Butchery of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Arrow Creek, Montana

Whips His Horses gave the reins of his pony to another man, then he climbed to the top of the hill. He knew the warrior’s secret of lying down behind the crest of the hill so that he couldn’t be seen against the skyline, so he lay on his stomach, then sneaked up to the top and peered over. There, on the valley floor below him, he saw the three wagons. It was obvious that the whites had no idea they were in danger. It would be easy to count coups against them.

Whips His Horses smiled, then slithered back down the hill into the ravine where the others were waiting.

“Did you see them?”

“Yes,” Whips His Horses answered.

“When do we attack?”

“Now,” Whips His Horses replied. He pointed down the ravine. “We will follow the ravine around the side of the hill. That way they will not see us until it is too late.”

For the moment the three wagons were stopped, because one of them had a broken front wheel. A long pole had been put under the front part of the wagon. Using a rock as the pivot, two men were using the pole as a lever to hold the wagon up. A third man had crawled under the wagon with a jack and, as soon as the wagon was high enough, he was going to put the jack in place.

“Can you get it, Dan?” James asked. His voice was strained because he and Steven were struggling at the end of the long pole.

“Just a little more,” Dan said from beneath the wagon. He was in some danger at this point, because if James or Steven lost his grip, or if the pole should slip, the wagon would fall on him.

Straining hard, the two men lifted the wagon another couple of inches.

“There!” Dan called. “I think I can get it now.”

“All right, slide out from under there so we can lower this thing down,” James said, and his voice almost cracked under the strain.

Dan rolled over, then crawled out and, with a mighty sigh of relief, James and Steven set the wagon down on the rock.

“Whew,” James said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I’m glad that part is over.”

“You and me both,” Steven said.

Dan started to remove the broken wheel. “I appreciate you two holding up your wagons for us, it was . . .”

“Hush up! Listen,” James said, interrupting Dan in mid-sentence.

“What is it?” Steven asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Listen,” James said again.

Not only the three men working on the wagon were quiet but, at the warning, so were the women and children. For a long moment there was only the sound of the ever-present prairie wind moaning its mournful wail. Then, they all heard what James had heard, the distant thunder of pounding hooves.

“Get the women and children behind the wagon,” James said. “We’ve got company comin’, and I don’t think it’s anyone we want.”

The battle was short and violent. Whips His Horses had twenty warriors with him, which was more than the total number of people—men, women, and children—with the three wagons. Within a short time after the initial attack, the wagons were in flames and the men and women were falling, mortally wounded. The Indians galloped, whooping and shouting, through the remains of the wagon train.

Whips His Horses leaped over the rocks, and in and out of the gully, shouting with joy as he pursued the fight. The men, and even the women of the wagon train, fired at him, but it was as if he were impervious to their bullets. He leaped upon a burning wagon and looked at his handiwork, chortling in glee as the last white defender was put to the lance. Now that all the men, women, and children of the wagon train were dead, he and his warriors cut the livers from the body of everyone they killed.

Dog Runner, a Blackfoot Indian, was in the camp of Iron Bull when Whips His Horses and the raiding party returned from their attack on the wagon train. The raiders were excited by what they had done, and they began to dance around the council fire.

“Hear me!” Whips His Horses shouted. “Hear the victory song that I sing!”

The others of the village gathered around as Whips His Horses, dancing, and brandishing a war club began to sing.

“The white man who came for peace

Now eats our livers.

For every liver of the Apsáalooke he eats

Our anger will grow.”

As Whips His Horses sang his song the others of the raiding party, who were dancing with him, suddenly pulled from pouches, the bloody livers of the white men, women, and children they had killed. Waving the livers long enough for all to see, they threw them into the fire.

“With each white that we kill

We will kill Liver Eater.

We will kill many whites.

Liver Eater will die many deaths.”

The singing, dancing, and celebration lasted far into the night. When Dog Runner left the next morning, many were still asleep. The campfire had burned down and was now only glowing embers, but the smell of the cooked human livers permeated the camp.

Dog Runner mounted his horse and rode away slowly. Not until he was far away did he urge his horse into a gallop. He rode hard all the way to Fort Shaw.

Fort Shaw

Dog Runner was held up at the gate.

“Where are you going, Injun?” the guard asked.

“Philbin,” Dog Runner said. “Philbin.” He then began talking rapidly in his own language.

“Corporal?” the gate guard shouted. “This Injun is talkin’ about somethin’, but I don’t have no idea what it is he’s a-talkin’ about.”

The corporal came over to the front gate.

“Philbin!” Dog Runner said, again following it with a long, excited stream in his own language.

“Philbin? Lieutenant Philbin?”

