Bloodshed of Eagles Page 12

Once they reached their encampment on the Little Heart River, Custer’s orderly, Private John Burkman, erected the double Sibley tent for him as Custer continued to move around the campsite…Mary Adams, Custer’s cook, began preparing their supper.

  Libbie, Maggie Calhoun, and their houseguest, Lorena Wood, had all three accompanied the regiment this far, and they began helping Burkman pitch the tent.

  As the regiment settled in for its first night’s encampment, Falcon and Dorman started out on their first scout.

  They rode out about ten miles, but saw nothing of particular interest until Dorman pointed out an elk.

  “If I’m goin’ to be ridin’ with someone out in Injun territory, I’d like to have me an idee as to how he can shoot,” Dorman said. “It’ll be a good shot if you can bring him down. And a little roast elk is a heap better than skillgilly.”

  “Roast elk doesn’t sound bad,” Falcon said, pulling an army carbine from the saddle sleeve. Raising the Sharps, Falcon took aim and fired. Even from there, they could see a little mist of blood erupt from the elk’s head.

  “Damn,” Dorman said, impressed with the shot. “You hit his head plumb center. Colonel, you can ride with me anywhere.”

  Falcon and Dorman returned to join the regiment just as the Seventh was going into bivouac.

  Benteen was standing beside one of the wagons with his shirt off and his gold-colored suspenders down along his sides, hanging in such a way as to make a loop across the gold stripe on his pants. The captain had lather on his face, and he was looking into a mirror that was propped on the side of the wagon. He looked around as Falcon and Dorman returned to the camp.

  “Colonel, if you’ll excuse me, I’m goin’ to look up Bloody Knife,” Dorman said.

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Falcon.

  “Did you find anything?” Benteen asked as Dorman moved away.

  “No,” Falcon replied.

  “Uh, huh, I didn’t think so,” Benteen said, and he reached one hand up to pull his cheek taut, then lifted the razor, returning to the task of shaving. “You aren’t likely to find anything as long as you have that nigger with you.”

  “Oh?” Falcon said. “I don’t know why you would say that. Mr. Dorman seems quite capable to me.”

  “It’s not a question of his capability,” Benteen said. “It’s a question of his loyalty.”

  “Why would you question his loyalty?”

  “He turned Indian out here,” Benteen said. “They call him ‘Black White Man,’ and he is married to a squaw from Inkpaduta’s band of the Santee Sioux.”

  “I thought he had been working for the army for some time now,” Falcon said.

  Benteen took a towel and wiped the rest of the lather from his face. “Oh, he doesn’t mind taking money from us,” he said. “But this will be the first time he has ever had to go up against his own.”

  “What about Bloody Knife? Are you worried about him?”

  “No,” Benteen said, reaching for his tunic. “Gall killed Bloody Knife’s two brothers. Bloody Knife hates the Sioux.”

  At that moment, a bugle call was sounded and some of the men cheered.

  “What is that?” Falcon asked.

  “Pay call,” Benteen said. “Custer decided to withhold the soldiers’ pay until after we left the fort. He was afraid there would be too many hangovers and too many desertions if he paid before we left.”

  Within minutes after the soldiers were paid, several dozen card games began. The soldiers sat on the ground with an army blanket laid out between them to hold the cards and the money.

  Shortly after pay call, Falcon and Dorman were getting ready to go out again when Lieutenant Cooke came up to them. Falcon was adjusting the cinch strap on his saddle.

  “Hello, Cooke,” Falcon said.

  “The general’s compliments, sir, and he asks if you would join him and Mrs. Custer, Captain and Mrs. Calhoun, Captain Custer and Miss Wood for a picnic lunch. The ladies will be leaving with the paymaster as soon as he starts back to Ft. Lincoln.”

  “Captain Custer and Miss Wood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cooke replied. “Uh, Colonel, I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir,” Cooke said.

  “Sure, go ahead,” he said.

  Cooke looked over at Dorman. “Alone, sir.”

  “I’ll just move over there and you two can talk all you want,” Dorman said, leading his horse away.

