Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mean to His Horses and ten warriors had wandered far south from the Cheyenne reservation, and were waiting at a ford on the Big Horn river. They had no particular target in mind, though they knew that any wagon or coach that traveled the road between Sheridan and Yellowstone Park would have to cross the river here, and when they did so, they would be vulnerable to attack.

They heard the coach before they saw it, the sound of a popping whip, the whistles and calls of the driver, and the drumming hooves of six trotting horses.

“Make yourselves ready,” Mean to His Horses said.

Only Mean to His Horses and one other of his band had firearms. The rest of the warriors had bows and arrows only. But Mean to His Horses believed that would be enough to overcome the stagecoach, which normally had only one armed guard. Then he would be able to take the guns the stage passengers had.

The six passengers inside the coach were relatively quiet, just enjoying the scenery or lost in their own thoughts. Even though Gary’s arm was in a sling he was holding it, and it was obvious that every bump made it hurt because he winced in pain, though he did not cry out.

Cody looked him, then smiled. “Gary, did you know that Mr. Ingraham writes stories?” Cody asked Gary and Abby.

“What kind of stories?” Gary asked.

“Oh, all kinds of stories,” Cody answered. “Ingraham, why don’t you entertain us with a story? One that the children will like.”

“Well, what kind of stories do you like?” Ingraham asked.

“I like stories about princesses,” Abby said.

“And sailing ships,” Gary added. “Have you ever been on a big sailing ship?”

“Indeed I have,” Ingraham said.

“And have you ever seen a real princess?” Abby asked.

“Yes, I’ve seen a real princess. And it so happens that I can tell a story about a princess and a sailing ship.”

“Oh, good,” Abby said.

“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away,” Ingraham began, and within moments he had both children spellbound as they lost themselves in his story.

The serenity of the interior of the stagecoach was broken by a whizzing sound, followed by a loud “thock.” An arrow had embedded itself in the stagecoach, less than an inch away from the window opening where Falcon was sitting. Looking through the window, Falcon saw several mounted Indians galloping toward the coach. Even as he saw them, he also saw several arrows in flight, streaming in the same direction. At least three more hit the stagecoach with the same “thocking” sound as the first.

“Indians,” Falcon said, though he didn’t have to tell them. By now everyone in the coach was aware of what was happening.

Falcon opened the door of the stage, which had increased its speed as the driver whipped the team into a gallop.

“Where are you going?” Cody asked.

“On top,” Falcon said. “I’ll be in better position to shoot from up there, and it will also draw the Indians’ fire away from the inside of the coach.”

“Good idea, I’ll join you,” Cody said. “Ingraham, you stay with Mrs. Kirby and the children.”

“I’ll do that,” Ingraham shouted back, his pistol already in his hand.

The two men climbed up to the top of the stagecoach, one on either side.

“Good to see you boys comin’ up here!” Hank yelled.

“Bo, keep the team running as fast as you can!” Falcon shouted.

“If we go any faster we’re going to start flying!” Bo replied as he popped the whip over the galloping team.

Falcon and Cody lay on their stomach on the coach, then began shooting. With their first shots, two Indians fell. The shotgun guard got one, and as one of the Indians galloped up alongside the stage, Igraham shot him. Then Falcon got another one.

Mean to His Horses saw five of his warriors fall in the first few minutes of their attack, including the only other Indian who was carrying a rifle. That was half of his band, so he called a halt to the chase.

“Why do we stop?” one of the warriors asked.

“They have many guns, we have one,” Mean to His Horses said. “We will fight another day.”

“It would be better if we had guns.”

“We will get guns,” Mean to His Horses said.

“They’re gone!” Falcon said to the driver. “Hold it up!”

“Whoa!” the driver said, hauling back on the reins as he also put his foot on the brake.

The stagecoach came to a halt, and as it set there, the dust kicked up by the rapid pace caught up with them and began billowing around the coach. The horses twitched and tossed their heads and whickered in discomfort at having had to stop so quickly without cooling off.

“Hank,” the driver said. “Keep an eye open in case them heathens decide to come back. After a run like this, I’d better check out the harness.”

“All right, Bo,” Hank replied. Holding his rifle at the ready, he searched the road behind them.

