Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

After the meeting, Bellefontaine asked Sam Davis and Lee Regret to come to his office.

“This isn’t working out the way it was supposed to,” Bellefontaine said. “If the soldiers don’t drive the Crow out of their village, we haven’t accomplished anything.”

“Seemed to me like none of the folks in town was all that happy about the way things is turnin’ out either,” Regret said.

“No, they weren’t very happy about it, were they?” Bellefontaine said. He drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment. “Davis, those men who were with you when you attacked the Indians a couple of weeks ago. Do you think you could get them to go with you to attack the village?”

Davis held out his hand. “Whoa now, Mr. Bellefontaine, there was only six of us done that. That ain’t near enough to attack a whole village.”

“You wouldn’t need too many, if you attacked in the middle of the night, when they were all asleep.”

“Even then, we would need more than six.”

“What about twenty? Would that be enough if you attacked the village in the middle of the night, when nobody was expecting it?”

Davis nodded. “Twenty might do it,” he said. “But I’m not sure I can come up with twenty men.”

“If I paid them one hundred dollars apiece?” Bellefontaine said. “And two hundred dollars to each of you?”

Davis smiled broadly, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “For a hundred dollars apiece, I can get twenty men for sure.”

Confluence of the Stinking Water and South Fork Rivers

Falcon and Coletrain’s platoon had come twenty miles up the Stinking Water River when they reached South Fork. Here, the water widened considerably to accommodate the two streams, and the men dismounted with the intention of having their lunch. The horses were watered, then ground-tethered in the grass so they could feed as well.

Just as they were settling down to their meal, someone shouted “Indians!” There were no more than half a dozen Indians, but their yelling, whooping and firing guns frightened the cavalry horses, causing them to pull away from their ground tethers and run away. Sergeant Major Coletrain and the others fired at the Indians, and the Indians retreated.

The soldiers stood there, holding smoking weapons in their hands, watching as the Indians rode away.

“What’ll we do now, Sarge? All our horses is gone,” one of the soldiers said.

“We’re goin’ to go get ’em,” Coletrain replied.

Within fifteen minutes, half the horses were retrieved, and the men were about to get mounted to go after the remaining horses when the Indians returned. This time there were at least two hundred of them, against Falcon, Coletrain, and no more than twenty soldiers. The cavalrymen had no choice but to retreat onto an island in the middle of the river. There they formed a defensive circle, the soldiers lying bellydown on the ground while Falcon and Coletrain were on their knees inside the circle.

Within the first five minutes all of the recovered horses were killed, along with one of the soldiers. Sergeant Major Coletrain had been hit twice, once in the right thigh and once in the left leg.

Mean to His Horses, who was easily identified by the red and white painted face, led his Indians in a second charge toward the cavalry. The Indians fired volley after volley, but the soldiers returned fire and, because they were in the prone position and the Indians were exposed, the soldiers got the better of it. When Mean to His Horses pulled his Indians back he left almost fifty of them behind, dead in the water or along the banks of the river.

“They’re gone!” one of the soldiers said.

“Not for long,” Coletrain replied, his voice strained with pain.

“How bad is it?” Falcon asked. “Your wounds, I mean.”

“I can’t rightly tell,” Coletrain said. “I guess you are going to have to take a look and let me know.”

Falcon used his knife to cut open Coletrain’s trousers so he could look at the wounds.

“Well, the one on your thigh isn’t that bad,” Falcon said. “Looks like it just caught the edge of it, left a crease, but there’s no bullet.”

“The other one?”

“It didn’t hit a bone, and it didn’t sever an artery that would cause you to lose a lot of blood, but the bullet is still inside, so it is going to need to come out.”

“Think you can get it out?”

“I can try, but it’s going to be hard with just a knife,” Falcon said.

“I got me some tweezers,” one of the other soldiers said.

“Tweezers? Yes, let me have those.”

The soldier reached into his knapsack and pulled them out. Falcon was pleased to see that there were at least six inches long.

“Good, I can use this. Get fire going, boil some water, and drop this in the water.”

“Colonel, you ain’t plannin’ on boilin’ that, then stickin’ it in Sarge while it’s still hot, are you?”

“Yes. I’ve read that if you boil the instruments a doctor uses it helps keep the wound from festering,” Falcon said.