  “What is it?”

  “The way you questioned me when I said Captain Custer and Miss Wood. Did that bother you?”

  Falcon chuckled. “No, it didn’t bother me. I just found it rather funny the way you said it in the same way you said General and Mrs. Custer and Captain and Mrs. Calhoun.”

  “Yes, sir, I sort of meant to say it that way,” Cooke said. “And that’s why I wanted to talk to you alone. Tom—that is, Captain Custer—wants to know your intentions toward Miss Wood.”

  Falcon chuckled. “Couldn’t he ask me that question himself?”

  “I reckon he could,” Cooke replied. “But when it comes to women, Tom is sort of shy.”

  “You don’t say? Well, now, that’s funny. I never would have figured Tom for the shy type.”

  “Well, he’s not exactly shy,” Cooke replied. “Except around women. So, what can I tell him, Colonel? About your intentions toward Miss Wood, I mean.”

  “I have no intentions toward the young lady, Cooke,” Falcon replied. “I do think she is a very nice person who could probably be hurt quite easily. And I wouldn’t like to see that happen.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Cooke asked.

  “You tell Tom Custer what I said. I think he will know exactly what I mean,” Falcon replied.

  “And as to the general’s invitation to lunch? What shall I tell him?” Cooke asked.

  “What time?”

  “Oh, I expect within the hour, sir,” Cooke said.

  “All right. Tell the general I will be happy to accept his invitation.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As Cooke walked away, Dorman returned. “You’ll enjoy the picnic with the general,” he said. “Like as not he’ll have some sort of fancy thing from back East. Mrs. Custer sets a lot of store about such things.”

  “You heard the conversation, did you?”

  “I’m a scout, Colonel. A good scout uses his ears as well as his eyes.”

  “Speaking of scouting, I’d like to go back out again, right after lunch,” Falcon said.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be ready.”

  When Falcon walked up to Custer’s double Sibley tent, he saw that a large square of canvas had been spread out on the ground in front of the tent. The canvas square was filled with viands of every description. There was a basket of fried chicken, a ham, beans and rice, smoked oysters, tinned peaches, biscuits, butter, and jam. There were also a couple of bottles of wine, but Custer, who was a teetotaler, was drinking lemonade.

  The entire party was sitting on the canvas around the food. Mary Adams, Custer’s black maid and cook, was standing nearby.

  “Falcon, I’m glad you could join us,” Custer said. “Pull up a piece of the canvas and have a seat.” He augmented his invitation by a wave of his hand.

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Falcon said. “Where are Boston and Autie Reed?” he asked.

  “Boston is earning his keep as a member of the trains,” Custer said. “He and Autie Reed are with the wagons.”

  “You must try the beans and rice, Colonel MacCallister,” Tom said. “It’s Mary’s own secret recipe that she made up herself.”

  “Now, Cap’n Tom, you got no business sayin’ somethin’ like that,” Mary said. “It ain’t nothin’ of the kind my own recipe. I got this recipe from my mama, and she got it from her mama, which, where she got it, I don’t know.”

  Tom laughed. “Well, wherever you got it, it’s good,” Tom said.

  “Do you keep up with politics, Falcon?” Custer asked as he spread butter on a biscuit.

  “I keep up wit
h local politics,” Falcon said. “One of my brothers is a sheriff back in Colorado. I always make certain that I’m home to vote for him.”

  “See there, Tom?” Custer said, looking across the table toward his brother. “Colonel MacCallister supports his brother. Is it too much for me to expect your support?”

  “If you run for sheriff, Autie, I will surely support you,” Tom replied. “But when you start talking about running for president, you are a little out of my league.”

  “President?” Falcon asked.

  “Maybe,” Custer said. He chuckled. “As you know, I have made it very difficult for Grant and his administration over the last few months. There are some who say that, because of my congressional appearances, the Republican Party has been greatly weakened. And, in a few weeks, the Democrats will be holding a convention in St. Louis to select a candidate for president. On the twenty-seventh of June, to be exact. I’m sure you can agree with me when I say that the timing could not be more fortuitous.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, General.”