Falcon and Cody climbed down from the top of the stagecoach. It wasn’t until then that Falcon noticed an arrow sticking out of the top of the coach, less than an inch from where he had been lying.

On the ground, Falcon opened the door to the coach and looked inside. Mrs. Kirby was holding both her children close to her. Ingraham, with a wide grin on his face, was still holding a smoking pistol.

“Are you folks all right in here?” Falcon asked.

“Yes, we are fine,” Mrs. Kirby said, “thanks to you three gentlemen.”

“And the shotgun guard,” Falcon added.

“I have taken the trip to Sheridan many times,” Mrs. Kirby said. “I have never known the Indians to be so bold. I have no idea what might have provoked them to such a thing.”

When they rolled in to DeMaris Springs two hours later, several people noticed that there were arrows sticking out of the side of the coach. And because they had noticed it, they began running alongside, keeping pace with the coach until it pulled into the depot.

“What happened?” one of the townspeople called up to the driver.

“What happened? We was attacked by injuns, that’s what happened,” the driver said. “But we run them heathens off.”

“And we kilt five of ’em while we was runnin’ ’em off,” the shotgun guard said.

“You kilt five of ’em, did you, Hank?”

“No, far as I know, I only got one,” Hank said. “Buffalo Bill, Falcon MacCallister, and Mr. Ingraham got the others.”

“Buffalo Bill is here?”

“Yep, he’s in the coach.”

“Are you sure it was Indians, and not just some bandits dressed like Indians?” someone asked.

“Oh, they was Injuns all right. There ain’t no doubt about that,” the driver said.

When Cody and Falcon stepped out of the stage, Cody was recognized immediately.

“It’s Buffalo Bill!”

“Buffalo Bill, what are you doing here?” another asked.

“I’m here to show my friends where my new town is to be built,” Cody said.

“Does Bellefontaine know about that?”

“More to the point, will he approve of it?”

“I have not discussed this with Mr. Bellefontaine,” Cody said. “And to be honest, I don’t care whether he approves of it or not. My business dealings are with Thornton Beck, not with Pierre Fontaine.”

Five minutes later, Davis and Regret were in Bellefontaine’s office, smiling broadly.

“Did you hear about the stagecoach from Sheridan gettin’ attacked?” Regret asked.

“I heard. Are you boys responsible for that?”

“No, sir. This attack was for real,” Davis said. “What we’ve been doin’ is workin’. We’ve been stirrin’ folks up and the Indian war has started.”

“It’s good that it has started,” Bellefontaine said. “Now we need to keep it going.”

“We’re working on that,” Davis said. “I’ve got a line on some guns that we’re goin’ to sell to the Injuns.”

“The army will have to come in here then,” Regret said.

“And once the army comes in, the whole valley will be cleared out, Injuns, prospectors, homesteaders, the lot of them,” Davis said.

Bellefontaine smiled and took down a bottle of good blended whiskey. He poured three glasses, then handed one to each of the other two men. He held his glass up.

“Gentlemen, to our success,” he said.

“To our success,” Davis repeated.

Later that morning there was a town meeting held in the community center to discuss the growing Indian problem. The meeting was chaired by Mayor Joe Cravens, but Pierre Bellefontaine had a seat at the head table. Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham were sitting in the front row, as were Bo and Hank.

Mayor Cravens called the meeting to order.

“Now, friends, I reckon you know why we have called this meeting. The truth is, this Indian problem is beginning to get out of hand. First off, we had some prospectors kilt, and it was plain that it was Indians that done it. Then we had a rancher, Frank Barlow and his whole family, good people they were, get kilt by Indians too. And all of ’em was scalped, includin’ even the woman and the boy.

“Mr. Bellefontaine has somethin’ he wants to say to us now. Mr. Bellefontaine?”

Bellefontaine was a tall, slender man with silver hair and light blue eyes. He was exceptionally well dressed, and looked like the wealthy entrepreneur he was.

“As most of you know, after the incident where the Barlow family was slaughtered by the heathens, I authorized a posse to go after the Indians. Some of you may think that, as a private citizen, I had no right to do this. But I have several employees who are required to work all up and down the valley between here and the Crow camp. I have their safety in mind. I also have the safety in mind of all the independent prospectors, homesteaders, ranchers, and farmers who are trying to live peacefully out there. To that end, I am proposing to pay one hundred dollars to any prospector who will abandon the valley, and five hundred dollars to any rancher or farmer now living out there who will give up his land.”

