Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jim Mountain, Wyoming Territory

Lee Regret and Sam Davis rode down to the river at the base of the mountain and dismounted. Leading their horses down to the water, they stood holding the reins as the horses began to drink.

“I don’t see him anywhere about,” Regret said.

“He’ll be here,” Davis said. “You know Sergeant Depro as well as I do. You know that when he tells you he’s goin’ to do somethin’ that he does it.”

“Yeah, well, only if he’s goin’ to get somethin’ out of it for his ownself,” Regret said.

“Well, he is goin’ to get somethin’,” Davis insisted. “He’s goin’ to get his cut of the money.”

“If there is any money,” Regret replied. “You ever seen any Indians with money?”

“You were there when we talked to Mean to His Horses. You heard me tell him that we wanted to be paid in gold. He agreed, and that’s what we’ll be dealin’ in.”

As the two men stood there talking and watching their animals take water, they heard a low whistle from just beyond the tree line on the opposite side of the river.

“What was that?” Regret asked.

“Sounded like a bird,” Davis replied.

“Didn’t sound like no bird I ever heard.”

Davis returned the whistle and a moment later a man wearing an army uniform with the stripes of a sergeant walked through the tree line.

“Howdy, troopers,” he called from the other side of the river.

“We ain’t troopers no more,” Regret said. “We done been out of the army for nigh onto a year.”

“Hell, Regret, you wasn’t no soldier when you was in the army,” the sergeant said. “You wasn’t bad though, Davis.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Davis said.

“What the hell you suckin’ up to him, for?” Regret asked. “He can’t make me muck out stables, and he can’t give you no stripes. Me ’n you both is out of the army and there ain’t nothin’ he can do to hurt us or help us. Ain’t that right, Sergeant Depro?”

“That all depends,” Depro replied.

“Depends on what?”

“On whether or not you want the weapons I got.”

“You got ’em, Sarge?” Davis asked, now, suddenly animated.

“Come over here with me, and I’ll let you take a look.”

Regret and Davis waded through the water, then followed Sergeant Depro to the other side of a large rock outcropping. There sat an old weather-beaten wagon, its markings so dim that it was barely identifiable as a one-time army wagon.

“Here they are,” Sergeant Depro said, jerking the canvas cover away to reveal eight closed boxes.

Davis pried off the lid from the first box. He picked up one of the rifles and tossed it over to Regret, then picked up another for himself. It was a lever-action rifle, and he pumped the lever as he examined the action. “How many do you have here?” he asked.

“Forty Winchester repeaters, .44-.40, fifty-five Springfield .51 caliber breach-loading rifles, and thirty-five Colt revolvers, .45 caliber,” Sergeant Depro answered. “Or, put another way, enough weapons to start a small war.”

“Funny you should say that,” Regret replied. “For that is exactly what we have in mind.”

“Have you got a buyer?”

“Yeah, we have a buyer,” Davis said. “Mean to His Horses.”

“Mean to His Horses?” Depro replied. “Wait a minute. Are you tellin’ me I stole these guns to sell to Injuns? And not just any Injun, you’re going to sell them to Mean to His Horses? You can’t be serious.”

“Yeah, we are serious. Why wouldn’t we be serious?” Davis asked.

Depro shook his head. “I don’t know, Mean to His Horses is one bad son of a bitch. I just can’t believe you sold weapons to him.”

“Who did you think we would sell them to?” Regret asked. “Some squaw, somewhere?”

“No, I guess not. But I’m sure you remember the skirmish we had with Mean to His Horses a couple of years ago. He had fifty braves who went off the reservation, and we ran into them at Crazy Woman Creek. That was the fight where Miller, Tucker, and Jimmy Clark was all three killed.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Davis said.

“They captured Jimmy Clark, and tortured him that night. We all heard him screaming for two or three hours before he died,” Depro said. “You remember that too, do you?”

“Yes, of course I remember. Something like that ain’t all that easy to forget,” Regret said. “So what is your point?”

“My point is, is that really the kind of Injun you want to sell these guns to?”