  “Don’t be dense, man,” Custer replied. “I have some supporters who will be at the convention in St. Louis and they will put my name into nomination. When I come away with a big victory over the Sioux, the headlines it generates will ensure that I am selected. That makes the timing of this expedition extremely critical. I must complete the scout before June 27.”

  “General, I thought the mission of the expedition was to return the Sioux to the reservations.”

  “It is, Colonel, it is,” Custer said. “But tell me, how can an early and successful conclusion to the expedition not be for the good of the mission? I mean, do you see a contradiction there?”

  “No,” Falcon admitted. “I see no contradiction.”

  “Well, then,” Custer said, holding up his glass of lemonade. “I suggest that we drink a toast to a successful and early conclusion to this noble scout.”

  “Successful and safe,” Libbie added.

  “Of course, Sunshine,” Custer replied, using his pet name for her. “Successful and safe.”

  “Hear, hear,” Tom Custer and Jimmi Calhoun said, lifting their wineglasses in salute.

  Chapter Thirteen

  May 17, 1876

  Montana Territory

  Clete Harris was driving the wagon, and he pulled back on the reins.

  “Whoa, mules, whoa,” he said. Using his right foot, he set the brake against the wheels to hold the wagon in place.

  “What did we stop for?” Bryans asked.

  “I need to climb up there and take a look around,” Harris said, pointing to the butte just in front of them.

  “We goin’ to be here long enough to make some coffee?” Bryans asked. “I could sure use me a cup.”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Harris said. Climbing down from his seat, he walked to the back of the wagon, untied his horse, then swung into the saddle. “I’m goin’ to ride up as far as I can, have a look around, then come back. It’ll prob’ly be half an hour or longer. Save some coffee for me.”

  “You got some?” Bryans asked.

  “You’re goin’ to make some anyway, aren’t you?” Harris asked.

  “Yeah, for me. I ain’t got enough coffee to make some for you, too, but if you give me some of yours, I’ll make it.”

  Harris opened his saddlebag and took out a small cloth sack, then tossed it down to Bryans. “You’re one selfish son of a bitch, Bryans,” he said. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, Harris followed the trail that led toward the hill. When the trail started up the side of the Rainy Butte, he rode for as long as he could. Then, when the horse started struggling, he dismounted and began walking, pulling the horse along behind him. After a climb of some considerable distance, he found a flat area that stuck out to one side. He walked out to the edge to have a look.

  He could see the wagon and the three men who had come with him. From here, the wagon was so small that it looked almost like a child’s toy. This vantage point also allowed him to look back along the Heart River.

  He could see as far as the Little Powder River, but saw nothing of particular interest to him. That was good. If he was up here to sell Gatling guns to Indians, he didn’t need to see anyone poking around.

  Harris worked his way back down the side of the mountain. There, he saw that Bryans, Garon, and Richland had already unsaddled their horses and were making camp.

  “Did you make coffee for me?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It’s in the pot.”

  Harris poured himself a cup of coffee and looked over at the wagon. “I think we could make better time without the wagon.”

  “How are we going to carry these guns without a wagon?” Garon asked. “They weigh about fifteen hundred pounds each.”

  “They’re on caissons,” Harris said. “We’ll just pull them.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’ll work.”

  “Better get a good night’s sleep. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Harris, what’s the name of this Indian we’re goin’ to be doin’ business with?” Bryans asked.

  “His name is Cut Nose.”

  “Have you ever considered the possibility that Cut Nose might just decide to take these guns, then kill us?”

  “I don’t think he would do that,” Harris replied.

  “You don’t think he would? You mean he might, but you don’t think he would?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Harris said. “We’ve done business before, and I figure he will want to do business again in the future. Why would he want to just take the guns and kill us? He’d have to find someone else who is willing to trade with him.”

  “All right, if you say so,” Bryans said.

