Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER SIX

The last time Falcon had been to Fort Lincoln was in July 1876, having returned to the fort with what remained of the Seventh Cavalry after the disastrous fight at Little Big Horn.¹ Because the Seventh had moved to Fort Meade, Dakota Territory, none of the Seventh remained at Fort Lincoln. Nevertheless, memories of the post, the events, and the people of Fort Lincoln came flooding back to him. But it wasn’t for nostalgia alone that Falcon was visiting. Colonel Sturgis, currently the commanding officer at Fort Lincoln, would be an ideal person to talk to with regard to the Spirit Talking movement, and it was for that reason they had come.

Reporting to the adjutant, Buffalo Bill introduced Falcon and himself.

“Lieutenant, I am Colonel William Cody, this is Colonel Falcon MacCallister, and we would like to speak to your commander.”

“You are colonels?” the young lieutenant said.

“I told you that we were,” Cody said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you aren’t in uniform, and I can’t just let anyone in to see the commander.”

“Perhaps this will help,” Falcon said, showing the letter of commission given him by General Miles.

The lieutenant looked at the letter for a moment, then stood quickly and saluted sharply.

“I beg your pardon, sir!” he said. “Please forgive me for my behavior.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Lieutenant,” Buffalo Bill said. “You were just doing your job. Would that I had an adjutant as dedicated to protecting me from unwanted visitors.”

“Wait here, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’ll be but a moment.”

The lieutenant went into the commandant’s office, but he left the door open and, though neither Falcon nor Cody could hear what he said to Colonel Sturgis, they certainly heard Sturgis’s reply.

“What? Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody are both in my office and you left them cooling their heels outside? Show them in! Show them in at once! No, wait, I’ll do it myself!”

Colonel Sturgis left his office before the lieutenant, and with a broad smile and an extended hand, he greeted Falcon and Buffalo Bill. As it turned out, both men knew him, so it was a greeting more than an introduction.

“You are here just in time for lunch,” Sturgis said. “Please, be my guests.”

“We wouldn’t want to put Mrs. Sturgis out any,” Cody said.

“Don’t be foolish, Cody,” Colonel Sturgis said. “She is the wife of a post commandant. It is her duty, always, to be prepared to feed guests.”

Mrs. Sturgis went all out in preparing the lunch, complete with a chicken consommé, roast beef, roast potatoes, lima beans, and an apple pie for dessert.

“Now, gentlemen, what brings you here?” Colonel Sturgis asked.

“Need you ask?” Cody replied as he carved into his roast beef. “We have traveled two thousand miles for this delightful lunch, and it was worth every mile.” He smiled at Mrs. Sturgis. “And, madam, may I say that this meal is the equal to any I have had in all the courts of Europe?”

Mrs. Sturgis laughed self-consciously. “I know you are just saying that,” she said. “But I am vain enough to appreciate such a comment.”

“But there is another reason, is there not?” Colonel Sturgis asked.

“Colonel, have you ever heard of something called Spirit Talking?” Cody asked.

“Yes, Spirit Talking. The Indians call it Wagi Wanagi,” Colonel Sturgis said.

“Do you think it is likely to cause another Indian War?” Cody asked.

Sturgis stroked his jaw for a moment as he looked back at Falcon and Cody.

“Why do you ask that? Have you heard something that I have not?” he asked.

“We can’t answer that until we know what you have heard,” Falcon said.

“I know that it has made the Indians a bit more assertive, if not aggressive,” Sturgis said.

“What do you know of Spirit Talking?” Cody asked.

“The best way to describe it would be to call it a religion,” Sturgis said. “Though it is an unholy religion at best. It was started by Mean to His Horses, who was with Crazy Horse during the battle of Little Big Horn. But he was such an unknown then that nobody had ever heard of him. Now, he has a movement following him, and the movement has cut across the nations; not just the Cheyenne, but all the Sioux nations, and even some Indian tribes beyond the Sioux.

“From what some of the Indians have told me, it is a way of talking to the souls of Indians that have already died. The dead know everything, including the future. And the dead have told them that all the white men will soon be leaving. When that happens, the buffalo will come back and the land will return to the Indians.”

“So I will ask again. Do you think this portends war?” Cody asked.

“General Miles thinks that, does he?” Sturgis asked.

“He thinks it is possible, and he thinks that Sitting Bull is behind it.”

“As to whether or not this could lead to war, I can’t answer,” Sturgis said. “As I said, it has made the Indians more assertive. But I believe I can answer as to whether or not Sitting Bull is behind it.”

“And what would that answer be?” Cody asked. “Do you think Sitting Bull is behind it?”

“Absolutely not,” Sturgis said, emphatically.

“Good,” Cody said. “Because I don’t believe he is, either.”

Near the Big Horn River, in Montana Territory

Since leaving the Cheyenne Reservation, Mean to His Horses had gathered almost four hundred followers, including the women and children who had come with the warriors. There were at least two hundred warriors with him, having joined him not only from his own tribe, but from other tribes: Lakota, Oglala, Brule, and even some Shoshone.

Black Rock, who had been a longtime friend of Mean to His Horses, was sitting with Mean to His Horses and others in council.

“We need more guns,” Black Rock said. “Too many of us have only bows and arrows.”

“We took two guns from the ranch of Kennedy,” Mean to His Horses said. “And we took three guns from the wagons.”

“We need many more guns.”

“We will get them,” Mean to His Horses promised.

“Where will we get them?”

“We will get them,” Mean to His Horses repeated, without further clarification.

