Massacre of Eagles Read online

  The four were here at Delmonico’s because after the performance Buffalo Bill had insisted they be his guests. There was an empty chair available and when Rosanna asked who it was for, Cody was rather circumspect. Then, about fifteen minutes later, the mysterious guest arrived.

  Cody’s guest was shorter than any of the other three men present, slender of build, with dark, piercing eyes and a sweeping moustache, but no beard.

  “Friends, may I present Colonel Prentiss Ingraham? At least, that is the name he is going by today. He has also been called, at various times in his life, Dr. Noel Dunbar, Dangerfield Burr, and Colonel Leon Laffite. Of course, you can understand that, when you realize what an unsavory life he has lived. While training for the noble profession of medicine, Ingraham left school to become a soldier for the South. He was wounded and captured at Fort Hudson, but escaped only to be wounded for a second time at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee.

  “Then after the war ended, Ingraham, not content to return to civilized life, traveled the world to find another war to fight. He served under Juarez in the Mexican rebels’ revolution against Maximillian, then went to Europe to fight against the Turks, was in the Austrian army during the Austro-Prussian War, and was in Egypt with the Khedive’s army, then was a colonel in the Cuban army, and if that isn’t enough, he was also a captain in the Cuban navy. While fighting for the Cubans against Spain, he was captured and sentenced to death. But as they say, only the good die young, so once again he escaped.”

  “Why, thank you, Cody. Never have I received a more eloquently delivered introduction,” Ingraham said, speaking in a soft Southern accent.

  “But, surely, none of that can be true?” Rosanna said. “Have you really lived such a dangerous life?”

  “I have had a terrible case of wanderlust for my entire life,” Ingraham said. “But I’m afraid my friend, Bill Cody, is making it sound much more romantic than it really is.”

  “Romantic? Not a word of it,” Cody said with a scoffing sound. “Seedy you are, and seedy I report. And why, you may ask, would I be friends with such a seamy character?” Cody asked.

  “Are you really going to tell them, Cody?” Ingraham asked. “I think they could accept a rebel, a soldier of fortune, and an escaped convict. But if you tell them the worst of my sins, they will rise as one and walk away from here.”

  Rosanna laughed. “Surely it can’t be that bad. What sin is it?”

  “Will you tell them, Ingraham, or shall I?” Cody asked.

  Ingraham made a courtly bow, then held his hand out toward Cody. “I defer to my esteemed and famous friend, Buffalo Bill Cody.”

  “I am famous,” Cody said, “because this gentleman made me famous. Indeed it was he who coined the moniker Buffalo Bill.” Cody looked at Falcon. “He made you famous as well, my friend. Because, to date, he has written over three hundred literary masterpieces,” Cody said, then he chuckled. “At least, that is how he refers to them, though the rest of the world considers them dime novels.”

  “Wait a minute,” Falcon said. “You mean I have you to thank for those awful dime novels about me?”

  “You may call them awful, Mr. MacCallister,” Ingraham said. “But the rest of the world calls them heroic.” He began to recite as if on stage. “With the reins of his horse held tightly in his teeth, a flaming six-gun in each hand dispensing death to the desperados, our hero hurled a challenge that brought fear to the heart of the evildoer. ‘Dangerous Dan, your day is done!’” Ingraham smiled. “I particularly like the alliteration of the letter ‘D.’ Do you recognize that passage?”

  “Do I recognize it? No, should I?” Falcon asked.

  Ingraham chuckled. “No, I suppose not. I seriously doubt that anyone with your sterling qualities would ever be impressed by, or even read, stories that glorify your name. But what I just quoted came directly from that stirring novel of derring-do: Falcon MacCallister and the Robbers of the Deadwood Stage.”

  “If he had the reins of his horse clenched between his teeth, how could he yell?” Andrew asked.

  Ingraham stopped to think about it for a moment, then he burst out laughing.

  “An excellent point, my good man,” Ingraham said. “A most excellent point indeed.”