“I don’t know, I ain’t never heard of such a thing,” the soldier said. “I know I wouldn’t want it stuck down in me if it was boilin’ hot.”

“Bates, do what the colonel says,” Coletrain said.

“All right, Sarge, you the one he’s goin’ to use it on, not me.”

Half an hour later, Falcon held up the bullet to show it. Then, tossing it aside, he found the cleanest piece of cloth he could find, and bound up Coletrain’s wounds.

He had no sooner finished with Coletrain than the Indians attacked again, and again the casualties among the Indians were very high. The cavalry suffered casualties as well, and because their numbers were so small, each loss was multiplied in its effect. Three more soldiers were killed and one more wounded.

Somewhat later the Indians made another charge, but were again repulsed, though not without cost, as two more soldiers were killed and two more wounded. After that, it turned into a waiting game. Now, there were only fifteen soldiers left alive, four of whom were wounded. The nature of the wounds ranged from slight to serious.

Mean to His Horses changed his tactics. Realizing that he had the soldiers trapped on the island, he decided he could wait them out, so he put his men on both sides of the island to deny the soldiers any opportunity to escape.

“Sergeant, they’s Injuns all around us,” one of the troopers said. “We are trapped here!”

“Look out there, Schuler,” Coletrain said, pointing to the river and the riverbank. The river and the bank were strewn with bodies. “What do you see?”

“I see Injuns,” Schuler said.

“Dead Injuns,” Coletrain said. “We’ve killed nearly a hundred of them now.”

“Yeah,” Schuler said. He smiled. “Yeah, we have, ain’t we?”

“Ol’ Mean to His Horses has already decided that he can’t run us off this island, so he plans to try and wait us out. Only, he can’t do that, either.”

“How come he can’t?”

“We have plenty of ammunition, we have water, and we have fifteen days of rations. And if we had to, we can cut up one of the dead horses and cook it. But we aren’t goin’ to have to wait here fifteen days, because by then Lieutenant Bond will connect with us.”

“Yeah,” Schuler said. “Yeah, that’s right, ain’t it?”

Coletrain came back over to Falcon, then sat down, painfully, beside him.

“How is Jackson?” Coletrain asked, inquiring about the most seriously wounded of the soldiers.

Falcon shook his head. “I don’t think he’s going to make it,” he said.

“Jackson is a good soldier,” Coletrain said.

“Sergeant, from what I have observed, they are all good soldiers,” Falcon replied.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Coletrain said. “Comin’ from you, that means a lot.”

That night, two of the men volunteered to try and sneak through the Indians to go for help, but they were seen by the Indians and had to return to the island.

Near the Crow village on the Meeteetsee

Bellefontaine personally led the group he called the Wyoming Citizens Militia to the Crow village on the Meeteetsee River. It was two o’clock in the morning as the men rode across the Meeteetsee River, the hooves of their horses churning up the water and sending up a froth of bubbles as they did. As Bellefontaine had said, no one in the village expected anything.

High Hawk, perhaps to show the loyalty of the Crow, was flying an American flag over his tipi.

“Look at that,” Regret said. “That Injun bastard is flyin’ an American flag. Where do you reckon he got that?”

“More than likely he stole it from some soldiers he kilt somewhere,” Davis said.

“That son of a bitch has some nerve,” one of the others in the Citizen’s Militia said.

“What are we goin’ to do?” Regret asked.

“We’re goin’ to kill as many as we can,” Bellefontaine replied. “That’s what we are going to do.”

A horse of one of the militiamen, perhaps nervous from the darkness and the tension, whinnied, then turned around. As he did so, one of his hooves struck a metal bucket that was lying on the bank of the river.

Inside the village

In her tipi, Quiet Stream heard the sound and she opened her eyes, not sure if it was something she actually heard, or whether it was something she dreamed. She lay there in the dark for a moment longer, drifting comfortably in that zone between sleep and wake, when she heard another sound. This time it was the sound of shod horses’ hooves striking rocks.

None of the villagers’ horses were shod.

“Father,” she said. “There are white men in the camp.”

Big Hand sat up and listened. Like Quiet Stream, he heard the sound of shod hooves on stone. He grabbed his rifle, then stepped through the opening of the tipi.

