Massacre of Eagles Read online

  There were only two tables in the saloon, and the bar. Four men were sitting at one of the tables, playing a game of cards. Nobody was at the other table, nor was anyone at the bar except for the bartender. Everyone looked up as the five men came in, because they more than doubled the number of customers in the place.

  The barkeep slid down the bar toward them.

  “What can I get you gents?”

  “Whiskey,” Ebersole said. “Leave the bottle.”

  “What kind?”

  “The cheapest. We want to get drunk, not give a party.”

  The bartender took a bottle from beneath the counter. There was no label on the bottle and the color was dingy and cloudy. He put five glasses alongside the bottle, then pulled the cork for them.

  “There it is,” he said.

  Ebersole poured himself a glass, then took a swallow. He immediately had a coughing fit, and almost gagged. He spit it out and frowned at his glass.

  “Damn!” he said. “This tastes like horse piss.”

  “We just put in a little for flavor,” the bartender said with a smile.

  “What?” Ebersole shouted angrily.

  “Take it easy, friend, I was just foolin’ with you. You said you wanted the cheapest whiskey, and that’s what you got. There ain’t no horse piss in it. That’s pure stuff. I don’t even use a rusty nail for color and flavor.”

  Taylor took a smaller swallow. He grimaced, but he got it down. Dewey had no problem with it at all.

  “How the hell can you drink that?” Ebersole asked.

  “It’s all in the way you drink it,” Dewey explained. “This here whiskey can’t be drunk down real fast. You got to sort of sip it.”

  Ebersole tried again, and this time he, too, managed to keep it down.

  “You boys just passin’ through?” the bartender asked.

  “Ain’t none of your business what we’re doin’,” Ebersole said. “Only thing you got to do is serve us whiskey when we ask.”

  “I was just tryin’ to be friendly,” the bartender replied.

  Ebersole took in the other four men with him, with a gesture of his hand. “I got all the friends I need,” he said.

  “I see that you do,” the bartender said, somewhat chagrined by the surly response.

  After a few more drinks—they were limited by the amount of money they had—Ebersole and the others left the saloon. Without being too obvious, they checked out the bank, then rode on out of town to find a place to camp out for the night.

  It was nearly noon of the next day when the five men rode back into town. Even though it was mid-day, the town was quiet, and festering under the sun. A few people were sitting or standing in the shade of the porch overhangs. A game of checkers was being played by two old men, and half a dozen onlookers were following the game intently. One or two looked up as Ebersole and the others rode by, their horses’ hooves clumping hollowly on the hard-packed earth of the street.

  A shopkeeper came through the front door of his shop and began sweeping vigorously with a straw broom. The broom raised a lot of dust and pushed a sleeping dog off the porch, but even before the man went back inside, the dog had reclaimed its position in the shade, curled comfortably around itself, and was asleep again.

  Peters and Taylor stayed outside the bank, holding the reins of the horses, as Ebersole, Hawkins, and Dewey went inside. There were no customers in the bank; just one teller. He looked up at them with a smile as they came in, then, realizing that he didn’t know any of them, instinctively knew that this wasn’t going to be good.

  “You know what we are here for, don’t you, Mister?” Ebersole asked.

  The bank teller nodded.

  “Let’s have all the money you’ve got.”

  “We don’t have much,” the teller said. “This is a very small town and a very small bank.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “One thousand, seven hundred and twenty-six dollars,” the teller said.

  Ebersole smiled. “Well ain’t that just fine, now, because that’s just exactly how much money we wanted,” he said.

  As the bank teller was handing the money over to Ebersole, two men came into the bank.

  “I told Joe, ‘son, you’ve just learned a lesson. Never kick a horse apple on a hot day,’” one of them was saying.

  The other man laughed, then both of them stopped, realizing what they had walked in on.

  “What the hell is going on here?” the first man asked.

  “I believe they’re robbin’ the bank,” the second said.