“I don’t care who we sell the guns to, as long as we get paid,” Davis said. “And seein’ as how you done stole the guns, looks to me like you don’t have no choice but to go along with it your ownself. ’Cause when you think about it, you are in this for the money, same as we are.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Depro agreed. “It don’t really make me no never mind what happens to the guns as long as I get paid for ’em. What price do you think we can get for them?”

“We’ve already set the price at ten dollars apiece so, with what we’ve got here, I figure that comes to about thirteen hundred dollars,” Davis said.

“How much will that be for each of us?” Regret asked.

“Four hundred and thirty-three dollars each, with one dollar left over,” Davis said. He looked at Depro. “Which is damn near a year’s salary for you.”

“Here’s another way we can make some money,” Depro said. “I’ve already got me about ten thousand rounds, all divided up according to caliber. If we don’t give the Injuns bullets when we sell ’em the guns, why, we could charge them for the bullets too, oh, say maybe a nickel a round and that would be another five hundred dollars.”

“Sounds good to me,” Davis said. “But how did you come by the bullets?”

“When we were told to ship them guns back to Jefferson Barracks, what they also done was ask for the ammunition too,” Depro explained. He smiled. “But I hid all the bullets away same as I hid the guns. That means I’ve got all the ammunition we will need.”

“I tell you what,” Davis said. “What do you say we just let the Indians play with the guns without bullets for a while? I’m sure they can come up with some on their own, but probably not more ’n a handful. And all that’s goin’ to do is make ’em hungry for more.”

“Ha! They might get so hungry for them bullets that we could fetch a dime apiece for ’em,” Regret said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Davis said.

DeMaris Springs

As it so happened, Buffalo Bill Cody had several horses being kept for him at the livery at DeMaris Springs, so the day after their meeting with Bellefontaine, Cody, Falcon, and Ingraham walked down to the DeMaris Corral.

“I keep horses here so that I have them handy when I come out,” Cody said. “It helps that the DeMaris Corral is one of the few business establishments in town that Bellefontaine doesn’t own.”

When they stepped into the livery barn, they saw two men putting a wheel on a buckboard.

“Karl, are you sure you know what you are doing?” Cody called out.

A big man, whose rolled-up sleeves displayed welldeveloped biceps, turned toward the three men.

“More better than you know, I think,” Karl replied. Grabbing a rag to wipe his hands, the big man advanced toward the three, then a wide smile spread across his face. “Cody, in town I heard you were,” he said as he stuck out his hand.

“It is I heard you were in town, you dumb Dutchman, not in town I heard you were,” Cody said.

That there was no animosity between the two men was indicated by the mutual smiles, and a hearty handshake.

“Gentleman, this thickheaded Dutchman is Karl Maas. And you aren’t likely to find a better man anywhere. Karl, this is Falcon MacCallister and Prentiss Ingraham.”

“Falcon MacCallister, ja, of you I have heard,” Karl said as he shook first Falcon’s hand, then Ingraham’s.

“When are you going to sell this place and come join my Wild West Exhibition? I would put you in charge of all my stock and rolling equipment. I was in Germany two months ago. Why, just think, if you had been working for me then, you could have gone back.”

“And why to the place I left, would I want to go back?”

Cody chuckled. “A good enough question, I suppose. Listen, how about picking out three of my best horses and having them saddled for us?”

“You are going to look at the site where the town you will build?” Karl asked.

“Yes. Then we are going to ride through Yellowstone, and go on to Cinnabar. I’m going to try out some new cowboys for my show there.”

“Al,” Maas called to one of his employees, “three of Herr Cody’s best horses, you saddle.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Maas,” Al replied.

“You weren’t at the meeting this morning when we talked about the Indian problem,” Cody said.

“There is no Indian problem,” Maas said, shaking his head. “I think it is something Bellefontaine wants.”

“Why would he want that?” Falcon asked.

“I think he wants all the basin for himself so he can build his mine. If there is Indian problem, then all prospectors and homesteaders will not be able to stay. And the Indians too, will not be able to stay because the army will come in and move them.”

