Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fort Keogh

For the most part there was harmony between the white troopers of the Sixth Cavalry and the black troopers of the Ninth Cavalry primarily because there was in effect a self-imposed segregation. The black troops stayed with their own, as did the white troops.

There were some points of interaction though, and at one of these points, the post quartermaster, there was discord between Sergeant Major Moses Coletrain of the Ninth Cavalry and Sergeant Lucas Depro of the Sixth Cavalry. Both were supply sergeants for their respective units, and though their ranks were equal, Sergeant Depro assumed more power than he actually had, using as his authority the fact that he was white.

The two men shared the same office in the supply room, each having a desk. Depro was already at his desk when Sergeant Major Coletrain came in.

“My, you are here early today, Sergeant,” Coletrain said.

Depro, who was making entries in a ledger, nodded. “I had some extra work to do, so I came in early. I know that isn’t anything you people would ever consider. From what I’ve observed, you people never do one thing beyond what is absolutely necessary. You are the worst soldiers I’ve ever seen.”

Sergeant Major Coletrain did not respond to Depro’s baiting. He knew that, even though there were more black troopers in the fort than white, the white soldiers had ten times more delinquency reports, and twenty times more incidents of absent without leave and desertion.

“I see they haven’t shipped in the blankets yet,” Coletrain said as he picked up a paper from his desk. “I hope they get them here before winter.”

“They probably shipped them all to Arizona where they don’t need them,” Depro said.

In this, at least, the two sergeants were united, for the blanket shipment would benefit every soldier on the entire post whether black or white. Coletrain chuckled at Depro’s comment as he walked back to the arms room.

Depro looked up from his desk at Coletrain as he opened the arms room. Putting his pen down, he waited for the expected reaction.

“Hey!” Coletrain said. “What happened?”

“What happened to what?”

“The weapons,” Depro said. “The carbines, rifles, and pistols we were shipping to Jefferson Barracks. I had them right here, all boxed up, ready to go.”

“I took care of that for you,” Depro said.

Coletrain came back from the arms room, and standing right across Depro’s desk, challenged him.

“What do you mean you took care of it, Sergeant Depro? Those arms belonged to the Ninth Cavalry. I was in charge of shipping them back.”

“They belong to the army, not to the Ninth Cavalry,” Depro said. “And we’re in the same army. At least, that’s what you’re always tellin’ me, ain’t it? That we belong to the same army?”

“Yes, but that don’t give you the right to interfere with my work. Shipping those weapons out was my job. I’m responsible for them, now they’re gone, and I don’t have any documentation for them.”

“Relax,” Depro said. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it, so I handled it for you. I had them sent by freight wagon to the railhead at Rawlins. I’ve got a hand receipt from the shipping officer of the wagon freight, and a Bill of Lading from Union Pacific that says they are on their way to Jefferson Barracks.”

“Where are they?”

“I told you, they are on their way to Jefferson Barracks.”

“No, I mean where are the documents you were talking about, the hand receipt and the bill of lading? Where are they? If I’m responsible for the arms shipment, I need some proof that the job was done.”

“Are you questioning me?” Depro said angrily.

“Yes, I’m questioning you. I told you, I’m responsible for them. And I remain responsible for them, no matter who arranged to have them shipped. That’s why I want the hand receipt and the bill of lading.”

“You might have been responsible for it, but I’m the one who done the actual shipping,” Depro said. “So if anything comes up, I’ll be the one in trouble, not you. That’s why I intend to keep the paperwork my ownself.”

Coletrain stared at Depro for a moment longer. He knew that by rights he should have the paperwork, since the weapons had been on the property books of the Ninth Cavalry. But he knew, too, that if the question went to Major Benteen, Benteen, for all that he was commander of the Ninth, would back up the white NCO over Coletrain.

“All right, Sergeant, as long as we have proof that the weapons were shipped, I guess it doesn’t really matter who has it.”

At lunchtime Coletrain left the supply room and headed for the mess hall that served the Ninth. It was as big and as well kept as the white mess hall and the food, consisting mostly of salt beef or pork and vegetables raised by the soldiers, served along with coffee and cornbread, was about the same as the food served the white soldiers. The mess halls were across the quadrangle from each other, the sign on one reading: Colored, the sign on the other reading: White.

He saw Major Benteen going into the officers’ mess. Many of the officers had their wives on post with them, but Benteen’s wife and son were back in St. Louis. Because he had been with Custer and the Seventh Cavalry in their ill-fated fight with the Sioux, Benteen had been somewhat of a celebrity when he first arrived. Coletrain started toward him.

“Major Benteen?” he called.

Benteen stopped and turned toward him, the expression on his face showing his displeasure at being addressed.