“Where are we goin’ to get that kind of money to pay those people to do that?” one of the citizens of the town asked.

Bellefontaine shook his head and held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, friends. I’m not asking the town to come up with that money. I will personally come up with the money to pay people to leave.”

“That’s real decent of you, Mr. Bellefontaine, but I know for a fact that there are some ranchers and farmers out there who won’t think that’s enough. Fact is, I don’t think you could pay some of ’em to come out.”

“Whether they stay or come out, the trouble has started. If any of you have contact with any of these people, please let them know that the offer is there.”

“Why don’t we call in the army?” one of the men in the audience asked.

“Funny that you should bring that up,” Bellefontaine said. “For I am indeed calling in the army, and I am going to ask them to relocate the Crow. They have shown by their actions that they are not peaceful. And today, they were so bold as to attack a stagecoach. It’s one thing to get all the settlers out of the valley, but the way I see it, that’s not even enough. With the Crow on the warpath, not even our town is safe.”

“It wasn’t Crow that attacked the stagecoach,” Falcon said, speaking up from the audience.

Falcon’s remark elicited several responses from the audience, but it was Bellefontaine who had the floor and his voice is the one that got through.

“I beg your pardon?” Bellefontaine replied. “And who are you?”

“The name is MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”

“Falcon MacCallister!” someone in the audience said, and his name spread throughout the hall where the meeting was being held.

“I’ve heard of MacCallister.”

“He’s nigh as famous as Buffalo Bill his ownself.”

“Well, Mr. MacCallister, your name seems to have evoked some response from the citizens of DeMaris Springs. I apologize for my ignorance, but I must confess that I have never heard of you.”

“No reason why you should have heard of me,” Falcon replied.

“Tell me, why do you say that it was not the Crow who attacked the stage coach?”

“I was on the stagecoach, I saw them. They were not Crow, they were Cheyenne.”

“They were Cheyenne, you say,” Bellefontaine said. “And tell me, Mr. MacCallister, am I to believe that you are so knowledgeable about such things that you can tell the difference between one heathen and another?”

“I brought one of the arrows that were sticking out of the stage,” Falcon said. Reaching under the chair he held it up, then pointed to the markings just before the feathers. “This crooked black and yellow line here, on the arrow shaft, is the mark of the Crooked Lance Warrior Society. That’s Cheyenne.”

“He’s right!” someone else called out loudly. “I’ve seen the mark of the Crooked Lance Warrior Society myself. If that’s what’s on that arrow, then the Injuns that attacked the stage was Cheyenne, not Crow.”

“It was Crow that attacked the Barlow family though!” someone else yelled and for the next few minutes there was so much shouting going on that no one could hear what anyone was saying. Picking up his gavel, Mayor Cravens began banging on the table.

“Order!” he shouted. “Order! Folks, we can’t conduct this town meeting unless we have order!”

Mayor Cravens continued to bang his gavel until, finally, order was restored.

“Now,” he said. “Perhaps we can get on with the meeting. Mr. Bellefontaine, you may continue.”

Bellefontaine waited a moment before he resumed.

“Perhaps, Mr. MacCallister, you are correct. In fact, I am willing to accept that you probably are correct, as you seem to know about such things. But, even if they are Cheyenne, that just broadens the picture and makes our own position here more untenable. You see, that attack happened well east of DeMaris Springs, whereas the prospectors and the tragedy that befell the Barlow family happened west of us.

“It may well be that there has been an alliance made between the Crow and the Cheyenne, and if that is the case, we are caught in the middle.”

“The Crow and the Cheyenne are enemies,” Cody said. “I don’t live out here anymore, but even I know that.”

“You say they are enemies and they may have been so in the past,” Bellefontaine said. “But perhaps you have not heard of this new movement that has begun among the Indians out here. It is called Spirit Talking, which I am led to believe is a new kind of religion. I am also told that this heathen religion seems to have reached out beyond tribal lines, and is infecting all the Indians.”

Buffalo Bill held up his hand. “May I speak, Mr. Mayor?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Cody,” Mayor Cravens said.