“Is there that much gold in this valley?” Falcon asked.

“I think there is no gold,” Maass said, “but there is much coal. Bellefontaine wants to mine the coal to sell to the railroad. That will make him much money, I think.”

“Damn,” Cody said, snapping his fingers. “You know, Karl, you may not be as thickheaded as people think. Bellefontaine is making everyone think he is looking for gold, but that is just a ruse. He has been after coal all along.”

“Ja, that is what I think,” Maas said.

Al returned with three saddled horses.

“Ah, thank you, Al,” Cody said, giving him a generous tip. He turned to Falcon and Ingraham. “Gentlemen, all three are excellent riding horses, with strength and endurance. You may choose your mount.”

Half an hour later the three men were at the exact site where Cody planned to build his town.

“One problem in this area is the lack of potable water, which is why I am building on the river,” Cody said. “This is the Stinking Water River.” Dismounting, he walked down to the river. “But as you can see,” he said, as he dipped his canteen cup into it, then took a drink. “The water is as sweet as a good wine.”

He held the cup out toward Falcon and Falcon took a drink as well. “It is good water,” Falcon agreed.

“Why do they call it Stinking Water River?” Ingraham asked.

“It has nothing to do with the water at all. There are several fumaroles about,” Cody said, “and they give off an odor, rather like rotten eggs. Once we get my town established, I intend to get the name changed to the Shoshone River.”

“I must confess that the scenery here is beautiful,” Ingraham said. “But this a very remote and isolated location. It will be very hard for people to get here.”

“There is already a railroad to Cinnabar just on the other side of Yellowstone Park,” Cody said. “And the Burlington railroad is planning to build a railroad from Billings to Denver. I am trying to convince them to bring the track through Cody.”

“Knowing your power of persuasion, Cody, I would bet that you get the job done,” Falcon offered.

“And that will completely destroy the town of DeMaris Springs,” Ingraham said.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Cody said.

Ingraham laughed. “Unfortunately my foot. That is your intention.”

“I must confess that it is unlikely this area could support two towns in such close proximity,” Cody replied. “So if one town is to succeed, I would hope it would be my town.”

“Nobody can fault you on that,” Ingraham said.

“Cody, did you say we are going through Yellowstone before we get to Cinnabar?” Falcon asked.

“Yes.”

“But there is no east entrance to Yellowstone. The mountains are too high.”

“There is a pass,” Cody said. “It is called Sylvan Pass. I am proposing that they make an entrance using that pass. That would add to the attraction of my town when I get it built.”

“Sylvan Pass. I don’t think I have heard of it.”

“It’s very high,” Cody said. “But I am convinced that, with a series of switchbacks, a road could be constructed that would take visitors from my town into the park. And I intend to prove it.”

“By taking us through it,” Falcon said.

“Yes. Are you game?”

“I’m not the one you need to ask,” Falcon said. “The question is, are the horses up to it?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Cody replied.

From Cody’s town site, they had a day’s ride through Big Horn Basin to the Yellowstone Park. Their ride took them close to, but not through, the Crow Indian village.

“I have known High Hawk for a long time,” Cody said. “We are friends of long standing, and I cannot believe we are in any danger. Nevertheless, it would probably be wise to keep an eye open.”

The three men were alert for the entire ride, but they did not see one other person, Indian or white. They camped that night, just east of the park.

The next morning they entered Yellowstone by way of Sylvan Pass. Without a road, they had to follow the natural terrain of the mountain, finding enough ground for their horses to get footing as they made a series of switchbacks to enable them to gain altitude. The climb was long and arduous, and soon they were so high that they were actually looking down on the snow-capped peaks of adjacent mountains. In fact, though it was the middle of June, there were several areas where they actually passed through snow that came up to the horses’ knees.

Several times they had to dismount and lead the horses until, at last, they were at the top of the pass. There they stopped to give themselves and their horses a chance to catch their breath. That was made even harder due to the thinner air at this elevation.

