guess some things die hard. Are you here from Fort Laramie to meet us?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t be knowin’ nothin’ about that. ’Tis from Fort Fetterman my lads and me are, out tryin’ to find a band of renegade Injuns.”

  “Indians, you say? Och, I thought all the Indian troubles were over some time ago.”

  “Yes, sir, well, I reckon as far as your Injun wars is concerned, where you got maybe hundreds, or maybe thousands of Injuns on the warpath, that has all done passed. But these here heathens are a bunch of Shoshone that went off the Wind River Reservation.”

  “I know lots of Shoshone,” Elmer said. He didn’t add that he had once been married to a Shoshone woman, and that he had a Shoshone son. “They ain’t took to the warpath since just after the Custer battle.”

  “These here ain’t your regular Shoshone. Their regular ones is stayin’ on the reservation like good Injuns. These here is a bunch of renegades, and ’tis near a dozen people these black-heart heathens have kilt. The one that’s leadin’ ’em is a wild young buck named Yellow Hawk. Would you be for knowin’ him, now?”

  “No,” Elmer said, shaking his head. “I don’t know nobody named Yellow Hawk.”

  “And would you be tellin’ me, Mr. MacCallister, if you’ve seen any Injuns since you started your drive?”

  Duff shook his head. “We’ve seen nae Indians.”

  “How many are in your company?”

  “There are five of us, six, counting the woman that’s with us.”

  “A woman, you say?”

  “ Aye.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “That’s just about the size outfit Yellow Hawk is likely to go after. And I don’t have to be for tellin’ you, that they’ve no respect for women. So, you keep an eye open for ’em.”

  “I thank ye for the fair warnin’ ye’ve given me, Sergeant O’Riley.”

  “Scotsman, ye be?” O’Riley asked.

  Duff chuckled. “An’ what gave me away?”

  “T’was your Scottish brogue. Havin’ come here from Ireland, I picked it up right away,” O’Riley said.

  “Sláinte chugat, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant O’Riley smiled. “And saol fada chugat,” he replied. “Oh, and one more thing. I was wonderin’ if maybe you could see your way to sell us one of your beeves. We could take it back to the post, and it would make a good meal for us.”

  “I’ll nae sell you a cow,” Duff said.

  “Aye, I figured you might have ’em all counted out.”

  “I’ll give you one,” Duff said.

  “Really?” A huge smile spread across the sergeant’s face.

  “’Tis my thinking that you’ll be getting some of them anyway. My contract is with the army. Fort Laramie is just where I’m to deliver them.”

  “’Tis a fine man, you be, sir,” the sergeant said. “Even if you are a Scotsman,” he added with a smile.

  “If you’ll send one of your men with me, he and I will bring a cow back,” Duff offered. “But I’d be for takin’ it kindly if the rest of ye would stay here with Mr. Gleason until I return. I dinnae ken of any Indians, but I’ve nae wish to leave the wagon exposed like this.”

  “I don’t need any Yankee soldiers to be lookin’ out for me,” Elmer complained.

  “Elmer, maybe ’tis nae worry ye have about your own hide, but ’tis my wagon you’re drivin’, and I’ve nae wish to see it fall into the hands of savage Indians. So I’ll thank ye to wait here with the sergeant and his—Yankee soldiers till I get back.”

  “Don’t ye be worryin’ none now, Reb,” the sergeant said with a chuckle. “M’ lads and I will be lookin’ out for you.”

  “Hrmmph,” Elmer grunted.

  Duff rode off with one of the soldiers, and Elmer pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket, and then glanced up at Sergeant O’Riley. “Do you chaw, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “I’ve been known to,” O’Riley replied.

  Elmer offered the stick of tobacco to him, and Sergeant O’Riley carved off a piece.

  “Tell me what you ’n’ Duff was a’ sayin’ to one another a moment ago. What language was that, anyhow? I thought Scotts and Irish talked English.”

  “Aye, we do,” O’Riley replied. “But we also speak Gaelic.”

  “What was that you said to each other?”

  “He wished me good health, and I wished him a long life.”