  May 18, 1876

  Little Heart River

  The trumpeter blew reveille at five a.m. the next morning and, grumbling, the troopers rolled out of their blankets to start the new day. Soon, the smell of bacon and coffee permeated the entire area, and though Falcon was invited to join the officers’ mess of the Seventh, he decided to take his breakfast with Isaiah Dorman.

  In addition to the bacon, Dorman made griddle cakes, which he shared with Falcon.

  “Oh, that’s good, Mr. Dorman. That’s very good,” Falcon said, taking his first bite. “If you were a pretty woman, I’d have to marry you for being able to cook like that.”

  Dorman laughed. “Well, if I was a pretty woman, why would I be waistin’ my time marryin’ up with the likes of you? No, sir, I’d go to New Orleans and work in a fancy house makin’ a lot of money.”

  Falcon laughed as well. “Mr. Dorman, when we go out this time, I’d like to stay out ten to twelve days. You think we can draw rations for that long?”

  “I’ll take care of it for us,” Dorman replied. “But I’d be pleased if you’d drop the mister, and just call me Dorman. I tell you the truth, for a colored man like me, it’s hard to get used to bein’ called mister.”

  “I figure every man has the right to be called mister until he does something that changes my mind about him,” Falcon replied. “But if you want me to drop the mister, I’ll do it.”

  “Seems a mite friendlier to me is all,” Dorman said.

  The encampment was busy with drivers hitching up their teams and with soldiers tending to their mounts. Then, just as Falcon and Dorman were finishing breakfast, Custer’s orderly, John Burkman, came over to them.

  “Sir, the general sent me over to tell you that, in case you wanted to tell them good-bye, the ladies are leaving camp now. They’re goin’ back to Ft. Lincoln.”

  “I’d be glad to tell them good-bye.” Falcon looked over to where the ladies were getting ready to leave. “Mary isn’t going back with them?”

  Dorman chuckled. “No, sir, he ain’t goin’ to be sendin’ her back. Mary, why, she’ll travel with the gen’rul at least till we get to base camp. The gen’rul, he’s a fella that don’t like army rations all that much, so he k
eeps Mary along to cook for him.”

  “Well, having eaten some of her cooking last night, I can’t say as I blame him,” Custer said.

  “Now you done gone and hurt my feelin’s Colonel,” Dorman said. “Talkin’ that way ’bout Mary after you was tellin’ me what a good cook I was this mornin’.”

  “Here, don’t you go getting all jealous on me, Dorman,” Falcon said, laughing as he walked over to Custer’s tent, where the general, Jimmi Calhoun, and Tom Custer were standing out front to tell the three women good-bye. He stood back, close enough to be there, but far enough back to allow them a little privacy.

  “Oh, I have yellow ribbons for all of you to wear until we get back,” Custer said. Reaching down into the side pocket of his buckskin jacket, he pulled out three yellow ribbons. One he gave to Jimmi Calhoun, and one he gave to his brother Tom. “We’ll pin them on you,” he said.

  “You do know what it means when a woman wears a cavalryman’s yellow ribbon, don’t you?” Tom asked.

  “No, not exactly,” Lorena replied.

  “It means you are his girl,” Tom explained, pinning the ribbon on her before she could protest.

  As Tom pinned the ribbon on Lorena, she glanced over at Falcon with an expression as if to say, I hope you understand. Then she turned back to Tom with a smile.

  “Good-bye, Colonel,” Maggie called over to him.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Calhoun.”

  “Excuse me a minute, Tom,” Lorena said. She walked over to Falcon and extended her hand. “Colonel, it has been delightful meeting you,” she said. “I do hope we meet again.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Falcon said.

  Lorena glanced back toward Tom. “He is a very good man, you know,” she said quietly.

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “He asked me to be here for him when the regiment returns.”

  “And will you be?”

  Lorena nodded. “Yes, I think I will be,” she said.

  “I’m sure he will appreciate it.”

  “Colonel, I—”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Miss Wood,” Falcon said, interrupting her. “Like you said, Tom Custer is a good man.”

  After Lorena walked back to the paymaster’s ambulance, Libbie came over to speak to Falcon. She was smiling brightly as she approached.