Near the Meeteetsee River

Nearly one hundred miles away, Pony Face and Red Shield, two Crow hunters, were looking for elk in the open range near the Meeteetsee River. They were off the Crow reservation, but they had no cause for worry. They had a long record of peaceful coexistence with the white man.

Now one band of Crow, under Chief High Hawk, lived on a reservation set aside for them just outside the eastern entrance to Yellowstone Park. And though they had a specific part of the valley set aside for their use, it was understood that they could hunt anywhere in the Valley they wished. In addition, many of the Crow had made friends with farmers and ranchers in the area, often trading with them, sometimes stopping by to visit while on a hunt to take a meal with them, and to leave game for them.

Because of that friendly relationship, when Pony Face and Red Shield saw a couple of white men approaching them, they weren’t concerned. Perhaps they were part of the group of white men who were looking for gold. The hunters approached the white men to extend the sign of peace.

“We are Crow,” Pony Face said, holding his hand up, palm out to show that he was friendly. “We are friends.”

To the surprise of the two Crow hunters, the white men pointed their guns at them.

“We’ve had enough of you Injuns attacking our homes and killin’ our women and children,” one of the white men said.

“You speak of Cheyenne. We are not Cheyenne, we are Crow,” Red Shield said.

“You’re Injuns,” the white man replied.

Pony Face and Red Shield were shot down, even as they were protesting.

Sam Davis and Lee Regret stood over the two bodies, holding their still-smoking guns. The sound of the gunshots echoed back from the nearby mountains.

“Think there are any more around here?” Regret asked.

“We haven’t seen any more,” Davis answered.

“What do we do now?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Davis said. “I don’t think there’s any more of ’em around, but there’s no need to hang around, just in case.”

The day after the shooting, Grey Antelope and Howling Wolf found the two hunters, and when they brought the bodies back into the camp the entire village turned out. Both Pony Face and Red Shield had wives and children, so the mourning was intense.

High Hawk, the tribal chief, called a council to discuss the killing of the two hunters.

“We should kill two whites,” White Bull said.

“The whites already think we have killed two of them,” Jumping Elk said. “Two of the men who hunt for gold were found dead and scalped.”

“It was not an Indian who scalped them,” White Bull said.

“I think they were killed by other white men who hunt for gold,” High Hawk said. “But the white men think that they were killed by Crow.”

“And I think that Pony Face and Red Shield were also killed by men who hunt for gold,” Running Elk said.

“Running Elk, you speak the White Man’s tongue, I think you should go to the white man’s town and tell them that we have found two of our people killed, and ask if they will find and punish the ones who did this thing.”

“I will go,” Running Elk said.

No one in the village believed it to be any kind of organized action against the Indians, because the Crow were friendly with the white man. But it was known that white men could be driven crazy when they were searching for gold, so all were cautioned to be very careful while hunting, and to do nothing to anger the white man.

Bismarck

Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, Ike Peters, and Jim Dewey were at a table at the back of Fireman’s Exchange Saloon. Ebersole was the biggest of the four men, and though no vote had ever been taken, he was the leader of the group simply because he had assumed leadership. Ebersole was bald, but had a dark handlebar moustache. Hawkins was thin and wiry with a nose that was so flat that it made a whistling noise when he breathed. Peters and Dewey were mediumsized with unremarkable features. The saloon was busy with the usual clientele: miners, ranchers, freighters, and soldiers. There were several bar girls working the room as well, but none had approached the four men.

Ebersole folded the Tribune and put it on the table in front of him. He had been reading the article Ingraham wrote about the would-be train holdup.

“Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody,” Ebersole said. “They’re the sons of bitches that messed up our plans. We’d have money now if it wasn’t for them.”

“Yeah, I’m so broke I don’t have two coins to rub together,” Hawkins said.

“Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill,” Peters said. “Who would’ve thought that two men would shoot down Smitty, Hunt, and Collins.”

“And Billy,” Peters added.

“They didn’t kill Billy. Fact is, they got him in jail, right here in town,” Dewey said.

“Yes, and we need to get him out of jail,” Ebersole said.

“Get him out? Get him out how?” Hawkins asked.

“Break him out,” Ebersole said.

“Yeah, I reckon we do owe it to him, seein’ as we run off and left him,” Dewey said.

“Owin’ it to him ain’t got nothin’ at all to do with why I’m wantin’ to break him out,” Ebersole said.

“Well then, if you don’t think we owe it to him, why are you wantin’ to break him out?”

“He was with MacCallister and Cody all the time from where they got him, till they come here. I think he probably knows where they are going.”

“Why do we care where they are going?”

“Because soon as we find out where they are goin’, we are goin’ to track ’em down and kill ’em,” Ebersole said.

“Why?”

Ebersole smiled. “Boys, you got ’ny idea how famous we’ll be if we do that? There won’t be a person in the country who ain’t heard of us.”

“That’s why you want to kill ’em? So we’ll be famous?” Dewey asked. “I always sort of thought that in our line of work we didn’t exactly want to be famous.”

“It depends on what line of work you are talking about,” Ebersole said.

“Now, I don’t have no idea in hell what it is you are talkin’ about,” Dewey said.

“There’s folks all over the country that needs jobs—special jobs—done,” Ebersole said. “If we kill both MacCallister and Cody, we’ll be known as the kind of people who can do those special jobs. We’ll be able to hire out our guns, and we’ll make a ton of money from it.”

“Yeah,” Dewey said. “I guess you have a point there. It ain’t somethin’ I’ve ever thought about, though.”

“How are we goin’ to break him out?” Hawkins asked.

“We’ll do it tonight when the town is real quiet,” Ebersole said. “Like as not they won’t have no more than one man a-watchin’ over things at the jail. We’ll just go in and force him to let Billy go.”