  “Well, I don’t reckon you can be all bad, for all that you are a Yankee,” Elmer said.

  A few minutes later, Duff and the soldier who had gone with him returned with one of the beeves.

  “Go raimh maith agat,” Sergeant O’Riley said. Then to Elmer, “I told him thanks.”

  “Tá failte romhat,” Duff replied.

  “You don’t have to explain that to me, I’m pretty sure you told him he was welcome,” Elmer said.

  “Elmer, m’ lad, sure ’n’ ’tis be Gaelic ye will be speaking before you age another year,” Duff teased.

  Elmer looked toward Sergeant O’Riley, then held his hand up, palm out. “Toksha ake wacinyuank-tin ktelo le mita cola,” he said.

  Duff chuckled. “Now you’ll have to tell us what you said.”

  “That was Shoshone. I said, ‘I’ll see you later, my friend,’” Elmer translated.

  “’Tis good to see that I’ve gone from Yankee soldier to friend,” Sergeant O’Riley said. “Take care.”

  Sergeant O’Riley ordered his men into a column of twos. He saluted Duff.

  “Be sure ’n’ keep an eye out for Injuns there, Mr. MacCallister. Sure ’n’ I’m not wantin’ to come back and find you done in by the heathens.”

  “We’ll be alert, Sergeant. Thank you for your concern.”

  “And thanks again for the beef.” Sergeant O’Riley stood in his stirrups. “Forward, ho!”

  The detachment left at a trot.

  “Elmer, given the situation I think it might be best if you kept the wagon back with the cattle drive,” Duff said.

  “All right, Duff, if you think so.”

  Duff waited until Elmer turned the wagon around, then rode with him until they rejoined the herd.

  Meagan was the first to see them coming back, and she rode out to meet them.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked.

  Duff hesitated a moment before he answered, not wanting to frighten her. Then, because he knew that Meagan had enough spirit not to be unduly frightened, he decided to tell her.

  “Apparently, there are some renegade Indians bent on causing a bit of trouble,” he said.

  “Indians? I thought that was all over.”

  “Aye, I think for the most part it is. But ’tis a gang of hoodlums I’m told, not regular law-abiding Indians. I think it might be best if we stay together.”

  Meagan nodded. “Probably a good idea,” she agreed.

  The Wind River Reservation

  In the village of Standing Bear on the banks of the Wind River, a ring of campfires burned brightly around the outer ring of the circle of the camp. A circle was very important to the Shoshone, as they believed that the power of the world worked in a circle. Long before the Europeans had accepted the concept of the earth being round, the Shoshone alrea
dy knew it to be so. They reasoned that if the sky was round, the moon is round, and the sun is round, then the earth, too, must be round. This universal circle, they believed, was not without purpose.

  The seasons also formed a circle: summer, fall, winter, spring, then summer coming back again. The nests of the birds are round, tepees are round and always set in a circle, and all meeting and ceremonies took place in the center of that circle. Ska Luta, who had passed seventeen summers, knew this, because it had been taught him since he was a very young boy.

  Everyone in the village knew what Yellow Hawk was doing. When he attacked the Martin farm and killed Martin, his wife, and two children, the Shoshone learned of it before the white men learned of it. And when he attacked and killed the men who were driving the freight wagons, the Shoshone learned of that, too.

  It was for this reason the ring of council fires had been lit, and the elders were meeting. The subject being discussed was what should be done about Yellow Hawk. Some had suggested that the Shoshone should send warriors out to join Yellow Hawk, as he was bringing honor back to his people.

  There were others, though, who believed that what Yellow Hawk was doing was dishonorable, and they suggested that the Shoshone should send warriors, not to join Yellow Hawk, but to capture him and give him to the soldiers.

  Ska Luta listened to the discussion with a great deal of interest, because he knew that whatever was decided, it would have a direct effect on everyone in the village. Ska Luta was so named because in his veins ran the blood of the Shoshone and the blood of the white man. Ska Luta meant Red White.

  Ska Luta had never seen either his mother or his father. His Shoshone mother died as she was giving birth to him. His white father abandoned him, and he was raised by Elk Woman, who had no children and was glad to have a child of her own.