Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER EIGHT

DeMaris Springs

It was not unusual for Running Elk to ride into the small town of DeMaris Springs but there was something going on today that was unusual. As he rode down Center Street he saw several people gathered around the front of a hardware store. Curious as to what was attracting so much interest, he guided his pony over to see. There, in front of the hardware store and strapped to boards so they could be stood up, were the bodies of a man, woman, and child. All three had been scalped, and a sign posted over the top of the three bodies read:

Frank, Ann, And Davey Barlow

MURDERED BY INDIANS

Running Elk was mounted, and was behind the crowd of people so at first, no one saw him. Then, a woman happened to turn and seeing Running Elk, screamed. Her scream caused the others to turn, then all saw Running Elk.

“There’s one of the savages now!” a man shouted.

“Get him! String him up!”

Running Elk spoke excellent English, and he was certain he could convince them that they were wrong.

“We did not do this terrible thing!” Running Elk shouted. “We are Crow! We are friends with the white man!”

“Get him! Get the heathen!”

Fortunately for Running Elk, none of the townspeople who gathered around the hardware store were armed. Neither were they mounted, so as they surged toward him, it was easy for Running Elk to slap his legs against the sides of his pony and gallop away.

Big Horn Basin, Yellowstone Valley

Before Running Elk could get back home to warn the others, Many Buffalo, an older Crow who was very friendly with the whites, decided to take a wagon into town. He was accompanied by his granddaughter White Deer, her husband One Feather, their two children, and Quiet Stream, who was One Feather’s sister. Quiet Stream was riding into town in order to sell her blankets. One Feather was mounted on his pony, and he rode alongside the wagon, carrying on banter with his wife and children.

Suddenly a shot rang out, and Many Buffalo fell out of the wagon, dead. White Deer jumped down and tried to run away, but she was shot as well.

“Quiet Stream! Turn the wagon! Drive back to the village!” One Feather shouted.

Picking up the loose reins, Quiet Stream turned the wagon around, then drove away as rapidly as possible. Several white men came over the crest of a hill and began chasing her, but One Feather, who had stayed behind, was able to hold them off long enough to give Quiet Stream a head start.

After running the team for at least ten minutes at full speed, Quiet Stream looked back and, seeing no one, slowed the team to a walk. Then she saw a house ahead, and decided she would stop there for shelter. But as she approached, she was fired at by people within the house, so she knew she had no choice but to continue to run. The children, who were very young, were frightened, and worried about their mother and father.

Quiet Stream and her two small nephews made it safely back to the reservation only because her brother, One Feather, had succeeded in holding off the white men.

Back at the point of the initial attack, White Deer, who was shot twice, was lying helpless on the ground when she saw two of the men who had attacked them walk over to Many Buffalo and look down at the old Indian’s body.

She lay very quietly, pretending to be dead.

Though she didn’t know them by name, it was Sam Davis and Lee Regret who were leading the posse that had been constituted after the slaughter of the Barlow family.

“Look at the old son of a bitch,” Davis said, pointing to Many Buffalo’s body. “You know in his life he’s taken a few white scalps.”

“Yeah, I believe it,” Regret said.

“I don’t feel all that good ’bout killin’ the woman though,” one of the other riders said.

White Deer knew they were talking about her, and she lay very still, lest they realize that she was still alive.

“Why not? The Injuns didn’t mind killin’ the Barlow woman and her kid,” Davis said.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“So, what are we going to do now?” one of the other riders asked.

“We’re goin’ to leave the Injuns a message,” Davis said.

“Yeah, I reckon this will leave them a message.”

“No, I mean a real message. We’re goin’ to leave a note. I want the Injuns to know who done this, and why.”

“What note?”

“This note. I already got it wrote, and all we have to do is leave it pinned on ’em so’s the Injuns will find it.”

“How we goin’ to pin it on ’em?”

The first man chuckled, then kneeling down he pulled Many Buffalo’s hunting knife from its sheath.

“You want to see how I pin the note on? Watch,” he said.

He drove the knife through the note, pinning it to Many Buffalo’s chest.