“Han, han!” Dog Runner said, at the same time shaking his head yes.

“Keep him here, McMurtry. I’ll go get the lieutenant.”

Dog Runner paced back and forth for a few minutes until Lieutenant Philbin arrived. Philbin was chief of the Indian scouts, and could speak to Dog Runner in his own language.

“Dog Runner,” Philbin said, smiling with his hand up, palm out. “It is good to see you.”

“It is not good,” Dog Runner said. “The Crow have attacked wagons and killed many white people.”

“What? Where? When?”

“Today,” Dog Runner said. “I will take you.”

An hour later Lieutenant Philbin and ten soldiers arrived at the scene of the massacre. They found five men, four women, and nine children lying in a pool of blood where they had fallen.

“Lieutenant, this don’t make no sense,” Sergeant Dawes said. “I mean, there ain’t a one of ’em been scalped, nor cut up in any other way. But all of ’em’s got their stomach cut open, even the kids.”

“Yes,” Philbin said. “I’ll admit, that is quite odd.”

Later that evening, with all the bodies returned to Fort Shaw, Major Clinton asked his post surgeon, Dr. Urban, to examine the bodies, to see if there was any pattern to all of them being cut open in such a way.

It was the next morning before Dr. Urban got back to Major Clinton.

“What did you find out?” Major Clinton asked.

Urban shook his head. “It’s the damndest thing I believe I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“What is?”

“The liver has been removed from every one of the bodies.”

“What? From every one of them? Even the children?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” Major Clinton said. “Why would the Indians cut out their livers?”

“Major, I don’t have the slightest idea. All I know is, the livers have been cut from all of them.”

“Sergeant Major Porter?” Major Clinton called.

“Yes, sir?”

“Find Lieutenant Philbin and that Indian that told us where to find the bodies. Bring them to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Major Porter replied.

Less than ten minutes later, Lieutenant Philbin and Dog Runner were in Major Clinton’s office.

“Yes, sir?” Philbin asked.

“Lieutenant, the livers have been removed from every single body.”

“Yes, sir,” Philbin said.

“‘Yes, sir’? You mean you knew that?”

“Yes, sir. Well, Dog Runner couldn’t come up with the word in English, and I don’t know the word in his language, but we finally managed to put it together enough that I understood what he was saying. I was just about to come see you, when Sergeant Major Porter found me, and asked me to come over.”

Major Clinton shook his head. “Would you mind telling me why in the Sam Hill would the Indians be cutting out livers?”

“Because John Jackson is carving out the Indian livers and eating them,” Philbin said, easily.

“What? Why, that is insane! Are you sure it’s John Jackson?” Major Clinton asked, refusing to believe what his chief of scouts said.

“Yes, sir, I’ve talked with several of my scouts and they all say the same thing. It’s out in every village in the territory. All the Indians call him Liver Eater, because after he kills an Indian, he cuts out, and eats, their livers.”

“No, surely there is some mistake. They must be thinking of someone else,” Major Clinton said. “I met the man, I was quite impressed with him. He is well educated, well spoken. And a finer gentleman I have never met. I can’t imagine someone like John Jackson killing Indians and eating their livers. Why do you suppose he suddenly went on a killing binge like that?”

“It’s because of his wife,” Lieutenant Philbin said.

“What do you mean? I met her as well. She’s Indian, yes, but she isn’t Crow. And her manners are such that I expect she would be welcome in just about any level of society, back East. Why would she want her husband to go on such an inhuman killing spree?”

“I didn’t say she wanted it, Major. You said why would he do such a thing, and I said it’s because of his wife. And his child. You see, the Crow killed them both.”

“When?”

“As I understand it, they were killed shortly after Jackson and his wife visited Iron Bull’s camp to talk peace with the Indians.”

“After he visited their camp?”

“Yes, sir. Jackson delivered your message to Iron Bull, who granted them a pass only as long as it took them to get out of camp. Once they left the camp, Iron Bull sent Indians after them. According to Dog Runner, Jackson killed one of them in the chase.

“Then, Jackson came here to report to you, that he had failed. And while he was here, talking to you, Whips His Horses went to Jackson’s cabin. There, he killed Jackson’s wife and child.”

“My God!” Major Clinton said with a gasp. “My God, that means I’m to be blamed! I’m not only to be blamed for Jackson’s wife and child being killed, I’m also to be blamed for the attack on the wagons.”

“Why would you say that, Major?”

“Because I am the one who sent them there!”

“I don’t think there is anyone who actually blames you, Major.”

“I don’t care whether anyone else blames me or not,” Major Clinton said. “I blame myself . . . not only for what he is doing now . . . but for what happened to precipitate this.”