Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rocking B Ranch

Oliver Bowman owned the Rocking B Ranch. His nearest neighbor and close friend, Doyle Clayton, owned the Lazy C. They were small ranchers, but their ranches were productive, and this year, between them, they would be taking over five hundred cows to market. In order to market them, they were going to have to drive them north to the rail head at Livingston, Montana Territory.

To that end, Doyle Clayton and his wife had been invited over to the Bowmans for supper. They enjoyed a good meal, then the Claytons’ six-year-old daughter Diane and the Bowmans’ eight-year-old son Clyde went into another room to play while the adults remained at the table and talked over coffee.

“We can put our cowboys together,” Bowman said, “and they should be able to handle the drive all right. But I’m thinking that perhaps you and I should go on ahead to scout the best route.”

“There’s only one route, Oliver, and that’s to follow the Yellowstone River,” Clayton said.

“That’s what I’m thinking, but I would like to check it out. Also, we’ll need to make reservations at the rail head up in Livingston.”

“You are probably right. So, when do you want to go?”

“I was thinking first light, day after tomorrow,” Bowman said.

“I’ll be here.”

“Oh, Doyle, Oliver, you two be very careful,” Mrs. Clayton said. “I just don’t like it that the Indians have gotten so bold of late.”

“Everyone agrees that it’s nothing more than a handful of renegades,” Clayton said. “This is a big country, the odds of us running into any of them are pretty small.”

“Especially since we won’t have the cattle with us the first time. Indians only attack when they want something. With just the two of us, it’s not likely we will have anything they want,” Bowman added.

“Oliver, you have a Winchester, don’t you?” Clayton asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Tell you what, if it will make the ladies feel any better, we’ll both take our Winchesters, in addition to our pistols,” Clayton said.

“Good idea. I’ll also bring along an extra box of bullets.”

“Why is that supposed to make me feel better?” Mrs. Clayton said. “If you think you have to carry extra guns, that means you are worried too.”

“No, dear. It just means we are being careful,” Clayton said.

Cinnabar, the next day

There was a telephone in the Cinnabar Hotel, so on the morning after the shooting a call was put through to the sheriff and circuit judge in Livingston. They came down to Cinnabar on the morning train to hold a hearing into the shooting incidents in which Falcon had been involved.

There were eyewitnesses to the shooting in the hotel, so it was easy to establish that the gunman had attacked Falcon. And, though there were no eyewitnesses to the shooting in the empty lot, the sheriff and the judge listened to Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham tell about the train robbery and the incident with Slayton in Sheridan. In addition, a telegram from the city marshal in Bismarck told of Taylor being broken out of jail. Another telegram from the city marshal in Sheridan told of six horses being stolen, with Slayton as the principal suspect. By extrapolation, the judge declared the shootings to be justifiable, and no charges were brought against Falcon.

Later that same morning, Ingraham made another entry in his book.

Prentiss Ingraham’s notes from his book in progress:

The reader may well remember the names of Ethan Slayton and Billy Taylor, desperadoes whom Falcon MacCallister had encountered upon previous occasions. The third name, Jim Dewey, may be new to the readers, but the brigand himself is not new, for he was one of those whose nefarious scheme to rob the Northern Pacific Railroad met with disaster at the hands of the aforementioned Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill.

One can only wonder what motivates such men to commit acts of such brazen wantonness as were perpetrated by these three men when they made their ill-advised attempt to murder Falcon. Encountering MacCallister in an empty lot in Cinnabar on the very night of celebrating the auditions for the Buffalo Bill Cody Wild West Exhibition, Dewey, Slayton, and Taylor discharged their pistols toward him repeatedly, but with no effect. Falcon MacCallister fired but three shots in reply, all balls finding their targets with devastating results.

But the night of danger was not yet ended for the brave and stalwart Falcon MacCallister, for even as he lay in peaceful slumber in his hotel room, Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, and Ike Peters made plans to ply their murderous intentions against him. Their motivation, no doubt, was that they held Falcon MacCallister responsible for the failure of their plot and the justifiable killing of their friends.

Like the most loathsome of vermin who prowl under cover of darkness, the three men acquired the key to Falcon MacCallister’s room, and brazenly attempted to kill him in his sleep. Their attempt, as had been the earlier attempt of their partners in crime, failed, and with disastrous consequences for the perpetrators. Once again, the gallant Mr. MacCallister avoided death. Instead, he dispatched those who would have killed him to the final adjudication of He whose final judgment we all await.