“Haw!” the second man said. “I don’t reckon that note’s goin’ to blow away.”

White Deer knew that her father was already dead, but it was all she could do to keep from crying out when she saw the knife plunged into his chest.

“What about the squaw?”

“What about her?”

“We just goin’ to leave her there?”

“What do you want to do, bury her?

“No, nothin’ like that. I was just wonderin’.”

“Leave her. When they find her, the old man, and the buck we killed, they’ll know we mean business.”

“Yeah. If this don’t teach ’em a lesson, nothin’ will.”

“Let’s go.”

White Deer continued to lie unmoving for a long moment after they left, still terrified that they would come back. She waited until the sound of hoofbeats could no longer be heard before she raised her head. The first thing she saw was the pony of her husband. When she saw the pony of One Feather, she knew that if the pony was without a rider, One Feather must have been killed as well. She also knew that Quiet Stream had driven the wagon away with her children and she could only hope that they were still alive.

Painfully, laboriously, saddened by the deaths of her father and husband and worried about her children, White Deer managed to mount the pony and ride away. After a ride of well over an hour, she reached the house of Chris Dumey, a settler that she knew, and experienced a great sense of relief at her salvation.

She stopped in front of the house and stayed on the pony by a great effort because she was still losing blood.

“Help!” she called. “Please, I have been shot! Mr. Dumey, please help me!”

The door to the house opened just a crack, and a man thrust a shotgun through the opening.

“Get out of here Injun,” he said, his voice a low growl.

“Mr. Dumey, it is me, White Deer! I have been shot. I need help,” White Deer said.

“If you don’t get now, you’re goin’ to get shot again,” Dumey said. “Now get!” He shouted the last two words, and thrust the gun forward dramatically.

Somehow the fear helped her overcome the dizziness and White Deer slapped her legs against the side of the pony and raced out of the farmer’s yard.

She passed at least three other settlers’ homes on her way back to the village, and even though she also knew the people who lived in those houses, she gave them a wide berth.

It was dark by the time she returned to the village, and because Quiet Stream had already made it back safely with word of the attack, the entire village was in an uproar.

“We thought you were dead,” High Hawk said.

“Where is One Feather?” Big Hand, the father of Quiet Stream and One Feather asked.

“He is dead,” White Deer said. “So is my father. I don’t know where my children are. I don’t know where Quiet Stream is.”

“I am here, White Deer,” Quiet Stream said. “Your children are safe.”

Although she had managed to stay conscious during her long arduous ride back home, knowing now that her children were safe, White Deer quit hanging on. She passed out from her wounds, and she was picked up and carried into her tipi where the bullets were removed from her body, and a poultice put over each of the two bullet wounds.

Big Horn Basin

It was two hunters from the Crow village who found the bodies of Many Buffalo and One Feather the next day. Constructing a travois, they brought the four back to the village. They had found a piece of paper on Many Buffalo’s body, pinned to him by his own knife.

The rest of the village wept and shouted in anger at the brutal slaying.

“Here are some paper words,” one of the two Indians said.

“Show the paper words to Running Elk,” one of the villagers said. “He has been to the white man’s school, he can read the paper words.”

Running Elk was as angry and aggrieved as all the other villagers, but he was pleased that he had been chosen to read the paper words. He read the words aloud, in English.

“We kilt these Injuns because they did not stay where they belonged. We will kill all Injuns who do not stay where they belong.”

Because not everyone understood him when he read the note in English, Running Elk translated it for them.

Now the people became painfully aware of the situation. The paper words made it clear that the earlier murders, like these, were not merely the isolated incident of one or two whites. It was an organized movement, designed, no doubt, to run the Indians away from their land so that the whites could look for gold anywhere they wanted.

“The whites are devils!” White Bull shouted.

“We should kill them all!” another yelled.

“Mean to His Horses is right. There can be no peace until the white man knows we are men and not animals to be hunted!” White Bull said.

“White Bull, do not let the heat of your heart rule the reason of your mind,” High Hawk said. “Mean to His Horses is Cheyenne. The Cheyenne are our ancient enemies. We are friends with the white men. Our warriors have fought at the side of the Long Knives. We have learned many things from our white brothers.”

