Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER SEVEN

Big Horn Basin, Yellowstone Valley

When he was but fifteen years old, Frank Barlow joined the army to save the Union. Captured at Kennesaw Mountain, he was one of the youngest prisoners of war in the Confederate Prison of War camp at Andersonville, Georgia. He spent just under a year in the prison where over 13,000 died, emerging from his incarceration weighing only ninety-four pounds. When he went back to Indiana he worked on his pa’s farm until, learning of land to be had simply by homesteading out West, he got married and moved to Wyoming Territory.

It was a gamble and both his family and his new bride’s family had tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant, and his wife Ann backed him in his resolve. Now the gamble seemed to have paid off, and Frank owned a small but successful ranch. Last year he not only managed to support his family, he actually turned a profit, and he was already thinking about taking on a few hands to help him run the place.

His son Davey, who was eight years old, had just celebrated his birthday and yesterday he and Ann had thrown a little party for him. He was looking forward to the time when Davey would be old enough to become a full partner in the operation of the ranch.

Frank pumped water into the basin, worked up lather from a bar of lye soap, then washed his hands and face. The cold well-water was bracing, and he reached for a towel and began drying off, thinking about the chicken and dumplings Ann had cooked for their supper. He had worked hard today and the enticing aroma was already causing his stomach to growl.

Barlow had the towel over his face when he thought he felt a presence. Dropping the towel, he was surprised to see two mounted men looking down at him. Where had they come from? He had neither seen nor heard them before this moment.

“Oh, you surprised me,” he said. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

The two men unnerved Frank. There was something about them, suddenly appearing as they did, that left him with a troublesome and unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Are you Frank Barlow?” one of the men asked.

“Yeah, I’m Barlow.”

“Barlow, you’ve got twenty-four hours to get off this property.”

“What are you talking about? Why the hell would I do that?”

“You are occupying land that belongs to the Bellefontaine Mineral Asset Development Company.”

“The hell I am,” Frank replied angrily. “I homesteaded this land near ten years ago. I have clear title to it.”

“Show him the paper, Regret,” one of the men said.

The one called Regret dismounted, and took a paper over to show to Frank.

“Can you read?” Regret asked.

“Yes.”

“Then read this.”

Frank took a folded piece of paper from Regret, then opened it up to read.

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR

All homestead claims for land located within the boundaries of the area known as the Big Horn Basin, are herein invalidated. Occupants of this land, whether it be Home Site, Ranch, or Farm, are hereby ordered to vacate the property.

Ownership will be transferred to the Bellefontaine Mineral Asset Development Company for the purpose of extracting gold, silver, lead, tin, iron, or any and all such minerals as may be found there.

– Clarence King,

Secretary of the Interior

Frank finished reading the document, then looked Regret.

“This ain’t no way right,” he said.

“What do you think, Davis. He don’t believe it.”

“Are you questioning the United States government?” Davis asked.

“Why would the government give me this land, then come take it away from me?”

“How many men do you employ on this place of yours?” Davis asked.

“Nobody. There is just me, my wife, and my boy.”

“Well, there’s the answer for you. Bellefontaine employs near thirty people. We will expect you to be off this property by noon tomorrow,” Davis said.

“Mister, I’ve got a hundred head of cattle,” Davis said. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

“This order don’t pertain to your cattle, just to your land. You can take your cattle with you.”

“Take them where? This is a small ranch. I told you, there is only my wife, my boy and me. And my boy’s only eight years old. How are the three of us going to move a hundred head of cows?”

“That ain’t my problem, mister. It is your problem,” Davis said.

“And if I ain’t off tomorrow?” Frank asked.

“You’ll be off tomorrow,” Davis said, resolutely.

“That’s tomorrow,” Frank said. “For now, I still own this property, and I’m ordering you off.”

Regret laughed. “What do you think, Davis? He ordered us off.”

“Now,” Frank said. Turning, he walked toward the house without looking around one time.

“Are you hungry?” Ann asked when Frank stepped in through the kitchen door. “Dinner’s ready, have a seat and I’ll bring you a plate.”

Frank didn’t say a word to his wife. Instead he got the double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun down, broke it open, slid two shells into the chamber, then snapped it shut.

“Frank, what is it?” Ann asked when she saw him load the gun. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

“Stay inside,” Frank said.

