Bloodshed of Eagles

Chapter Eight

May 8, 1876

Omaha, Nebraska

As the riverboat Far West backed away from its mooring at Omaha, the steam cylinders boomed like cannons, the sound echoing back from both sides of the Missouri River. Scores of people were gathered on the docks to watch the steamboat begin its journey upriver to the town of Bismarck, Dakota Territory. Captain Grant Marsh blew the long, two-tone whistle and it, like the sound of the cannon-like steam cylinders, rolled back across the water, as if answered by another boat.

“Good-bye, Omaha!” someone yelled from the deck of the boat. “By the time I come back through here, I’ll be rich as Croesus.”

“If you have that much money, you can buy us all a drink!” someone yelled back from the riverbank, and those ashore and those on the boat laughed.

The paddle wheel, which was in reverse, stopped, then started again, this time rolling forward. For a moment, it did nothing but churn up the water; then it caught purchase and the boat started moving upstream, searching for the channel. As it did, one of the deckhands went to the bow of the boat and threw over a line, then, pulling it up, called out loudly: “By the mark, eight!”

The Far West was a stern-wheeler, shallow-draft, wooden-hull packet boat powered by three boilers. It was 190 feet long, and could carry two hundred tons and thirty cabin passengers. On this day, though, there must have been at least seventy passengers, many of whom were making the journey on the deck of the steamer.

Falcon, who had a cabin, was standing at the stern watching the wheel turn, frothing up the water and leaving a rolling wake for a long way behind the boat.

“The first thing I’m going to get me,” one of the passengers on the boat said loudly, “is a three-piece suit with a diamond stickpin on my vest. And I’m going to get me a cane, too, one of them black shiny canes, with a silver head. Then, I’m going to walk right down Fifth Avenue in New York and tell them coppers what used to pinch me all them times when I was hungry and I’d take no more’n an apple, that they can just kiss my rich backside.”

The pronouncement was met with loud laughter from all the other passengers. With very few exceptions, the passengers were all men, all loud and boisterous, and nearly all from Eastern cities and towns. When asked, they would say that they were coming West to make their fortune in gold. Most were clinging to their little treasure of camping and or mining equipment, bought from unscrupulous suppliers who were going to make their own fortune from the fortune seekers.

Several had maps as well, the maps purporting to show them exactly where to go, and giving such details as: Good water here, adequate firewood here, wild fruit and good fishing here. Falcon, who had been all through the Dakota territory, had seen a couple of the maps. They were not only wrong, they were incredibly wrong—drawn not from any exact knowledge, but simply extrapolated—with a lot of imagination—from published maps. They put rivers, creeks, and lakes where there were none, and mountain passes where only sheer rock walls stood.

The men would often retire to a part of the boat where they could find some privacy, then sit there and study their maps, learning every detail so they would be well prepared when they started on their quest. Falcon tried to tell one that a “good water” stream that was on his map didn’t exist at all, but the passenger didn’t believe him.

“I paid good money for this map, mister, from someone who came out here and made his own fortune,” the passenger said. “This here map not only tells me where to find water and such. It also tells me which creek beds are filled with gold.”

“Whatever you say, friend,” Falcon replied, not wanting to argue with him.

When Falcon MacCallister boarded the boat at Omaha, he was curious as to why there were so many Easterners on board. He asked Captain Grant Marsh about it, and Marsh replied, his answer accompanied by a snort that betrayed his derision for the passengers.

“They are gold hunters,” he said. “They are going into the Black Hills to get rich.”

“What makes them think they can get rich in the Black Hills?” Falcon asked. “What they are most likely to get is to have their scalps lifted. Don’t they know the Black Hills belong to the Sioux? In fact, the Black Hills are sacred to the Sioux.”

“That doesn’t matter a whit to them,” Marsh said. “These men all have the gold fever, and nothing is going to stop them.”

“Surely, when they get out there, the army will prevent them from going into Indian territory,” Falcon said.