“We have learned to be cowards,” White Bull said scornfully. “But I will not be a coward. I will join Mean to His Horses.”

“I will join him as well,” Running Elk said.

“Running Elk, no,” High Hawk said. “You have been educated by the white man. You are the future of our people.”

“If the white people kill us all, we have no future,” Running Elk said. “White Bull speaks for me.”

“And for me,” another said.

“All who are brave of heart, come with me!” White Bull shouted. “We will go to Mean to His Horses and ask him to lead us!”

Trooper’s Saloon, Miles City, Montana Territory

Though the saloon didn’t cater exclusively to the army, its proximity to Fort Keogh meant that soldiers made up the bulk of its customers. Today was payday for the army, and on this evening the saloon was full. One of the centerpieces of the saloon was its recent acquisition of a lithograph of “Custer’s Last Fight.”

Sergeant Patrick Connelly was sitting at a table with Sergeant Lucas Depro and several other soldiers. All were asking him about the fight because the Irishman had been with Custer on that fateful scout, taking part in the hilltop fight with Reno and Benteen, where he was wounded. Connelly was pointing to figures in the painting.

“That lad there is m’ friend Edward Connor, like me, Irish born,” Connelly said. “And Patrick Downing and Charles Graham, Irish born too. And there’s himself, Captain Myles Keogh, as fine an officer as ever drew a breath. Irish he was, like the others.”

“You were with Benteen, were you?” Depro asked.

“Aye, though I was with Reno when first we split up. Benteen, you know, came up to join us.”

“What do you think of Benteen?” Depro asked.

“Sure now, ’n why do you ask? Would you be wantin’ me to speak unkindly of an officer who shared the dangers of the hilltop fight with myself? For I’m tellin’ you, that I’ll not do.”

“You know he is here at Fort Keogh in command of the colored troops, don’t you?”

“Aye, and how is it that I would not know, being as I am on the same post and I’ve known the man for more than ten years now,” Sergeant Connelly said.

“Maybe what I should have asked is what kind of white man would let himself be stuck with a bunch of colored men?”

“Don’t you be makin’ the mistake now of thinkin’ that the coloreds don’t make good soldiers, Depro,” Connelly said. “They are good soldiers, the lot of them.”

“I’ve nothin’ good to say about Coletrain,” Depro said.

“I know the two of you are workin’ together now,” Connelly said. “’Twas thinkin’ I was, that mayhap the two of you would be gettin’ on just fine.”

“We ain’t workin’ together,” Depro said. “We’re in the same buildin’, but he’s supply sergeant for the Ninth, and I’m supply sergeant for the Sixth.”

“But ’tis the same army, is it not?”

“Not to me, it ain’t. The Ninth is all colored soldiers, the Sixth is all white.”

“Sergeant Depro, ’tis Irish born I am, but since takin’ the oath to wear this uniform and defend the flag of the United States, I’m more American than I am Irish. Seems to me you could do the same.”

“Maybe the Irish and the colored are the same,” Depro said. “But don’t include me with you.”

“Hello, Sarge, can I speak with you for a moment?”

Looking up toward the speaker, Depro recognized Sam Davis. Davis had been a trooper in his platoon but got out when his enlistment expired.

“Want to join up again, do you, Davis?” Depro asked.

“No, nothin’ like that. This is somethin’ else,” Davis said.

“Well, speak up.”

Davis shook his head. “I’d rather talk to you in private. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Depro chuckled. “Well, bein’ as you are a rich civilian now, I reckon I can let you buy me a beer all right. You boys carry on without me,” he said to the other troopers at his table.

Davis followed Depro through the crowd of loudtalking, often laughing soldiers to a table in the far back corner where another civilian was sitting. When the civilian looked up toward them, Depro recognized Lee Regret. Like Davis, Regret had once served in Depro’s platoon.

“Now if you’re plannin’ on tellin’ me that Regret wants to re-enlist, you can just forget about it,” Depro said.

“Nah, he don’t want to enlist neither,” Davis said. “But he’s in on what I got to talk to you about.”