Davis knew that Barlow would come back, and he expected him to be armed.

“Get off my land you thieving sons of bitches!” Frank shouted, raising the shotgun to his shoulder.

The shotgun never reached his shoulder. Both Davis and Regret already had their pistols drawn, and they fired as one. The shotgun discharged with a roar, but the gun was pointing down so there was no effect from the double load of buckshot.

“Frank!” a woman screamed. Running out of the house she knelt beside her husband who was already dead. “Frank!” she cried again. She looked up at the two men who were still holding the smoking guns in their hands.

“You killed him!”

Davis pulled the trigger, hitting the woman in the side of her head. Blood, brain, and bits of bone tissue erupted from the entry wound.

“Ma! Pa!” Davey shouted as he ran out of the house. He started toward his parents, but didn’t make it. He was shot down even before he stepped off the stoop.

The sound of the shots echoed back from nearby Jim Mountain.

“I didn’t think that paper we had printed up would work,” Regret said.

“Just ’cause it didn’t work this time, don’t mean it won’t work next time we try to use it,” Davis said. He dismounted and drew his knife. “You want the woman or the kid?” he asked.

“Don’t make me no never mind,” Regret said, as he pulled his own knife and started toward the young boy.

Fort Yates Indian Reservation

The first U.S. Army post at this site was established in 1863 as the Standing Rock Cantonment with the purpose of overseeing the Hunkpapa and Blackfeet bands. Though many still referred to it as Standing Rock, its name was changed in 1878 to honor Captain George Yates who was killed at the Battle of Little Big Horn in 1876, and it was here that Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham came to meet with Sitting Bull.

After the defeat of Custer, public reaction demanded revenge against the Indians, and over the next year thousands of additional military were sent into the area. There, they relentlessly pursued the tribes who had been a part of the battle: the Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho. But the Indians were no longer massed as they had been during the battle, and were now split up.

Because the Indian nations had separated, they were unable to withstand the military pressure brought against them, and the military subdued them rather quickly. The other Indian leaders surrendered, but Sitting Bull did not; and in May of 1877, Sitting Bull led his band of Lakota across the border into Canada. When General Terry traveled north to offer him a pardon in exchange for settling on a reservation, Sitting Bull sent him away.

He was unable to continue in Canada though, because unlike the United States, Canada provided no beef or provisions of any kind. And, with the buffalo nearly extinct, Sitting Bull was unable to feed his people. He had no option remaining except to come south to surrender, and this he did on July 19, 1881, whereupon he was sent to Fort Yates.

In 1885 Sitting Bull was allowed to leave the reservation to join Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Exhibition. However he was very uncomfortable in white society, so he left the show after only four months. During that time, though, he did shake hands with President Grover Cleveland, which, in his mind, meant that he was still regarded as an important leader of the Sioux.

“Why do you wish to see Sitting Bull?” James McLaughlin asked. McLaughlin was the Indian agent at Fort Yates.

“Because General Miles asked us to,” Falcon replied.

“You can understand why I ask, I’m sure,” McLaughlin said. “People from all over come here to see Sitting Bull, Senators, Congressmen, Cabinet Members, even foreign royalty.”

Cody chuckled. “Yes, he wasn’t with my show for very long, but he was immensely popular while he was there.”

“It’s not good for him to be so uppity,” McLaughlin said. “He has the idea that he is still a chief, and the other Indians on the reservation look up to him, even though he can do nothing for them. I am the one in charge. Sitting Bull can do nothing.”

“That isn’t quite right,” Falcon said.

“What do you mean, it isn’t quite right?” McLaughlin demanded.

“Sitting Bull can give them dignity.”

McLaughlin laughed, a high-pitched cackle. “Dignity?” he said. “You want to see dignity?” He pointed toward a large garden, wherein potatoes, cabbage, cauliflower, eggplant, celery, peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes were being grown for use on the post. There were several people working in the garden, all women, except for one man who, bent at the waist, was working with a hoe. “There is Sitting Bull. How is that for dignity?”

“Why are you doing that?” Ingraham asked. “Why are you subjecting Sitting Bull to such ignominy?”

“Who are you?” McLaughlin asked.

“My name, sir, is Prentiss Ingraham. I am a writer.”