This writer feels a particular sense of gratitude to Mr. MacCallister, for no doubt had the brigands succeeded, they would then have turned their murderous intentions toward Buffalo Bill Cody and your humble scribe, as we were also participants in their failed attempt to rob the train upon which we were passengers.

Falcon MacCallister’s killing of the outlaws was warranted and he was totally exonerated by a legal hearing held by the sheriff and circuit judge.

Ingraham had just finished his notes when Cody knocked on his door. “You still asleep in there?” Cody called.

Ingraham got up from the table and jerked open the door. “Not at all,” he said. “I was just making some notes.”

“More entries in your great American novel?”

“I’ll have you know, sir, that it is not a novel,” Ingraham said. “It is a scholarly work of nonfiction.”

“Is it now? Well, if you want to continue your scholarly work of nonfiction, you’d best get moving. Falcon is seeing to our horses. We are going back a different way.”

“Not back through Yellowstone?”

“No. We’re going through Dead Indian Pass, and will join the Yellowstone River back in Wyoming.”

“Sounds interesting,” Ingraham said.

With Bowman and Clayton

It took Bowman and Clayton half a day to reach the Yellowstone River from their respective ranches. The ride had not been difficult, and was even easier once they reached the river. Here, they had an abundant source of water, and because of the river, there was an abundant source of forage for the cattle.

They caught a couple of trout and cooked them over an open fire. That night they had roasted rabbit. They could have eaten elk; there were plenty to be taken, but as there were only two of them, they didn’t want to waste the rest of the meat that they wouldn’t be able to eat or store.

“I hope I’m not speaking too early,” Clayton said as they bedded down for the night. “But seems to me like this drive is likely to be pretty easy.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing,” Bowman said. “But, just to be safe, let’s extinguish the fire. No sense in leaving a beacon for anyone.”

With the White Bull raiding party, the next day

White Bull gave the reins of his pony to Running Elk, and then climbed to the top of the hill. He knew the warrior’s secret of lying down behind the crest of the hill so that he couldn’t be seen against the skyline, so he lay on his stomach, then sneaked up to the top and peered over. There, on the valley floor below him, he saw two white men. It was obvious that the whites had no idea they were in danger. It would be easy to count coups against them. He smiled, then slithered back down the hill into the ravine where Running Elk and the others were waiting.

“Did you see them?” Running Elk asked.

“Yes,” White Bull answered.

“How many are there?”

“There are two white men.”

“Only two? But we are thirteen,” Running Elk said. “Where is the honor in thirteen attacking two?”

“Where is the honor in the whites killing Many Buffalo and One Feather? Where is the honor in attacking White Deer and Quiet Stream and White Deer’s children?” White Bull replied. “Have you forgotten how the blood ran hot in your veins?”

“No, I have not forgotten.”

“We will claim coups on these white men, then we will show Mean to His Horses that the Crow can be as good warriors as the Cheyenne.”

“When do you attack?” One of the others asked. He was Face in the Wind, a Shoshone. Standing Bear and Jumping Wolf were also present.

“Now,” White Bull replied. He pointed down the ravine. “We will follow the ravine around the side of the hill. We will attack them before they suspect our presence.”

Doyle Clayton and Oliver Bowman had gotten an early start this morning and were well into their trip when Clayton saw a substantial group of Indians coming toward them from the east.

“Look over there, Oliver,” Clayton said. “What do you think that is all about?”

“I don’t know, but there are too many of them to suit me. I think we should get out of here,” Bowman answered.

The two ranchers urged their horses into a gallop, keeping it up for at least two miles until they came into the breaks of the Yellowstone River. There they dismounted, pulled their rifles from the saddle-sheaths, then slapped their horses to keep them running, hoping that would draw off the Indians. Finding a spot in the sand dunes next to the river, they hunkered down to wait for the Indians. The Indians poured over the bluffs, then crossed over the sand dunes so that the two ranchers were surrounded. Bowman and Clayton had cover from the front, but no cover behind except for the river.

One of the Indians tried to sneak up from the river, but Clayton shot him. For the rest of the day, the cattlemen and the Indians exchanged shots, though Clayton’s response was measured to preserve ammunition. They warned each other not to waste a bullet until they had a good, clear target.