“Village awake! Village awake!” he called loudly. “White men are in camp!”

“Kill that screaming son of a bitch!” Bellefontaine shouted, and several fired at the same time. Big Hand fell, even as other warriors, heeding his call, were beginning to appear outside.

Bellefontaine’s men began shooting at everyone they saw, men, women, and children. When they didn’t have a specific target, they fired into the tipis. They also began setting fire to the tipis. They continued their indiscriminate assault for the next half hour, keeping up such a rate of fire that it was impossible for the Crow to marshal any type of organized resistance.

Davis and Regret, in a personal killing frenzy, killed and scalped three women and five children who had surrendered and were screaming for mercy. Following their example, the other members of the militia went on a bloodlust rampage of their own, killing all the wounded they could find before mutilating and scalping the dead, including pregnant women, children and babies. They also started plundering the tipis that had not yet been burned, dividing up the spoils.

As soon as the shooting started, Running Elk ran outside the tipi, and seeing quickly what was happening, he called out in English.

“Wait! Wait! You are making a mistake! These people are innocent! I am the one you want! I was with Mean to His Horses!”

Despite the fact that he was calling attention to himself, Running Elk was not hit, even though the bullets were whistling all around him. But though he was spared, he saw his mother, father, and young sister killed, along with dozens of other villagers.

Running Elk had come out without a weapon, hoping that by doing so he could surrender, and spare the other villagers. Now he realized that his plan would not work, and he started back into the tipi to get his rifle when he saw Quiet Stream go down.

“No!” he shouted, and, forgetting about his weapon, he ran to her.

“Quiet Stream!” he shouted, kneeling beside her. She had been hit by at least three bullets, and there was blood from her shoulders to her waist. “Quiet Stream!” he said again, softer this time, but his voice racked by the agony and anger he was feeling.

“I will never have your children,” Quiet Stream said. She gasped a couple of times, then she quit breathing.

Running Elk looked around him, and seeing a war club in the hands of a nearby dead warrior, he grabbed the club then turned to look toward the white men who had come into the village on their killing spree.

“Ahheee!” he yelled as he ran toward one of the invaders. Reaching up, he pulled the white man from his saddle, and crushed his skull with one blow of the heavy war club.

Running Elk leaped into the empty saddle then, and with his war club held high, urged the horse in pursuit of another of the invaders. One blow brought down another invader, and another as well. So far Running Elk had managed to kill three men, and was sending panic through the others.

“Kill that Indian!” Bellefontaine shouted, pointing toward Running Elk. “One hundred dollars to the man who kills him!”

At least five men turned their guns toward Running Elk, and all five fired as one. Though Bellefontaine didn’t know if all five rounds struck Running Elk, it didn’t matter, because he saw blood, bone, and brain detritus erupt from the Indian’s head, and he knew that the wild warrior was dead.

With Running Elk lying dead on the ground, the shooting stopped. For a long moment the mounted white men fought to control their nervous prancing and whinnying horses as they looked around the village, now fairly well lit by the burning tipis. Everywhere they looked they saw dead bodies, bodies of the warriors, bodies of the old men, including High Hawk whom many recognized, as well as bodies of women and children. High Hawk was wrapped in the American flag, perhaps believing that would save him.

Now, with their last resistance eliminated, Bellefontaine’s men began to systematically scalp and mutilate the dead.

“Hey!” Lee Regret shouted, holding a small, black tuft of hair over his head. “Ha! Look what I got!”

“Damn, Regret, what the hell are you screamin’ about? That’s the scrawniest scalp I’ve ever seen,” Davis said.

“That’s ’cause it ain’t a scalp,” Regret said, a broad, evil smile spreading across his face.

“Well, if it ain’t a scalp, what is it?”

Regret pointed toward Quiet Stream’s now-naked body. There was nothing but blood at the junction of her legs.

“It come from the other end,” Regret said, with a high-pitched laugh.

Examining Quiet Stream’s body, Davis saw what Regret was talking about. He had made a scalp of her pubic hair.

When the attack was over, as many as 150 Indians lay dead, most of whom were old men, women and children. In the meantime, Bellefontaine lost only four men, three of whom had been killed by Running Elk.