“A writer? You aren’t part of General Miles’s delegation?”

“He is with us,” Cody said. “That makes him part of General Miles’s delegation.”

“I have heard that you are a vain man, Cody . . .”

“That is Colonel Cody to you, Major,” Cody interrupted.

“Colonel Cody,” McLaughlin said, correcting himself. “But I had no idea that you were so vain as to have with you your own member of the press.”

“He will not only write about me, Major,” Cody said. “He will also write about you.”

Though subtle, the implied threat hit home, and McLaughlin blinked and swallowed, as he understood the circumstances.

“I, uh, all right, Colonel Cody, what do you want?”

“I told you, we want to speak with Sitting Bull.”

“Very well, I will summon him.”

“Major McLaughlin,” Falcon said. “Do you have a reception room of some sort, a room where visiting dignitaries such as Congressmen and Senators are welcomed as guests?”

“Yes, I have such a room.”

Falcon pointed to Cody. “Buffalo Bill Cody is the most famous man in America, if not in the world. He has been the guest of kings and queens the world over, and now he is the guest of Sitting Bull. Please show us to the reception room.”

“Just a minute,” McLaughlin said. “Are you telling me you want me to bring Sitting Bull to the reception room?”

“Oh, I don’t just want it,” Falcon said. “I expect it.”

“And you might have your cook make some lemonade,” Cody added. “Working in the garden as he is, I expect Sitting Bull is thirsty. I also remember from his time with me that he has a fondness for sweets. I’m sure your cook can accommodate us with some sort of treat.”

“Look here,” McLaughlin said angrily. “I’m in charge here. I’ll not be taking orders from visitors.”

“You’ll take orders from these visitors,” Falcon said quietly. It was that—the cold, calculated, quietness of his voice—that persuaded McLaughlin to change his mind.

“I’ll bring him to you,” he said.

The reception room was quite nice, and, under the circumstances, quite well furnished with sofa and chairs. The walls were decorated with heads of game, and a huge buffalo skin was on the floor. A few minutes after they went into the room, two Indian women came into the room, one of them carrying a large carafe of lemonade and the other a platter of cookies.

Cody walked over to take one of the cookies. “They must have already had some baked,” he said. “They couldn’t have made a new batch this fast. Would you like one, Ingraham?”

“No, thank you,” Ingraham answered. He was sitting off to one side, writing furiously on his tablet.

It was at least half an hour before McLaughlin returned with Sitting Bull. “In there,” he said, gruffly. Then to the others, McLaughlin said, “Sorry it took so long, but he insisted upon changing clothes before he met with you.”

“We don’t mind the wait, and I am sure it made him more comfortable,” Cody said.

Sitting Bull’s face was expressionless until after McLaughlin left. Then, with a smile, he extended his hand to Cody.

“Ho, Cody,” he said. “It is a good day to see you again.”

“Hello, Sitting Bull, you old war horse,” Cody said. “It is a good day to see you as well. This is my friend Falcon MacCallister.”

“You were with Custer,” Sitting Bull said.

“Yes.”

“That is past,” Sitting Bull said. He offered his hand to Falcon. “Now, we can be friends.” Sitting Bull looked over at Ingraham, and though he said nothing, the expression on his face asked the question.

“This is Prentiss Ingraham,” Cody said. “He is a writer.”

“You mean he does paper words,” Sitting Bull said.

“Yes,” Cody answered. “How are you doing, Sitting Bull?”

“I have food and shelter,” Sitting Bull replied. “My wives, Four Robes and Seen by the Nation have food and shelter and do not complain.”

“I see McLaughlin has you working in the field. That is not right for a chief like you.”

“If it is right for my people to work in the field, then it is right for me as well,” Sitting Bull said.

“But can you keep their respect?”

Sitting Bull was quiet for a moment. “It does not matter,” he said. “They will kill me anyway.”

“Who will kill you?” Falcon asked.

“My people will kill me,” Sitting Bull said. “In a vision, I saw a meadowlark land beside me. I approached him, and I was surprised when he did not fly away. ‘Why do you not fly away?’ I asked the bird. ‘Do you not fear me?’ The bird answered me. ‘Your own people, the Lakota, will kill you.’ And because I heard this with my own ears, this I believe.”

