Bloodshed of Eagles

Chapter Thirteen

May 17, 1876

Montana Territory

Clete Harris was driving the wagon, and he pulled back on the reins.

“Whoa, mules, whoa,” he said. Using his right foot, he set the brake against the wheels to hold the wagon in place.

“What did we stop for?” Bryans asked.

“I need to climb up there and take a look around,” Harris said, pointing to the butte just in front of them.

“We goin’ to be here long enough to make some coffee?” Bryans asked. “I could sure use me a cup.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Harris said. Climbing down from his seat, he walked to the back of the wagon, untied his horse, then swung into the saddle. “I’m goin’ to ride up as far as I can, have a look around, then come back. It’ll prob’ly be half an hour or longer. Save some coffee for me.”

“You got some?” Bryans asked.

“You’re goin’ to make some anyway, aren’t you?” Harris asked.

“Yeah, for me. I ain’t got enough coffee to make some for you, too, but if you give me some of yours, I’ll make it.”

Harris opened his saddlebag and took out a small cloth sack, then tossed it down to Bryans. “You’re one selfish son of a bitch, Bryans,” he said. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”

Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, Harris followed the trail that led toward the hill. When the trail started up the side of the Rainy Butte, he rode for as long as he could. Then, when the horse started struggling, he dismounted and began walking, pulling the horse along behind him. After a climb of some considerable distance, he found a flat area that stuck out to one side. He walked out to the edge to have a look.

He could see the wagon and the three men who had come with him. From here, the wagon was so small that it looked almost like a child’s toy. This vantage point also allowed him to look back along the Heart River.

He could see as far as the Little Powder River, but saw nothing of particular interest to him. That was good. If he was up here to sell Gatling guns to Indians, he didn’t need to see anyone poking around.

Harris worked his way back down the side of the mountain. There, he saw that Bryans, Garon, and Richland had already unsaddled their horses and were making camp.

“Did you make coffee for me?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s in the pot.”

Harris poured himself a cup of coffee and looked over at the wagon. “I think we could make better time without the wagon.”

“How are we going to carry these guns without a wagon?” Garon asked. “They weigh about fifteen hundred pounds each.”

“They’re on caissons,” Harris said. “We’ll just pull them.”

“Yeah, I guess that’ll work.”

“Better get a good night’s sleep. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“Harris, what’s the name of this Indian we’re goin’ to be doin’ business with?” Bryans asked.

“His name is Cut Nose.”

“Have you ever considered the possibility that Cut Nose might just decide to take these guns, then kill us?”

“I don’t think he would do that,” Harris replied.

“You don’t think he would? You mean he might, but you don’t think he would?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Harris said. “We’ve done business before, and I figure he will want to do business again in the future. Why would he want to just take the guns and kill us? He’d have to find someone else who is willing to trade with him.”

“All right, if you say so,” Bryans said.

May 18, 1876

Little Heart River

The trumpeter blew reveille at five a.m. the next morning and, grumbling, the troopers rolled out of their blankets to start the new day. Soon, the smell of bacon and coffee permeated the entire area, and though Falcon was invited to join the officers’ mess of the Seventh, he decided to take his breakfast with Isaiah Dorman.

In addition to the bacon, Dorman made griddle cakes, which he shared with Falcon.

“Oh, that’s good, Mr. Dorman. That’s very good,” Falcon said, taking his first bite. “If you were a pretty woman, I’d have to marry you for being able to cook like that.”

Dorman laughed. “Well, if I was a pretty woman, why would I be waistin’ my time marryin’ up with the likes of you? No, sir, I’d go to New Orleans and work in a fancy house makin’ a lot of money.”

Falcon laughed as well. “Mr. Dorman, when we go out this time, I’d like to stay out ten to twelve days. You think we can draw rations for that long?”

“I’ll take care of it for us,” Dorman replied. “But I’d be pleased if you’d drop the mister, and just call me Dorman. I tell you the truth, for a colored man like me, it’s hard to get used to bein’ called mister.”

“I figure every man has the right to be called mister until he does something that changes my mind about him,” Falcon replied. “But if you want me to drop the mister, I’ll do it.”

“Seems a mite friendlier to me is all,” Dorman said.

The encampment was busy with drivers hitching up their teams and with soldiers tending to their mounts. Then, just as Falcon and Dorman were finishing breakfast, Custer’s orderly, John Burkman, came over to them.

“Sir, the general sent me over to tell you that, in case you wanted to tell them good-bye, the ladies are leaving camp now. They’re goin’ back to Ft. Lincoln.”

“I’d be glad to tell them good-bye.” Falcon looked over to where the ladies were getting ready to leave. “Mary isn’t going back with them?”

Dorman chuckled. “No, sir, he ain’t goin’ to be sendin’ her back. Mary, why, she’ll travel with the gen’rul at least till we get to base camp. The gen’rul, he’s a fella that don’t like army rations all that much, so he keeps Mary along to cook for him.”

“Well, having eaten some of her cooking last night, I can’t say as I blame him,” Custer said.

“Now you done gone and hurt my feelin’s Colonel,” Dorman said. “Talkin’ that way ’bout Mary after you was tellin’ me what a good cook I was this mornin’.”

“Here, don’t you go getting all jealous on me, Dorman,” Falcon said, laughing as he walked over to Custer’s tent, where the general, Jimmi Calhoun, and Tom Custer were standing out front to tell the three women good-bye. He stood back, close enough to be there, but far enough back to allow them a little privacy.

“Oh, I have yellow ribbons for all of you to wear until we get back,” Custer said. Reaching down into the side pocket of his buckskin jacket, he pulled out three yellow ribbons. One he gave to Jimmi Calhoun, and one he gave to his brother Tom. “We’ll pin them on you,” he said.

“You do know what it means when a woman wears a cavalryman’s yellow ribbon, don’t you?” Tom asked.

“No, not exactly,” Lorena replied.

“It means you are his girl,” Tom explained, pinning the ribbon on her before she could protest.

As Tom pinned the ribbon on Lorena, she glanced over at Falcon with an expression as if to say, I hope you understand. Then she turned back to Tom with a smile.

“Good-bye, Colonel,” Maggie called over to him.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Calhoun.”

“Excuse me a minute, Tom,” Lorena said. She walked over to Falcon and extended her hand. “Colonel, it has been delightful meeting you,” she said. “I do hope we meet again.”

“I’m sure we will,” Falcon said.

Lorena glanced back toward Tom. “He is a very good man, you know,” she said quietly.

“I’m sure he is.”

“He asked me to be here for him when the regiment returns.”

“And will you be?”

Lorena nodded. “Yes, I think I will be,” she said.

“I’m sure he will appreciate it.”

“Colonel, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything, Miss Wood,” Falcon said, interrupting her. “Like you said, Tom Custer is a good man.”

After Lorena walked back to the paymaster’s ambulance, Libbie came over to speak to Falcon. She was smiling brightly as she approached.

“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.”