“What is it, Coletrain? What do you want?” Benteen asked.

“It’s about the weapons, Major. The ones we are supposed to be sending back to Jefferson Barracks?”

“What about them?”

“They are gone, sir. Sergeant Depro says that he sent them.”

“Well, then, it isn’t your worry, is it?”

“No, sir,” Coletrain said. “I suppose not, sir. I just thought I ought to tell you.”

“You told me. Anything else?” Benteen asked.

“No, sir, nothing else,” Coletrain said, snapping a sharp salute.

Later that same day, Sergeant Lucas Depro stepped up to Captain Gilmore’s desk and saluted. “You wanted to see me, Cap’n?”

“Yes, Sergeant. I’m told by Major Benteen that you took charge of an arms shipment that, by rights, was the responsibility of the Ninth Cavalry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Cap’n, you know how them coloreds are. You can’t depend on ’em for nothin’. I figured I was doin’ the right thing by shippin’ ’em like I done.”

“How many were there?”

“Forty Winchesters, fifty-five Springfields and thirty-five Colt revolvers it was, all shipped back to Jefferson Barracks, Missouri.”

Captain Gilmore whistled. “That’s a lot of weapons. Did they get away all right?”

“Yes, sir, I got the bill of lading on file back in the arms room.”

“I don’t know as I like you taking on that responsibility. You work for me, and, as Major Benteen pointed out, that now makes me liable for them in case something happens to them.”

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen to ’em, Cap’n. Like as not, they are at Jefferson Barracks by now.”

“Whatever you do, Sergeant Depro, you make certain that you keep up with that bill of lading. We certainly don’t want to wind up having to pay for it ourselves, do we, Sergeant?”

“No, sir, we sure don’t. But don’t worry, Cap’n, I’ll keep up with the bill of lading,” Depro said.

After leaving Captain Gilmore’s office, Sergeant Depro walked across the parade ground to an abandoned stable at the far end of the post property. The stable had been built ten years earlier as a place to hold captured Indian horses until they could be shipped off to factories in the East to be made into glue. That policy was dropped three years ago and the stable had been abandoned. Now, it was literally falling down.

Nobody ever came around it any more, not only because it was so far away from the main area of the fort, but also because of the stench. Unlike the stables of cavalry horses, which were kept clean by constant mucking of the stalls, these stalls had never been mucked, even when the stable had been in use.

After looking around to make certain that he wasn’t being observed, Depro stepped into the building, taking shallow breaths in order not to be overcome by the odor. Going to the stall that was most distant from the opening, he brushed away some of the hay, then pulled back a tarpaulin. There were eight boxes beneath the tarpaulin. Lettering on two of the boxes identified the contents as: Carbines, repeating, Cal .30-.30 Sixth U.S. Cavalry. Three boxes read: Rifles, breach-loading, Cal .51. Sixth U.S. Cavalry. Lettering on the remaining three boxes read: Pistols, revolver, Cal .45 Sixth U.S. Cavalry.

“Yes, sir, Cap’n Gilmore,” Depro said with a little chuckle under his breath. “I’ll keep up with the bill of lading for you.”

Leaving the stable, Depro saw two soldiers of the Sixth behind the building. At first he was frightened that they might have looked inside and seen the weapons. Then he saw that they had a bottle of whiskey, and were hiding behind the building because they were drinking on duty.

“All right you two!” he shouted angrily. “I’ve caught you! Drinking on duty ought to get you both a week in the stockade!”

He marched the two sullen soldiers to the provost marshal, where he said that he had seen the men sneak away and followed, only to find them drinking. Ordinarily, he would have done nothing about it, but this would give him a reason for being around the abandoned stable, just in case someone happened to see him over there.

Advertisement in the Sheridan Bulletin:

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STAGE AND FAST FREIGHT COMPANY

The Sheridan and Yellowstone Stage Line leaves

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making the trip in two days, carrying U.S. Mails and

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Passengers will spend the night in comfort at

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Obtain tickets at the depot of the

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Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham stood outside the Sheridan and Yellowstone Stage and Fast Freight Company as the coach was brought around. Six wellmatched fresh horses stood in harness, as if anxious to get underway. The driver of the coach set the brake and remained on the seat, reins in hand as the shotgun guard used the step and front wheel to climb down.

“Folks, if you’ll bring your luggage around to the boot I’ll put it away for you, all nice and tidy.”

In addition to Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham, there was an attractive young woman with two small children who would be taking the trip as well. Smiling at her, Falcon took her luggage and handed it to the shotgun guard who put it in the back of the boot.

“There you go, ma’am,” the shotgun guard said. “Your bag is all safe and steady.”

“Thank you,” the woman said.