“How high are we?” Ingraham asked, panting heavily as they stood at the top of the pass, as he looked around at the vista their position afforded.

“I’m not sure exactly how high we are,” Cody said. “But if this were nighttime and we were hungry, why we could just reach up and get a piece of cheese from the moon.”

Falcon and Ingraham laughed.

“Actually, the pass is somewhere between eight and nine thousand feet high,” Cody said.

Yellowstone had been established as a national park in 1872. Both Falcon and Cody had been to Yellowstone prior to its establishment as a park, and Cody had been many times since it became a national park. But Ingraham had never been, and he took in the park with the awe of someone who was transfixed by the wonders that he beheld.

Falcon and Cody pointed out Yellowstone Lake, which Cody declared was the most beautiful lake in the entire country. Coming down from the pass, they saw travertine terraces, geysers, mud volcanoes, giant hot springs, and the Upper and Lower Falls in what Cody called the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone Park.

At midday Falcon shot a goose. Ingraham started gathering wood and Cody called out to him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m gathering wood for a fire so we can cook the goose,” Ingraham replied.

“No need for that.”

“What are you planning for us to do? Eat the goose raw?”

“No need for that either,” Cody said. “Let me show you.”

After cleaning the goose, Cody tied a long piece of rawhide around the goose’s feet, then lowered it into one of the boiling cauldrons of the natural hot springs.

“Because of the pressure, the water is much hotter than normal boiling temperature,” Cody said. “So the goose will cook much faster.”

In less than ten minutes, Cody pulled the goose from the hot water, then lay it on a fallen tree trunk. Cutting it open showed that the goose was thoroughly cooked, through and through.

“I wonder if the Indians used to cook their food this way?” Ingraham said and he pulled some meat away from the breast and ate it.

“No,” Falcon said. “Because of all the hot springs, geysers, mud pots, and sink holes, the Indians considered this area to be filled with bad medicine.”

“You have to be careful where you walk here,” Cody added. “There are places where the ground looks quite secure, but if you step on it you will find that it is only a very thin crust, and you can fall through to a boiling cauldron like this one.”

“Thanks a lot,” Ingraham said. “Now you’ll have me scared to death to take a step.”

“Do like me,” Falcon said. “Walk behind Cody. If he falls in, we’ll know not to step there.”

Ingraham laughed. “Good plan,” he said.

“I’ll say this,” Ingraham said. “The wonders of this park will never cease to amaze me.”

“Here is another amazing wonder,” Cody said. “Once, many years ago, before this became a park, I came here to hunt bighorn sheep. I saw one, took a perfect aim at him and fired, but missed. Not only did I miss, the bighorn sheep paid no attention to me.

“I moved closer and fired again, missed again, though I don’t know how that could possibly have been so. And what was even more amazing is the fact that the bighorn paid no attention whatever, not even reacting to the sound of the gunshot. I rushed toward the sheep to see what was wrong and I ran smack dab into a solid glass wall.”

“A glass wall?” Ingraham said.

“Yes, sir, well, it wasn’t exactly a glass wall. It was more like a glass mountain. Because, believe it or not, that glass mountain was acting just like a telescope. As it turns out, even though that bighorn sheep looked like he was no more than a hundred yards away, he was actually ten miles off.”

Falcon and Ingraham laughed out loud.

“Of course, that mountain isn’t here anymore. No sir, the government found out about it and they sent folks in here to chop it down and make it into field glasses and telescopes for the army and navy,” Cody added.

“Cody, you have missed your calling,” Ingraham said. “With a tall tale like that, you are the one who should be writing.”

After dinner they continued their sojourn through the park, riding by sheer-sided cliffs that rose a thousand or more feet straight up and enjoying the colors, from canary, to orange, to bronze. During their ride through the park they saw buffalo, elk, deer, and grizzly. One grizzly bear made a few feints toward them and all three men drew their rifles, but the bear, with a few grunts and a toss of his head, turned and ambled away from them.