“I don’t think even the army can stop them,” Marsh said. “And, from reading that fool article in the newspaper, I’m not sure Custer even wants to stop them.”

“What newspaper article?”

“Lord, Falcon, you must be the only one in the entire country who hasn’t read it,” Marsh said. “It was published out here first, but was picked up by newspapers all over America. Now everyone from Bangor to New Orleans, and from Chicago to Atlanta, is coming out here to hunt for gold.”

“They say there are nuggets out there the size of pecans,” a nearby passenger said, overhearing the conversation between Falcon and Captain Marsh. “And you don’t even have to dig for it. It’s clinging to the roots—you just pull up a clump of grass and fill your pockets with solid gold.”

“It’s that easy, is it?” Falcon asked.

“Yes, sir, it’s that easy. That’s why we’re here.” The passenger stuck out his hand. “Billings is the name. David J. Billings.”

“Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon replied, taking Billings’s hand.

Normally, Falcon MacCallister got a reaction anytime he gave his name. Sometimes it was awe, sometimes it was fear, and sometimes it was instant hostility. That was because Falcon and his entire family were well known throughout the West. Dime novels had been written about Falcon MacCallister and his skill with the six-gun.

But Billings gave no reaction at all.

“You aren’t from around here, are you, Mr. Billings?” Falcon asked, noticing the complete lack of recognition.

“No, sir, I’m from Newport News, Virginia. I’m a deepwater sailor, Mr. MacCallister, and I have been for most of my life. I’ve sailed from New York to London, and from Hong Kong to Christchurch. But that has all changed now. Now, you might say I’m a gold prospector. Yes, sir, when I saw the newspaper article, I saw my chance to come onto the beach. Why, I’ve been looking for something like this all my life.”

“Hey, Billings,” one of the other passengers called.

“Yes, Jenkins, what do you want?”

“Come here, would you? Me and Todaro are thinkin’ of formin’ us up a little team and goin’ together. You want to come in with us?”

“Sure, why not?” Billings replied. “There’s gold enough for all of us.”

Falcon shook his head as Billings walked over to join the other two men.

“Come up to the wheelhouse with me, would you, Falcon?” Captain Marsh asked. “I’ve got a copy of a newspaper from Bismarck. This isn’t the first article they’ve run, and I don’t reckon it’ll be the last. But take a look at it, and you’ll see what’s driving all these—fortune hunters.” He set the words “fortune hunters” apart from the rest of the sentence.

Falcon climbed the ladder behind Marsh, then stepped into wheelhouse. There, the pilot, Dave Campbell, stood behind a huge spoked wheel, steering carefully to keep the boat in the deepest channel of the river. The best view of the river was from the wheelhouse, which was the highest point on the boat and located just aft of the two fluted chimneys. From up there, there was a 360-degree panoramic view of the river as well as the wooded banks along either side. Falcon saw three deer come down to the edge of the river. They stood there for a moment looking at the boat as it passed them by. Then, believing the boat to represent no danger to them, they dipped their heads to drink.

“Ah, here it is,” Captain Marsh said, pulling a copy of the newspaper from beneath a stack of charts. “Take a look at this, then tell me what you think.”

Gold in the Black Hills!

Great attention is being drawn to the Black Hills. Well timbered, and with a goodly supply of water, the Black Hills are known to be rich with gold, with the nuggets, some as large as walnuts, lying freely upon the ground.

A college geology professor, several mineral experts and scientists, along with men who are skilled in the profession of mining, accompanied the expedition. In the beds of these streams, the expedition reported finding gold in copious amounts. Such a source of gold needs no expensive or dangerous mining for extraction, as it can be easily panned or, in many cases, simply picked up as shining nuggets. It is said that a two-hour stroll along one of these streams could produce enough gold to provide the equivalent of a year’s income for the average worker.

“Is there any truth to this story about gold in the Black Hills?” Falcon asked when he finished reading the paper.