“Your people love you,” Cody said. “They will not kill you.”

“Was there not a great chief of the whites, loved by all, who was killed by a white man?”

“You are talking about Abraham Lincoln,” Falcon said.

“Yes. Was he killed by an Indian?”

“No. He was killed by John Wilkes Booth, a white man,” Falcon said.

“One of his people.”

“Not exactly,” Cody said. “Booth was a Southern sympathizer.”

“One of his people,” Sitting Bull repeated.

“If you put it that way, yes.”

“I, too, will be killed by my own people.”

“Sitting Bull, what do you know of the Wagi Wanagi?” Falcon asked.

“Wagi Wanagi? You wish to know of Wagi Wanagi? You have come to the wrong person. Wagi Wanagi is a religion, started by Mean to His Horses,” Sitting Bull said.

“Do you follow this religion of Spirit Talking?” Cody asked.

“Many have heard and some believe,” Sitting Bull replied. “Many do not believe.”

“That is not what I asked, Sitting Bull,” Cody said. “Do you follow this religion?”

“I do not follow this religion, but I have honor for this religion. I do not follow the Jesus religion of the white man, but also, I have honor for that religion.”

“Do you think it will be a danger to the white man? Do you think it will start a war?”

“I think it will be a danger only to the Indian,” Sitting Bull said. “For it is a religion that says the white man will leave and all the land will be returned to the people.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Cody asked.

“I do not believe that,” Sitting Bull said. “But my people do not understand. They think the only white people are those that they see—the soldiers, the Indian agents, the ranchers, farmers, and those in the towns. They have not seen what I have seen; they do not know what I know. I know how large is the village of the white man, I know that on the train, going much faster than the swiftest horse, it takes many days to cross the white man’s land. I have seen, gathered to see one show, more white people than there are in all the nations of the Sioux. Another war can only mean the end of my people.”

“Will you do all that you can to prevent another war?” Cody asked.

Sitting Bull raised his hand to point to the garden. “I can tell the women who work in the garden with me that there should not be another war. But the women do not want war anyway. I can tell the old men who come to gather their rations that there should not be another war, but they are old and they have seen war and do not want to see another. I can tell the young men that there should not be another war, but in many, their blood is hot with anger and distrust for the white man, so I do not think they will listen to me.”

After his meeting with Sitting Bull, Cody went to the Army Signal Center where he composed a telegram to be sent to General Miles.

AS PER YOUR INSTRUCTIONS, I HAVE INTERVIEWED SITTING BULL. IT IS MY BELIEF THAT HE HAS NO CONNECTION WITH THE SPIRIT TALKING MOVEMENT. THE ONE BEHIND THE MOVEMENT IS MEAN TO HIS HORSES A CHEYENNE. I BELIEVE THAT IF THERE IS TO BE ANY INDIAN TROUBLE IT WILL COME FROM A MIXED BAG OF RENEGADES AND NOT A COORDINATED WAR LAUNCHED BY ANY PARTICULAR TRIBE. WILLIAM CODY.

After sending the telegram, Cody, Falcon, and Ingraham took their lunch at the Officers’ Open Mess at Fort Yates.

“I thank you for coming with me, Falcon,” Cody said.

“I didn’t mind. As I said, I was coming back home, anyway.”

“Before you return to Colorado, I wonder if you would like to stay with me a little longer,” Cody invited. “You may find the next part of my trip interesting.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“First, I’m going to DeMaris Springs, Wyoming Territory,” Cody said. “The site where my town is to be is very close to there. I thought I might look it over and show it to you and Ingraham. From there, we will take a turn through Yellowstone Park. Have you ever been there?”

“Yes, I have.”

“There are some fascinating things to see there,” Cody said. “Then, from Yellowstone, I am going up to Cinnabar, where I will be holding an audition.”

“An audition?”

“Yes, I will be looking for new cowboys. Where do you think I get the people for my exhibition?”

“I don’t know,” Falcon replied. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Well I think about it, all the time. I have to think about it. And believe me, I can’t get cowboys from Brooklyn. They have to be authentic, or the people who come to my shows will see it in a second. And to be honest, I would like to have you help me pick out the ones I can use.”

Falcon chuckled. “All right,” he said. “I’ve never thought of myself as a talent scout, but I suppose I could do that.”