Within the boundaries of the Yellowstone Park rise the headwaters of the greatest river system in the United States. The Gallatin, Madison, Gardiner, Jefferson and Yellowstone join the Missouri River, which joins the Mississippi to empty into the Gulf of Mexico. The Snake has its head here as well, and it flows to the Pacific, while the headwaters of the Colorado lead to the Gulf of California.

It took them all day to see the sights, and they camped outside one more night, reaching the Mammoth Spring Hotel mid-morning of the next day. This was a large building, over 300 feet long, with a broad porch that ran the entire length of the hotel. There were a number of people lounging on the porch, including several tourists from Europe, a couple of army officers in uniform, and a very pretty black-haired, dark-eyed girl who was selling photographs of the park. From the porch there was a particularly fine view of mountains covered with pines, with their tips above the tree line, covered year-round with snow.

The most noticeable feature was a mountain, no more than one hundred yards away from the hotel. At first glance it looked like ice, but was actually a sedimentary formation from the hot springs which formed a succession of steps, terraces and plateaus of irregular height and width. From various terraces emerged trickles of hot water which then passed down over the plateaus in thin, pulsing waves.

When the three men went into the hotel they were greeted by Rufus Hatch, the owner of the hotel.

“Buffalo Bill Cody,” he said. “What a pleasure to see you. How goes your town? Have you built it yet?”

“I am still working on it,” Cody replied. He turned to Falcon. “You know that the only reason he is interested in my town is because he thinks it will mean more business for his hotel.”

“But of course it will,” Hatch said. “Did you come down from Cinnabar?”

“No, we came from DeMaris Springs.”

“DeMaris Springs? Are you trying to tell me you came from the east?” Hatch asked.

“I’m not trying to tell you, Rufus, I am telling you. We came in from the east.”

“But no, that is impossible.”

“We are proof that it is possible.”

“Ah, yes, but you came by horse, and foot, did you not? I suppose one could enter the park that way. But that would not be a practical way to enter for tourists.”

“It would be practical if we built a road,” Cody said.

“Are you saying that you think a road could be built that would enter the park from the east?”

“I believe so,” Cody said. “In fact, I will personally hire surveyors to mark out the route for a road.”

“You are indeed a friend,” Hatch said. “That would be of immense benefit to the park.”

“I see that you are doing a very good business, despite the lack of a road from the east,” Cody said.

“Yes, well, the trains come from Livingston to Cinnabar now, and of course we have stagecoaches that maintain a steady run from the Cinnabar depot to here,” Hatch said. “Oh, by the way, as you will see in the lounge, I have put up posters about the audition you will be holding in Cinnabar for your show. I predict you will get cowboys from all over Wyoming, Montana, and Utah.”

Prentiss Ingraham’s notes from his book in progress:

The hotel at Mammoth Hot Springs is one of the most remarkable hotels I have ever seen. It is built upon a plateau of the vast formations of sulfur and magnesia, deposited by the Hot Springs. A level area of many acres surrounds the hotel, with mountains and forest on every side except far below, where the Gardiner River rushes through a beautiful valley toward its juncture with the Yellowstone.

The hotel is built of wood, except for the chimneys which are of brick. The rooms and corridors are generous in their dimension and surprisingly so in this remote area, illuminated by Mr. Edison’s electric lights. The hotel attracts hunters, settlers, and cowboys as they congregate in the great halls, wearing sombrero hats, high leather boots and leggings, revolvers and cartridge belts.

The residents of Yellowstone expressed a great deal of surprise that we gained entrance to the park from the east, marveling at the fact that we were able to negotiate a pass which rises to nearly nine thousand feet in elevation.

Leaving the hotel and the park, we journeyed by horseback some ten miles, gradually descending in altitude by way of a dusty but well-travelled road to Cinnabar. Here, announcements had been duly posted to attract applicants for the coveted position of being a performer in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Exhibition. This is no small thing as Buffalo Bill is a man of great honesty and integrity who believes in giving the audiences for his show an authentic look at America’s great West as it really is.