“Falcon MacCallister and I are well aware of the Spirit Talking movement. Indeed, that is why we are out here. I was summoned to a meeting with General Miles at his headquarters in Chicago. There, he asked me to meet personally with Sitting Bull in order to ascertain, one, whether Sitting Bull was behind this movement and, two, whether this movement represented the potential outbreak of a new Indian war.

“I am pleased to report that Sitting Bull has nothing to do with it. And I think the answer to the Indian question is a simple one. So long as philanthropists are allowed to weep over the Indians, while politicians plunder them, while the Indian Agency fails on their promise of decent treatment, there will be trouble.

“What we should do is make them feel that we will deal with them honestly and fairly, and that they will be held accountable for their crimes as individuals, and not be held accountable as an entire tribe. When we can do that, I believe that the Indian difficulties will be at an end.”

Cody’s remarks met with a mixed response. There were those who applauded, and called out, “here, here.” However, there were others who renewed their demand for the army to be called in to “settle accounts once and for all.”

After the town meeting Bellefontaine invited Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham to his office. The conference room in his office was as large as the meeting hall had been, and a big window on the west side of his office afforded a magnificent view of the snow-peaked Absaroka Mountains. There were comfortable chairs and sofas everywhere, buffalo-skin rugs on the floor, and elk heads and antlers on the walls.

“I hope you enjoy the wine,” he said as one of his employees began pouring. “It is a fine wine that I import from France.” He passed goblets around to all of them, then they each took a swallow.

“I’ll bet none of you have ever tasted anything this good, have you?” he said.

“It is quite a good wine,” Cody agreed. “But I prefer Beaujolais from the vineyards in the Pierres Dorées region. I had quite a good conversation with the vintner when I was there.”

“Yes, Beaujolais is quite good as well,” Bellefontaine said, somewhat deflated.

Falcon smiled at Bellefontaine’s reaction.

“Are you really planning on calling in the army?” Falcon asked.

“Yes. I cannot be expected to continue to supply posses to take care of the Indians when, by rights, that should be the job of the army.”

“I agree you have no business sending out posses,” Falcon said. “But if these are isolated incidents, don’t you think calling in the army would make it even worse?”

“What would you propose?” Bellefontaine asked.

“I would say we follow Mr. Cody’s suggestion, that we call a meeting with the Crow and tell them that we do not hold the entire tribe responsible for these atrocities, but only those who actually committed them. It is my belief that the Indians would turn the guilty parties over to us.”

“And what makes you believe that?”

“The Crow have been friendly with the white man for some time now. It simply does not make sense that they would suddenly start making war.”

“That’s because you don’t know anything about the Spirit Talking movement,” Bellefontaine said. “Ever since they started on that, the Indians have gone crazy. Crazy, I tell you.”

“Have there been any incidents here in town?” Cody asked.

“No, nothing here in town. But I understand the town that you wish to build will be even closer to the Crow Reservation.”

“A little closer, yes.”

“If you are asking my advice, Cody, I would say, don’t build it.”

Cody took a swallow of his wine before he answered.

“I’m not asking for your advice,” he said.

Prentiss Ingraham’s notes from his book in progress:

The area where Buffalo Bill intends to build his town is in the Absaroka Range, a mountain segment of the northern Rocky Mountains, in northwestern Wyoming Territory. This magnificent vista extends in a northwest-southeast direction. It is a large plateau with spectacular features and many very high mountains. The Yellowstone valley is formed by the Stinking Water River, which, despite its name, is a quite beautiful and refreshing stream of water.

There is already a town situated here, called DeMaris Springs, named after the natural hot springs herein located. The town is small and meanspirited, inhabited by a poor class of citizens who, for the most part, are dependent upon one man, Pierre Bellefontaine, for their livelihood. As a result of this unholy alliance, Bellefontaine treats the townspeople more as subjects than citizens.

Buffalo Bill Cody has expressed his belief that upon the emergence of his town, to be called Cody, that DeMaris Springs will dry up. Those citizens who currently reside in DeMaris Springs would then be well served to move to Cody, where they will be able to establish a more independent life and enjoy that promise offered by the Declaration of Independence to freely engage in the pursuit of happiness.