“I suppose you are coming too, Ingraham?” Cody said.

“Of course. There is still a chance that something exciting may happen that I can write about,” Ingraham replied.

Prentiss Ingraham’s notes from his book in progress:

He is a small man, and physically most unprepossessing, though he struts and frets his hour upon the stage as if the entire nation weighed heavily upon his shoulders, and not merely the administration of a small Indian agency. His name is Major James McLaughlin, and a more unpleasant gentleman you are unlikely to meet during your appointed years on earth.

McLaughlin is in charge of none other than Sitting Bull, unquestionably the most famous of all America’s Indians. Perhaps intimidated by the bearing and dignity of the celebrated chief, McLaughlin has done all in his power to demean and discomfit the noble Sioux leader. Despite his ignoble efforts, Sitting Bull has maintained all the dignity and élan of one of his station. During his audience with Buffalo Bill Cody and Falcon MacCallister, he was straight forward and completely in command of himself. The result of the meeting was just as Buffalo Bill expected. Sitting Bull is not a part of the Spirit Talking movement which has so animated the Indians of late.

Bismarck

It was just after midnight in Bismarck, and by now even the saloons were quiet. The Missouri river gleamed silver in the moonlight as Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, Ike Peters, and Jim Dewey walked quietly down 4th Street, heading for the jail, from which a light was shining, dimly.

Looking around to make certain they weren’t being watched, the four men stepped up onto the porch of the jail. Ebersole tried the door, but it didn’t open.

“Damn, it’s locked,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be locked,” Hawkins said. “It’s a jail.”

“Yeah, but jails are supposed to lock people in, not lock ’em out,” Ebersole said.

“I got an idea,” Dewey said. “Knock on the door.”

“Ain’t much chance of surprisin’ him by knockin’ on the door,” Ebersole said.

“I’m goin’ to pretend to be drunk,” Dewey said. “Knock on the door, when the deputy opens it, tell him you want to put me in jail to keep me out of trouble.”

“That might work,” Hawkins said.

“May as well try it,” Peters added.

Ebersole nodded, then knocked loudly on the door. “Marshal!” he called. “Marshal, you in there?”

He knocked again.

The door opened and a young man, wearing the badge of a deputy, stepped back from the open door. He was holding a double-barrel shotgun in his hands.

“What do you want?” the deputy asked.

“Our pard here is drunk,” Ebersole said.

“I ain’t no more drunk than you are, you lyin’ sumbitch!” Dewey said, slurring his words.

“What does that mean to me, that he is drunk?” the deputy asked.

“Well, we want you to lock him up tonight so’s he don’t get in no trouble.”

“Just take ’im somewhere and let ’im sleep it off,” the deputy said. “I don’t have any authority to lock someone up.”

“What do you mean you don’t have any authority? You’re a deputy, ain’t you?” Ebersole said.

“I can’t lock someone up just for being drunk. If I did that, the jail would be full every night.”

“See, I tole’ you I wasn’t goin’ to spen’ no night in jail,” Dewey said. He made a drunken lurch toward the deputy. “You’re a good man, dep’y,” he said as he reached him. “Yes, sir, you’re a good man.”

The deputy tried to back away from him, but it was too late. Dewey grabbed his shotgun and pointed it straight up, then jerked it away from him.

“What the hell?” the deputy yelled, but before he could say anything else, Ebersole brought his pistol down, sharply, on the deputy’s head. He fell unconscious to the floor.

“Billy?” Ebersole shouted. “Billy boy, are you back there!”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Billy answered.

“Hold on a second. We’re gettin’ you out of here.”

Ebersole got the key from a hook on the wall, then went into the back of the jail. The cell door was held closed by a hasp and padlock. He tried three keys before he found the right one. The padlock clicked open, then Ebersole removed it and opened the cell door.

“I know’d you boys wasn’t goin’ to leave me here,” Billy Taylor said with a wide smile spread across his face. Taylor was the youngest of the group, and at first glance most women found him good looking, but upon further examination there was something in his eyes that put them off. One woman said that he was like fine crystal, but with a flaw in its casting. “Yes, sir, I know’d you boys was goin’ to get me out of here, one way or the other.”

“Come on,” Ebersole said. “Let’s get out of here before anyone comes.”