Buffalo Bill Cody held the door open to the coach, then helped the lady aboard. Once she was aboard, he picked up the children one at a time and handed them up to her.

It took only a few moments more before all were aboard.

“You folks all ready down there?” the driver called.

“We’re ready, driver. Take it away,” Cody called up to him.

The driver swung his whip, making a loud crack over the head of the team, and they lurched forward. The coach left the town of Sheridan at a rapid trot, and held the trot until they were almost a mile out of town, at which time he slowed the team down to a brisk walk of about eight miles per hour.

The passengers introduced themselves. The woman was Mrs. Juanita Kirby; her two children were Gary, who was six, and Abby, who was four.

“Wait until you see where we are going to build my town,” Cody said. “It is the most beautiful area you have ever seen. It is very near Yellowstone Park.”

“I’ve been to Yellowstone,” Falcon said. “That is certainly a beautiful area.”

“Beautiful yes, but strange too,” Cody said. “It is filled with boiling lakes and steam gushing from the ground, sometimes erupting into huge geysers that stream hundreds of feet into the air. And there is land that you cannot walk on without fear of falling through it into the very bowels of the earth. No, the land where my town will be built is nothing like that.”

“How close will it be to the place where we are going?” Ingraham asked. “What is the town called? DeMaris Springs?”

“Yes, DeMaris Springs. Cody will be very close to where DeMaris Springs is now, and there is no doubt in my mind but that Cody will so overtake DeMaris Springs in development and desirability, that DeMaris Springs will cease to exist.”

“Oh, I’m afraid Mr. Bellefontaine may have something to say about that,” Mrs. Kirby said.

“I’m sure he will,” Cody said.

“Do you know Mr. Bellefontaine?” Falcon asked.

“Yes, my husband is a mining engineer and he works for Mr. Bellefontaine.” She paused for a moment. “For now.”

“For now?” Cody asked.

“Yes. My husband has been offered employment in the lead mines back in Missouri. And with the recent Indian incidents, he has decided to accept the offer. And, though I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school, Mr. Bellefontaine is not the most—pleasant of men.”

“Mama, you don’t go to school,” Gary said.

“What?”

“You said you shouldn’t be telling tales out of school. But you don’t go to school.”

Mrs. Kirby smiled at her son. “No, I don’t, do I? How foolish of me.”

Ten Sleep way station

The way station at Ten Sleep was in the shape of the letter T, with the cross of the T running east and west. The dining room was in the front, the west wing was a bunk room for the men passengers, and the east wing was a bunk room for female passengers. The driver, whose name was Bo, and the shotgun guard, named Hank, had quarters in the barn, but they ate at the table with the others. Hodge Deckert and his wife Ethel ran the way station. Hodge took care of the livestock and Ethel did the cooking. They lived in a room at the bottom of the “T.”

“Mrs. Deckert,” Cody said, rubbing his stomach as he pushed away from the table. “That’s about the best thing I’ve tasted in a month of Sundays.”

“Oh, but you haven’t had your pie yet,” Ethel said. “I made a couple of apple pies.”

“Pie? Well, I can’t imagine anyone wanting apple pie after a meal like this. You can just save the pie for the next stage to come through, I’m sure no one here wants any.”

“I do,” Gary said.

“You? You want some apple pie?” Cody teased.

“Yes, sir. I like apple pie.”

“Oh, so because it is apple pie you want it. If it was cherry pie, or blueberry pie, you probably would not want any, would you?”

“No, I like cherry pie and blueberry pie too,” Gary said.

“All right, Mrs. Deckert, I guess I’ll have to have some pie too. I sure wouldn’t want Gary to eat all of it by himself.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could eat all of it,” Gary said, and the others laughed.

After the meal, Mrs. Kirby and her two children went into the room that was reserved for them and the stage crew went out to the barn, while Falcon, Cody, Ingraham, and Hodge Deckert sat out on the front porch, watching the play of light as the sun set behind the distant Absaroka Mountain range.

Cody, Ingraham, and Deckert smoked their pipes, Falcon rolled his own cigarette.

“Mr. Deckert, what have you heard about any Indian trouble?” Cody asked.

Deckert took a long puff of his pipe before he answered, as if thinking about the question.

“Well now, it’s just real strange,” he said. “The only Injuns we’ve got close to us are the Crow, and it’s been more ’n twenty years since we had any trouble with them. High Hawk is the chief of the local tribe, and he has always been friendly to the whites. But over the last couple of months, there’s been some incidents. A couple of prospectors was found scalped, then, I understand there was some Injun hunters kilt, then a white family was kilt, the husband, wife, and their boy. Scalped they was, all three of ’em. And that seemed to set off the whole town.”