The two were well-positioned, and for the first hour or so they were able to hold the Indians off, killing no fewer than four of them. Finally, the Indians quit trying to advance on them, but stood off and fired arrows from over a hundred yards away, launching them high into the air so they would rain down on the other side of the dunes.

Clayton was hit in the arm, and again in the side. Bowman pulled both of the arrows out.

“Damn,” Clayton said, grunting with pain. “Those things go in easier than they come out.”

“I know, but we can’t leave ’em in or they’ll start festerin’, and the next thing you know you’ll have gangrene,” Bowman said.

Bowman was bandaging Clayton’s arm when one Indian came over the top of the dune to claim coups. Clayton was lying on the ground, and even though his left arm was being bandaged he was holding his pistol in his right hand. When the Indian appeared over the top of the dune, Clayton raised his pistol and shot him at point-blank range. After that, no other Indian tried to breach their defense.

That night Clayton developed a fever. “I’m going to die,” he said.

“No you ain’t.”

“Yes, I am. I’m goin’ to die, so here’s what I want you to do. I want you to leave me here. It’s nighttime so I think you can get away.”

“I ain’t leavin’ you here by yourself.”

“Leave, damnit!” Clayton said. “Don’t you understand? You are our only chance. If you can get away, you can bring help back.”

Bowman thought for a moment, then he nodded his head. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go. But I’ll be back.” Bowman handed his rifle and a handful of .44-.40 cartridges to Clayton.

“You take my rifle and bullets, I’ll just keep my pistol.”

“All right, if they come after me, I’ll take out as many as I can before they get me,” Clayton said.

Even though it was relatively cool, Bowman stripped down to his underwear, thinking that if he stayed in the river he would be less likely to encounter an Indian. But shortly after he left, he encountered a mounted Indian riding down the middle of the river. He moved over to stay as close to the bank as he could.

Bowman stayed in the river, continuing downstream until daybreak. Then, cold and barefooted, he started south across the rocks, cactus, and sage.

“I think they are both dead,” Jumping Wolf said.

“I think they are not dead,” White Bull replied.

“I am going to see. If they are dead, I will count first coups.”

“I think we should wait until first light,” Running Elk said.

“I think Running Elk is a coward, afraid to see if the white men are dead,” Jumping Wolf said.

“I am not a coward, I am pragmatic,” Running Elk said, saying the word “pragmatic” in English. It was a word he learned in the white man’s school, and he thought it fit this situation perfectly.

“What is pragmatic?” Jumping Wolf asked. He had trouble pronouncing the word.

“It means I have good sense,” Running Elk replied.

“I think it means you are a coward,” Jumping Wolf said.

Running Elk stood and drew his knife. “I will show you who is a coward,” he said.

Jumping Wolf held out his hand. “I do not want to fight you now. Now I will claim coups on the white men. When I return, I will fight you.”

“You will not return,” Running Elk said.

Clayton was trying to stay awake but he kept dozing off. Each time he would doze off he would dream, and in one of his dreams he was talking to Diane, his six-year-old daughter. She was showing him the new dress her mother had made for her doll.

“That is a very nice dress,” Clayton said.

“It is the prettiest dress, so I put it on my favorite doll,” Diane said.

“Yes, I think that is the one I would put it on too.”

“You had better wake up now, Daddy, because there is an Indian coming.”

Clayton opened his eyes just in time to see an Indian kneeling over him, with his war club raised.

“Ahhh!” Clayton shouted, and, raising his pistol, he shot the Indian in the head. The Indian fell across him, dead.

It was a struggle to get out from under the Indian’s body, but he managed to do so, then he lay there, breathing hard, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

He vowed not to go back to sleep.

With the White Bull raiding party

Jumping Wolf did not come back. Running Elk, White Bull, and the others had heard the shot in the middle of the night, and because Jumping Wolf had carried only a war club with him, they suspected that he had been seen.

White Bull had left their encampment with Running Elk and eleven others. But in the time they had been here, they knew for sure that four of their number had been killed, and now they believed that Jumping Wolf had been killed as well.

“Perhaps he claimed coups, then left,” Face in the Wind suggested.

“Why would he do that? Would he not want to return and brag of his coups?” Standing Bear asked.

“Yes, and did he not challenge Running Elk to a fight?” Red Eagle asked.

“Perhaps he is afraid of Running Elk,” Face in the Wind said.

“No,” Running Elk said. “Jumping Wolf was a brave warrior. I do not think he feared me. But I think he is dead. I think the white men killed him.”