  “You were at the Wild West Exhibition today, Ingraham. What did you think of the thrilling new act that I added? Did you see the way Falcon, who for all intents and purposes was naught but a spectator, suddenly appeared from the crowd to wrestle to the ground a runaway bull?”

  Ingraham laughed. “You may have had it planned, Cody, but something tells me that Falcon was not in on the plan.”

  “Maybe not,” Cody agreed. “But knowing Falcon as well as I do, I knew that were I but to present him an opportunity to be heroic he would react exactly as he did.”

  “Surely you aren’t saying that you arranged for the bull to break away, are you?” Rosanna asked.

  Cody held up his finger. “That, my dear, will forever be a closely guarded secret. But, what about it, Falcon? Would you care to join my exhibition?”

  “Thank you, Cody, but I’ll pass. Andrew and Rosanna are the two show-business luminaries in the MacCallister family.”

  “And luminaries they are,” Cody agreed. He glanced over toward Falcon’s siblings. “I loved your performance in The Lady and the Soldier.”

  “Thank you,” Andrew said.

  “No, not you, Andrew, I was talking to Rosanna,” Cody said, and all laughed.

  “Cody, what is the latest on your town?” Ingraham asked.

  “Your town? What town?” Andrew asked.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Ingraham asked. “There is to be a town in Wyoming Territory named Buffalo Bill.”

  “Really?” Rosanna asked. “My, how wonderful!”

  “It isn’t to be called Buffalo Bill,” Cody said. “It is to be called Cody, if it comes about.”

  “It will happen,” Ingraham said. “Thornton Beck is behind it, and he is a man who accomplishes what he starts.”

  “Thornton Beck, the financier in Wyoming Territory?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes. He has already developed three towns in Wyoming Territory: Sheridan, Buffalo, and Beckton. He wants to develop a town in the Bighorn Basin, along the Stinking Water River between Heart Mountain and Cedar Mountain, very near Yellowstone. Do you know the area there?”

  “Yes, I know the area quite well,” Falcon replied.

  “I suppose some people might think it a bit vain of me to be interested in a town that bears my name, but I’m sure you understand the attraction, as you have a town named after you.”

  “Actually, MacCallister is named after my father, not me,” Falcon said.

  “Mr. Cody?” a young man called, stepping into the room then.

  Looking toward the visitor, they saw that he was wearing a cap with a shield stating that he was an employee of Western Union.

  “Yes, I am Bill Cody,” Cody said.

  The young man smiled. “I know you, Buffalo Bill. I would recognize you anywhere,” he said. “I’ve seen your Wild West Show.”

  “It is an exhibition, my good man,” Cody said. “It is not a show. A show is make-believe, whereas an exhibition is real.”

  “Yes, sir, well, it’s real all right. Oh, I have a telegram for you.”

  Cody took the telegram, and tipped the young man a dollar.

  “Gee, thanks, Buffalo Bill!” the young man said, his smile growing even broader at the large tip.

  Cody opened the telegram and took a moment to read it. “It is from General Miles,” he said. “He wants me to come to Chicago.”

  “Why?” Falcon asked.

  “Here, you read it,” Cody replied, handing the telegram to Falcon. “You may read it aloud, if you wish.”

  Falcon began to read.

  “There is a movement among the Indians that they call Spirit Talking. This is a dangerous new development and should it get out of hand, I am concerned that another Indian war might be in the offing. It is also m
y belief that Sitting Bull is behind the unrest. As you are familiar with the badlands and have befriended Sitting Bull, request you visit me soonest at my headquarters in Chicago. Respectfully, Nelson Miles, General, Commanding Department of the Missouri.”

  “My,” Ingraham said. “That certainly sounds like an invitation to adventure.”

  Falcon handed the telegram back to Cody. “Are you going to see him?” Falcon asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cody said. “He said he wants to see me as soon as possible, but I have one more week of the show remaining in New York. What do you think, Falcon? Have you ever heard of this Spirit Talking movement the general mentions?”