“Has the army been called in?” Falcon asked.

“Don’t know as they have. What I think happened was Bellefontaine, you’ll prob’ly meet him when you go into DeMaris Springs, or if you don’t meet him, you will sure hear about him. He seems to be the cockof-the-walk there. Anyway, what I was sayin’ is, Bellefontaine put together a posse, I think, and they kilt a couple of Injuns, and left a note on one of ’em. I don’t know as anything has happened since then.”

“What about Mean to His Horses?” Cody asked. “Have you heard of him?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him. And from what I’ve heard of that red devil, it ain’t only his horses he’s mean to.”

Suddenly the loud cry of a child interrupted their conversation, and then they heard Mrs. Kirby call out.

“Gary!”

The crying continued and, curious, the four men went back inside, just as a distraught Mrs. Kirby came from their room.

“Oh,” she said. “Gary was jumping on the bed and he fell. I’m not sure, but I think he may have broken his arm.”

“Ingraham, you’re a doctor,” Cody said. “Why don’t you take a look?”

“I was in medical school, but I didn’t finish,” Ingraham said. “But I will take a look.

All went into Mrs. Kirby’s room, where they saw young Gary sitting on the floor, crying and holding his arm. It was immediately obvious that a bone was broken, because of the protrusion just above the wrist of his left arm.

“Let me take a look at it, Gary,” Ingraham said. He sat down on the floor beside Gary and looked at the arm, then nodded. “It’s broken.”

“Can you do anything about it?” Falcon asked.

“I think so. I can put it back and splint it. You wouldn’t have any laudanum, would you, Mr. Deckert?”

“No, I wouldn’t have anything like that,” Deckert said.

“All right, we’ll just have to do it without it. I need a couple of flat boards about this long,” he said, holding his hands apart equal to the length of Gary’s forearm. “And enough strips of cloth to bind them.”

“I can get the boards easy,” Deckert said. “I repaired a door on a coach last week, I’ve got some of that wood left over.”

“How thick is it?”

“Oh, it isn’t thick at all, not more’n an eighth of an inch.”

“That will be perfect.”

“I have some cloth,” Ethel Deckert said. “I got it to make some new curtains, but this would be a better use for it.”

Within a few moments, Ingraham had everything he needed, and he lay it down beside Gary. No longer crying out loud, Gary was still sniffing as he tried to hold it back.

Ingraham took his arm. “Now, son, I’m going to set the bone back in place. But, when I set the bone it’s going to hurt you again.”

“How bad will it hurt?” Gary asked.

“I won’t lie to you. It’s going to hurt pretty bad, but it won’t hurt as bad as it did when you first broke it.”

“Do you have to set it?” Gary asked.

“Yes, I have to do that so that your arm will grow back just as good as it was. If I don’t set it, you could wind up not ever able to use that arm again.”

“All right,” Gary said.

“Cody, have the splints ready,” Ingraham said. “Mrs. Deckert, when I get the splints in place, you start wrapping the cloth around it.”

Cody nodded and picked up the splints, then held them apart so Ingraham could get to them easily.

“Are you ready, Gary?”

“Yes, sir,” Gary answered in a frightened voice.

Ingraham moved the arm and pressed the bone down until he knew it had reconnected. Gary winced, and cried out, but he did not cry again.

Quickly, Ingraham put on the splint, then held it in place as Mrs. Deckert began the wrap. Within a moment the splint and bandage were in place.

“Son, I saw soldiers in the war who weren’t as brave as you were when they were doing that,” Falcon said.

“Really?” Gary replied, forcing a smile now through his pain and tears.

“Really. You are one brave young man,” Falcon said.

Gary looked up at his mother. “Did you hear what he said, Mama?”

“I heard. And you are a brave little boy,” Mrs. Kirby said.

“No, Mama, I’m a brave young man,” Gary said. “He called me a young man.”

Mrs. Kirby kissed her son on the forehead. “And you are a young man,” she said. “A brave young man.”

“You are the bravest person I know,” Abby said. “I won’t ever be afraid anymore if I am with you.”

Mrs. Deckert had a hearty breakfast ready for them the next morning, biscuits, country ham, gravy, fried potatoes, and eggs. The pain had subsided in Gary’s arm, and he now showed it proudly to Bo and Hank.

“Mr. MacCallister said I was as brave as a soldier,” Gary said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Bo said. “And I reckon you’ll be showin’ that broke arm to all your little friends when you get back home too, won’t you?”

“I want him to show it to my friends as well,” Abby said.

Bo finished his coffee, then stood up. “Folks, we’ll have the coach around front in about fifteen minutes. So if you got ’ny last minute things to do, you’d best be gettin’ ’em done.”