  “You ain’t gettin’ my money!” the first man said, going for his gun.

  Dewey, Taylor, and Hawkins turned their pistols on the two men and began shooting. Both of the customers went down before they could even clear leather.

  “You shot Mr. Simmons!” the bank teller shouted.

  “And we’re goin’ to shoot you if you don’t hurry up,” Ebersole said with a growl.

  With his hands shaking so that he could barely control them, the teller dropped the rest of the money into the sack Ebersole was holding.

  “That’s it,” he said. “That’s all the money we’ve got.”

  Peters was holding the horses for them out front when the robbers left the bank.

  “What happened? What was the shootin’?”

  “Don’t worry about it, let’s just get out of here,” Ebersole said.

  As they started down the street at a full gallop, the bank teller came out the front door.

  “Bank holdup!” he shouted. He pointed at the galloping riders. “They kilt Mr. Abbott and Mr. Nash!”

  A storekeeper ran out onto the front porch of his store and fired a shotgun at them, but missed. Ebersole returned fire and also missed, but his bullet crashed through a window and killed a young girl who was inside the store.

  They made it out of town without any further incident, and because the town was too small for a marshal, there was no posse formed to pursue them. Also, because the town was not serviced by telegraph wires, they knew that they would be able to be well in the clear before any news of the robbery got out.

  At Fort Yates they learned that Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody had gone on to Miles City, Montana Territory. Now, with enough money to buy train tickets, they put their horses on a special stock car, and went on to Miles City.

  “And who did you say you was?” the sergeant at the gate of Fort Keogh asked when Ebersole and the four men with him showed up.

  “The name is Brown,” Ebersole lied. “Jim Brown. And we have a message for Falcon MacCallister. It’s real important we get it to him.”

  “Mr. MacCallister and the party with him have already left,” the gate sergeant said. “They took the Queen of the West south on the Tongue River. I expect they’re near ’bout to Sheridan by now.”

  “Sheridan? Where is that?”

  “That’s a settlement in the north part of Wyoming. Fact is, it is damn near the only settlement in north Wyoming.”

  “How do we get there?” Ebersole asked.

  “Same way MacCallister got there, I reckon,” the sergeant said. “You are goin’ to have to take a boat.”

  “Yes, sir, we have two boats plying the river,” the agent at the Montana and Wyoming Steamboat Navigation Company said. “They are fast, light-draft boats, especially built for operating on the Tongue River.”

  “You got ’ny idea when the next boat will go?”

  “We got two boats makin’ the run, takes two weeks to make the run so they’re leavin’ about a week apart. The Queen of the West is headin’ south now, and I reckon tomorrow or the next day it will meet up with the North Mist that’ll be comin’ back.”

  “So when can we get on that North Mist goin’ south?” Ebersole asked.

  “I expect it’ll be here around Monday, so it’ll probably leave on Tuesday,” the agent said.

  “What about our horses? Can it take our horses?”

  The agent shook his head. “Afra
id not. It’ll take your saddles and tack, but not the horses.”

  “What good will our saddles be without horses?” Ebersole asked.

  “You can board your horses here for twenty-five cents a day. Or, you can sell ’em to the army back at the fort.”

  “The army will buy horses?”

  “Oh, yes sir, as long as they are sound. The army always needs horses. They pay top dollar for them, too.”

  “I don’t want to sell my horse,” Dewey said.

  “You got two choices, Dewey,” Ebersole said. “You can sell your horse and come with us, or you can keep your horse and stay here.”

  “We brought our horses here on the train,” Dewey said. “How come we can’t take ’em with us on the boat?”

  “Because there are no facilities for horses on the boat,” the ticket agent said.

  “What will it be, Dewey?” Hawkins asked.

  “I’ll sell my horse,” Dewey agreed.

  Renegade camp of Mean to His Horses

  “You are Crow,” Mean to His Horses said, the expression in his voice showing his utter contempt for anyone of the Crow nation. “You were with Custer in the fight at Greasy Grass.”