“Hello, Sarge,” Regret said.

“Regret,” Depro replied.

“Regret, how about get us another beer? And get one for the sarge,” Davis said.

Regret nodded, then got up from the table and headed toward the bar.

“Regret is your dog-robber now, is he?” Depro asked.

“I know you and Regret never got along, but he’s a good man,” Davis said.

A moment later Regret returned with three beers and passed them around.

Depro took a swallow, then wiped the foam from his moustache. “All right,” he said. “What is it you want to talk about?”

“Money,” Davis said.

“What about money?”

“I know how you can make some,” Davis said.

“You know how I can make some money?”

“A lot of money,” Davis replied.

Fort Keogh, Wyoming Territory

Established in August 1876, Fort Keogh was located on the right bank of the Yellowstone River, just west of Miles City and two miles above the mouth of the Tongue River. Established by Colonel Nelson A. Miles, by order of Brigadier General Alfred Terry, it was intended to serve as a base of supply and operations against the Sioux Indians. Construction of permanent buildings commenced in 1877. Originally called “New Post on the Yellowstone,” the “Cantonment on Tongue River,” then “Tongue River Barracks,” it was finally designated Fort Keogh on November 8, 1878, in honor of Captain Myles Keogh, Seventh U.S. Cavalry, killed in the Battle of Little Big Horn on June 25, 1876. The post was one of several established during this period for the purpose of subduing the Indians of the northern plains and securing permanent control over them.

The fort was substantial, consisting of several buildings, including quarters for officers and men, barns, warehouses, and mess halls. Stationed at the fort were four troops of Buffalo Soldiers, the Ninth Cavalry, with their headquarters and band, under Major Fredric Benteen. Here too, were three troops of the Sixth Cavalry, under Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin Whitehead.

As a general rule, the officers did not frequent the Trooper Saloon in Miles City, because to do so would put them in close social contact with the enlisted men. Close social contact between enlisted and officers was frowned upon, so the officers plied their social intercourse in the Officers’ Open Mess on the grounds of the fort. Because there were no black officers, all of the Ninth Cavalry officers were white, and thus, in the mess at least, the officers of the Ninth and the Sixth commingled.

When Major Benteen stepped into the Officers’ Open Mess there were several of the officers engaged in a spirited discussion and one of them looked up as Benteen came in.

“Major Benteen was there,” a lieutenant said.

“I was where, Lieutenant Purvis?”

“At Little Big Horn.”

Benteen sighed in resignation. In the last ten years he had been asked thousands of questions about the fight at Little Big Horn, and he was reasonably certain that there could be no question he had not heard.

“Tell me, Major, why did Custer refuse to take the Gatling guns? Don’t you think that if he had had them, the outcome would have been different?”

“Custer refused to take the guns and I concurred,” Benteen said.

“But why? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Think about it, Purvis. The Gatling gun is wheelmounted, just like a piece of artillery. The topography around Little Big Horn was such that it would have extremely limited mobility. In addition, it is crew-served, which means that two men must be standing upright to fire it, and that exposes them. And finally, they jam up so frequently as to be ineffective, especially in a battle situation as fluid as was the situation at Little Big Horn. One can find a lot of fault with Custer, and God knows I can, because I despised the man. But his decision not to take Gatling guns into the battle was a correct one.”

“Major Benteen, you’ve been fighting Indians for over twenty years now. Tell me, do you think we are about to get into another Indian war?” a Captain named Jones asked.

Benteen who had taken his seat at the table with the others, poured himself a glass of whiskey before he answered.

“What would make you think that?”

“It’s this Spirit Talking business,” Captain Jones said. “It was started by an Indian who was at Custer’s last fight, a chief by the name of . . .”

“Mean to His Horses,” Benteen said, interrupting Jones. “He’s not a chief, he’s a shaman.”

“Whatever he is, a lot of Indians are listening to him. And I don’t mean just the Cheyenne, either.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Benteen said. “If we do get into another little skirmish, I don’t expect it will come to much. I think the Indians are all whipped now. They are tired of fighting.”