  “I have heard of it, yes,” Falcon said.

  “Do you think, as General Miles does, that there may be an Indian uprising because of it?”

  “A general uprising? No, I don’t think so,” Falcon said. “There are some renegades causing problems, but nothing on the order of a full-scale Indian war.”

  “I think you are right,” Cody said. “And even if were true, Sitting Bull wouldn’t have anything to do with it. As you well know, Sitting Bull was, for a short time, a member of my Wild West Exhibition. I got to know him very well, and I have a great deal of respect and admiration for him. He told me that it came to him in a spirit dream that the Indians and the White Men must live in peace, and that it is the responsibility of the Indians to adapt to our ways.”

  “Do you believe that?” Andrew asked.

  “The real question is, does he believe that?” Cody replied. “And because it came to him in a spirit dream, I think yes, he does believe it. From what I know of Sitting Bull, he gives great credence to the power of visions and dreams.”

  “Yes, and it may well be that is exactly what has Miles worried,” Falcon said. “As you say, Sitting Bull is known to be a person who believes in talking with spirits, and as this new movement is called Spirit Talking, it is easy to see how General Miles may have made the connection.”

  “But it’s not the same thing,” Cody said.

  “No, it is not the same thing. However, once something like this gets started, it tends to develop a life of its own, so it is important to get it stopped before it gets started,” Falcon said. “I know you haven’t asked for my opinion, but I think you should suspend the show for now, and go see General Miles just as quickly as you can pack your clothes and catch the next train.”

  “All right, I’ll do that if you will come with me,” Cody said. “General Miles holds you in high regard. I know he would like to see you, and I would like you with me when I meet with him.”

  “I’ll come with you. I was about to start back anyway, and it has been a while since I’ve seen General Miles, so it would be nice to see him again.”

  “So you are saying there is absolutely no possibility that there will be any Indian trouble?” Ingraham asked.

  “I wouldn’t say absolutely,” Falcon said. “There will always be a few Indians who, for excitement or some perceived injustice, are willing to go off the reservation and cause trouble.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You hope so? What a strange thing for you to say,” Rosanna said, and she and the others looked at Ingraham with equal surprise.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Ingraham said. “I certainly would not want another incident like what happened to Custer. But a little excitement would be welcome and, as you know, I live for excitement.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Crow village on the Meeteetsee River, Wyoming Territory

  It was just after sunup and Running Elk left his tipi to walk out onto an overlook where he could view the mountains around him. Though it was late spring, the higher peaks were still covered with snow. Interspersed with the snow-covered peaks were the slab-sided cliffs rising a thousand feet or more into the sky. At the lower ranges were the sage-covered mountains that lay in ridges and rolls, marked here and there by patches of light and shadow from the early morning sun. On the lower elevations of the treeless mountains, elk were grazing.

  Down in the valley he could see, sparkling silver in the sun, the Meeteetsee River. Alongside the river was a small herd of antelope, and sneaking up on them, a wolf was hunting his morning meal.

  Today, Gray Antelope and Howling Wolf were going hunting. Running Elk would have gone with them had they asked, but they did not. He had not been hunting since returning from the white man’s school, and he missed it, but he knew it was not his place to invite himself.

  When Running Elk was back East attending Carlisle Indian School, they changed his name from Running Elk to Steve Barr, and they told him and the other students that the Indian ways were bad. They said he must get civilized and be like the white man. While he was there he wore white man’s clothes, cut his hair as a white man, ate white man’s food, went to the white man’s church, and spoke the language of the white man. If any of the students were ever overheard speaking their native tongue, they were severely punished.