  “We weren’t with Custer. We were too young,” Running Elk said.

  “And now we want to join our brothers, the Cheyenne, to fight against the white man,” White Bull said.

  “Why do you turn now against your masters?” Mean to His Horses asked.

  “They are not my masters,” White Bull said emphatically.

  “Nor are they mine,” Running Elk said. “They have killed our people, for no reason.”

  “And now your blood runs hot and you want to kill them,” Mean to His Horses responded. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

  “Yes,” White Bull said.

  “Why should I trust the Crow?”

  “Have you not talked with the spirits?” Running Elk asked. “Have they not told you that we are all brothers? Have they not told you that the white man will be driven away, and the land that they took will be ours?”

  Mean to His Horses stared at the two young Crow Indians before him for a long moment, then he nodded.

  “You may stay,” he said.

  “Eiiiee yah, yah, yah!” White Bull shouted in excitement.

  Although Mean to His Horses had accepted Running Elk and White Bull into his camp, when he went out on his first raid after their arrival, he ordered them to stay behind.

  White Bull and Running Elk watched the raiding party ride off, angry that they had not been included.

  “Why should we be left behind?” White Bull asked.

  “Perhaps we must earn his trust,” Running Elk said.

  “Or perhaps we should prove ourselves to him.”

  “How can we prove ourselves if we are not allowed to go with him?”

  “I will find a way. You will see.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sheridan, Wyoming Territory

  The Occidental Hotel was on North Main. A fine log structure, the hotel was built by Charles Buell. It advertised itself as the finest hostelry establishment between Chicago and San Francisco, and the boast was not without some justification. The lobby of the hotel was well appointed with overstuffed sofas and chairs, a dark blue carpet, and several brass spittoons. A chandelier and a few strategically placed lanterns provided some light, but not brightness.

  There were several people in the lobby, but they were gathered in separate conversational groups speaking quietly, so that there was relative quiet. The desk clerk was sitting in a chair behind the sign-in desk, reading a copy of the Sheridan Bulletin. He was wearing a brown three-piece suit with a white shirt, detachable collar, and bow tie. Except for a small line of hair above each ear, he was bald. He looked up as Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham came into the hotel.

  “Buffalo Bill Cody,” the desk clerk said, setting his paper aside as the three men walked up to the desk. “I heard that you had taken passage on the Queen of the West. How wonderful to see you again.”

  “Hello, Paul,” Cody said. “May I introduce my two friends? This is Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Yes, indeed, I have heard much about you, sir. And all of it flattering,” Paul said.

  “And this gentleman is a writer who we can’t seem to get rid of. His name is Prentiss Ingraham.”

  “Prentiss Ingraham? The Prentiss Ingraham?”

  “You have heard of me?”

  “Indeed I have, sir. And I have read every one of your books. In fact, I have one here that I would ask you to autograph for me, if you would be so kind.”

  “Why, I would be delighted to autograph your book for you,” Ingraham said, beaming in delight over the unexpected recognition.

  The clerk reached under the check-in counter and pulled out a copy of Buffalo Bill’s Spy Trailer—The Stranger in Camp and handed it to Ingraham.

  “Oh, you’ve chosen well,” Ingraham said as he autographed the book. “This is one of my personal favorites.”

  That was the same thing he had said to the boat ticket agent about Falcon MacCallister and the Mountain Marauders, and as Ingraham signed the book with a great flourish, Falcon and Cody looked at each other and chuckled.

  “Mr. Cody, I saw in the newspaper that you are going to be holding auditions for your show. Up in Cinnabar, I believe?”

  “Indeed I am,” Cody replied. “How about it, Paul? Do you want to try out for the show?”

  Paul laughed. “Not unless you have a place in your show for hotel clerks,” he said. He turned toward a board filled with keys hanging from hooks, took three of them down and handed one to each of them. “These rooms are on the second floor near the front,” he said. “All three are together, two of them are adjoining rooms, and the third one is immediately across the hall.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon and Cody said. Ingraham finished signing the book and then handed back to the clerk.