“It’s been two years since Custer’s great expedition into the Black Hills,” Marsh said. “No gold has been brought out yet.”

“Has the gold rush been this heavy?” Falcon asked, pointing down to the many prospectors on the deck of the boat.

“No,” Marsh said. “A few have gone in—some have gotten themselves killed, and I think that is what has kept the gold rush down so far. The gold hunters are afraid of the Indians, and rightly so. But now, word is out that Custer will be going after the Indians this summer, and I reckon all the gold hunters figure this is the best time for them to go, seein’ as they figure on Custer keepin’ the Indians busy.”

May 9, 1876

Along Buckhorn Creek

Clete Harris, Jay Bryans, Jim Garon, and Ken Richland were waiting behind a rock outcropping that pushed down so close to the creek that here the wagon road actually had to run out into the water for a short distance. If someone intended to waylay a wagon, this was the perfect place for it, not only because the rocks provided concealment, but also because at this point the wagon driver would have his hands full negotiating the stream.

Harris was lying on his stomach looking through a pair of binoculars back down the creek. He had seen the dust fifteen minutes ago, but now he could see the wagon as well.

“Do you see the wagon yet, Harris?” Bryans asked.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Is it carrying the Gatling guns?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“How do you know for sure? Are they just out in the open?” Garon asked.

“Sergeant Major O’Leary is driving the wagon,” Harris said. “I don’t think the sergeant major would be driving if the wagon was carryin’ nothin’ more than nails and such.”

“How much longer?” Richland asked.

“As slow as they’re comin’, I’d say another ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Hey, Harris, how much did you say the Injuns would give us for them guns?”

“Two thousand dollars per gun,” Harris said.

“Damn,” Bryans said. “They’s two of them guns, they’s four of us, that’s a thousand dollars apiece.”

“They’s five of us, countin’ Potter,” Richland said. “That’s eight hundred apiece.”

“No, it ain’t,” Harris said, coming back down from the rock. He dusted himself off. “That’s seven hundred dollars for each of you, and one thousand two hundred for me.”

“That ain’t fair,” Bryans said.

“You knew the deal coming into it,” Harris said. “I’m the one that found out about the guns, and I’m the one that went up into the Dakota Territory to meet with Cut Nose. Now if you don’t like the deal, you can just pull out now, and the rest of us will divide up your money.”

“No, no, I didn’t say nothin’ about pullin’ out.”

“Harris is right, Richland,” Bryans said. “We did make the deal with him.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just commentin’ is all.”

“Well, keep your comments to yourself,” Harris ordered.

“Hey, Harris, they must be gettin’ a little closer,” Richland said. “I can hear ’em.”

“Ever’one be quiet,” Harris ordered.

Harris climbed back up onto the rock and looked back toward the wagon. They had made better time than he thought, and were now just over two hundred yards away. He could hear the squeal of the wagon wheels and the squeak of the harness and doubletree. The wagon was being pulled by a team of six mules, and there were four soldiers riding with it, two in the front and two to the rear. Nobody was on the wagon seat with the driver.

Harris jacked a shell into the chamber of his rifle, then nodded to the others, suggesting they do the same. They did so. Then, with rifles cocked and ready, they moved into position.

“Bryans, you go for the soldier front left,” Harris said. “Garon, you take the front one on the right. Richland, you have the back soldier on the right, and I’ll take the back one on the left. Wait until they get into the water, and wait until they are even with us. Otherwise, me and Richland won’t have a shot.”

The others nodded, then waited.

As the wagon drew nearer, the four watched as the driver called the team to a halt.

“What the hell is he doin’?” Richland asked. “What did he stop for?”

“I don’t know,” Garon said.

“Let’s go get ’em,” Bryans said, standing up.

“Get down, you fool,” Harris hissed. “If you give us away now, we never will get the guns. We have to wait until they get here, then take ’em by surprise.”

“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.”