  The books Running Elk learned to read told how bad the Indians had been to the white men. They made no distinctions among the Indians as to what tribes were friendly and supportive of the white man and what tribes were enemies. Running Elk was Absaroka. The Absaroka were called Crow by the white man, and though most of the Crow were in Montana, many had settled in the Big Horn Basin just outside the newly designated Yellowstone National Park. The Crow were a Siouan language tribe, but they maintained an identity beyond that of the Hunkpapa, Lakota, Oglala, Mineconjou, Brule, Blackfeet, and Cheyenne, who were their traditional enemies. Because of this natural enmity, the Crow had been allies with the U.S. Army during their fight with the Sioux.

  Running Elk had been gone for four years, and when he first returned to his tribal home, he was treated as a stranger because of the ways and habits he had acquired while away. It took a while for the rest of the tribe to accept him, but Quiet Stream had greeted him warmly from the first day he was back. Quiet Stream was a young woman who had caught Running Elk’s eye even before he left for school. Now he was thinking about marrying her, but in order to do so, he would have to present gifts that would satisfy her father, Stone Eagle, and convince him that he was worthy of his daughter.

  “Could it be that the others are right, and you have lost your Indian ways? Had you not gone to the white man’s school I would not have been able to sneak up on you.”

  Turning toward the sound of the voice, Running Elk saw Quiet Stream, smiling at the trick she had just played on him.

  “You did not sneak up on me. I heard you.”

  “Oh? And has the white man also taught you to lie?”

  Running Elk laughed. “You are right, I did not hear you. But that is because you cross the ground like a butterfly.”

  “Ah ha, another lie you learned from the white man,” Quiet Stream said. “But this lie, I like.”

  Running Elk saw Grey Antelope and Howling Wolf mount their horses as they left for their hunting trip. Quiet Stream read, in his eyes, his disappointment at not having been invited to go with them.

  “You should have gone with them,” Quiet Stream said.

  “No.”

  “Do you not wish to hunt with Running Elk and Grey Antelope? I think you do. I think I can see this in your face.”

  “They did not ask me.”

  “Perhaps they did not know you wished to go. You should have asked them.”

  “One should be invited, one should not ask,” Running Elk said.

  “Have you not asked my father for me?” Quiet Stream asked. “Or has only White Bull asked?”

  “White Bull has asked?” Running Elk replied, surprised by Quiet Stream’s announcement.

  “Last night, he came to our tipi and asked my father if he could marry me.”

  “What did Big Hand say?”

  “He said another has asked, and that he must think on this.”

  “What do you say?” Running Elk asked.

  “It is you I prefer,” Quiet Stream said. She smiled. �
�And I will say this to my father. Do not worry, he will listen to me.”

  White Bull and Running Elk were friends, and had been friends since both were young, but Running Elk had gone to the white man’s school and White Bull had not. It wasn’t a matter of Running Elk choosing to go; in fact, he had had no choice in the matter at all. He had been chosen by the Indian agent and told that he would go.

  Since Running Elk had returned, the relationship between him and his old friend had changed. There was no animosity between them, but neither was there the closeness there once was. And now, with both young men interested in the same woman, the situation could only worsen.

  Grand Central Terminal, New York

  Buffalo Bill was in the main concourse surrounded by a dozen or more newspaper reporters and photographers. Falcon was several feet away, standing with Andrew and Rosanna, both of whom had come to see him off on his trip.

  “I see that Mr. Cody is surrounded by his adoring press,” Andrew said.

  Rosanna laughed. “My, brother, do I detect a twinge of jealousy?”

  “Jealousy?”

  “The press is around Mr. Cody, but not around you?”

  “You know better than that, Rosanna. I abhor the press.”

  “I know, dear. So I wouldn’t call attention to it if I were you. No doubt they would be over here as well, if they knew that you were here.”

  “If they knew that we were here,” Andrew said, emphasizing the “we.” “For they would not come to see me, alone.”

  “They are calling our train,” Falcon said.

  Just inside the gate leading to track number thirty-one, a man appeared with a megaphone. Holding the megaphone to his mouth he called out loudly, his words clearly audible.

  “Train for Philadelphia, Harrisburg, Cleveland, and Chicago, now boarding on track thirty-one! All passengers proceed to the train now!”