  “Thank you, sir,” the clerk said with a broad smile. “I will treasure this.”

  Like the lobby, the hotel room was nicely furnished. More spacious than most hotel rooms, this one had a bed, a settee, a chest of drawers, a chifforobe, and a dry sink. A porcelain pitcher and bowl sat on the dry sink.

  After settling their luggage into the room, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham decided to take a turn around the town to see what it was like.

  “The reason I wanted to look over the town is because I expect that Cody will be much like this one,” Cody said. “After all, Mr. Beck founded and built this town, and he is the principal architect for Cody, which is to be built some fifty miles west of here.”

  The town was well laid out, not only with a very fine hotel, but with many other conveniences a town would need: a mercantile, a leather goods store, a feed and seed store, a hardware store, a butcher shop, a livery, a gun shop, and, of course, a saloon. In this case the saloon was called the North Star Saloon, and it was a rather substantial building. Unlike many of the others, it was painted a gleaming white.

  Buffalo Bill Cody had been to the town of Sheridan many times over the last few years, and he knew several of the people who were, at the moment, patronizing the saloon. They all greeted him effusively, and Cody returned the greetings with equal enthusiasm, introducing Falcon and Ingraham to them. Nearly all had heard of Falcon and Prentiss Ingraham, much to the delight of Ingraham, who enjoyed sharing stories of both his books and adventures.

  As Falcon and the others listened with interest to Ingraham’s tall tales, the sound of a slap could be heard all through the saloon.

  “Ouch! Don’t do that!” a woman called out, the pain and fear evident in the tone of her voice.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, whore!” a man’s gruff voice replied. “I done bought you four drinks and you say you I can’t lie in your bed?”

  “I’m a bar girl, I’m not a prostitute,” the woman replied.

  “She’s right, Slayton,” the bar tender said. “Lucy is not a soiled dove. None of the girls here are. If y
ou want that kind of woman, you need to go down the street to the cribs.”

  “Don’t tell me where to go, and don’t tell me she ain’t no whore,” Slayton said. He drew his hand back and turned toward Lucy. “You’re goin’ to lie with me, or I’m going to beat you to a pulp,” he said with a menacing growl.

  “Mister, back away from the lady,” Falcon ordered, loudly.

  “Say what?” Slayton replied. Slayton was nearly as big a man as Falcon. He didn’t have a beard, but neither was he clean-shaven. He had what looked like a five-day stubble. The most noticeable thing about him was his teeth. Irregular and yellow, one front tooth was broken and the one next to it was missing.

  “I said back away from the lady. Now,” Falcon said.

  Slayton turned toward Falcon and pointed at him. “Mister, you are buttin’ in where you got no call. Now my advice to you is to sit down and mind your own business.”

  “Mister, you might want to rethink,” Falcon said.

  “Really? And what is it I need to rethink?”

  “Your entire attitude.”

  Don’t you be worryin’ none about my attitude,” Slayton said. “If there is anyone in here that’s needin’ to rethink, it’s you for buttin’ in where you got no business. You bein’ a stranger in town, you may not know that I ain’t the kind of man you want to mess with.” He had been pointing at Falcon, but now he started to drop his arm.

  “Huh, uh. Don’t drop your arm, don’t make a move,” Falcon said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Falcon said. “Don’t make a move. If you so much as twitch, I’ll kill you.”

  “Mister, you don’t even have a gun in your hand. Do you think you can run a bluff on me? Nobody runs a bluff on me.”

  “Friend,” Buffalo Bill said. “I’ve known Falcon MacCallister for some time now, and I don’t believe I have ever seen him run a bluff.”

  “I don’t believe that is Falcon MacCallister,” Slayton said. He started to drop his arm, but no sooner did he twitch than he found himself staring at the black hole of the business end of Falcon’s pistol.