“Excuse me, Major, but isn’t that what Custer thought?” a newly minted second lieutenant asked. “I mean, from what I read and heard while I was in the Academy, the Indians gave Custer, you, and the rest of the Seventh a pretty good whipping.”

There was a corporate gasp from the others, and conversation halted in mid-syllable as all stared toward Benteen to see how he would react.

Benteen said nothing. He lifted his glass to his lips and glared at the young lieutenant. He held the silent glare for a long moment, and as the moment lengthened and the silence stretched out, the lieutenant became visibly shaken.

“Uh, I didn’t mean you got the whipping,” the lieutenant said. “Everyone knows that you weren’t actually with Custer when he went into battle, that you hung back and—uh . . .”

“Lieutenant Simmons, I think you had better quit before you get yourself in any deeper,” Colonel Whitehead said. Lieutenant Colonel Whitehead was Benteen’s counterpart, the commanding officer of the Sixth.

“Yes, sir. I—uh—told Sergeant Templeton that I would look into something with him. I need to leave.”

“But, Lieutenant,” Benteen said. “You didn’t finish your drink.”

“I’m not thirsty, sir,” Lieutenant Simpson said as he hurried out of the club, chased by the laughter of all the other officers therein present.

“You’re going to have to teach me that stare some time, Benteen,” Whitehead said.

“Yes, sir, I would be glad to,” Benteen replied.

“But, first, I would be interested in knowing what you think about our current situation. I’ll ask you the same question Captain Jones asked. Do you think there is going to be another Indian war?”

“Do you think there will be?” Benteen replied.

“I don’t know,” Whitehead admitted. “I know that Mean to His Horses has been leading some renegades on a tear. There was that massacre of the Kennedy family up in Montana Territory, then the attack on the freight wagons.”

“Yes, but you said it for what it is. It is a group of renegade Cheyenne.”

“Not just Cheyenne,” Whitehead said. “There was the Barlow family that got murdered, and those two white prospectors found shot and scalped in the Yellowstone Valley. That was down here in Wyoming, and more than likely, it was Crow that did that.”

“How many prospectors do we have poking around out there right now?” Benteen asked.

“I don’t know for sure. Twenty or thirty I would say,” Whitehead said.

“With that many gold hunters out there, don’t you think it is just possible that those two got into an argument with some other prospectors, were murdered, then scalped to make it look like Indians did it?”

“As I understand, there were also some Indians killed, no doubt reprisals by the whites who live nearby,” Whitehead said.

“At this point I don’t see a couple of white men and a few Indians getting killed being enough to get us into a war. Especially with the Crow. I have put my life in the hands of the Crow many times.”

“Yes, but that was then, and this is now. Things are different now.”

“What is so different?” Benteen asked.

“I’ll tell you what is different. It is this Spirit Talking business.”

“As long as they are talking to spirits, they aren’t fighting the army,” Benteen said.

Whitehead chuckled. “Yes, I guess that’s true. Still, one wonders. I know for a fact that General Miles is worried about it. He thinks Sitting Bull might be leading the Indians.”

“Sitting Bull? Are you talking about the same Sitting Bull who went into show business with Buffalo Bill Cody? That Sitting Bull?”

“Yes, the one who led the Sioux in the fight at Little Big Horn.”

Benteen made a dismissive snort. “Sitting Bull remained in his tipi for the entire fight. He couldn’t lead a bunch of Holy Rollers to Jesus,” he said.

“What if we do get into a fight?” Whitehead said. “Can we count on you?”

“What do you mean, can you count on me?” Benteen snapped back, forgetting military courtesy in his response. “Sonny, I was fighting Indians when your mama was changing your britches!”

“I don’t mean you, personally,” Whitehead restated, quickly. “I meant can we count on your colored soldiers?”

“Don’t you worry about my colored soldiers, Colonel Whitehead,” Benteen replied. “They are as good as any soldiers I ever served with.”

Whitehead laughed out loud. “They are as good as any you ever served with? That’s quite a statement isn’t it? I mean, considering that you served with Custer and the Seventh.”

“I will say again,” Benteen repeated, more slowly and with greater emphasis. “My colored soldiers are as good as any soldier I ever served with.”