Scream of Eagles (27 page)

The fight was over in less than a minute. The cool mountain air was acrid with lingering gunsmoke, mixed with the faint sounds of a couple of horses galloping away, the moaning of the wounded, and the silence of the dead.

Falcon quickly reloaded and, with a pistol in each hand, began warily walking among the wounded, kicking pistols away from the men and out of reach.

Falcon stood over one dying man and asked, “Why?”

“ 'Cause you a goddamn MacCallister, that's why,” the man told him, then closed his eyes and died.

Jamie began seeing bands of Indians, all seemingly headed for the same place, and that slowed his travel, for he did not want to be seen . . . if he could help it. The Indians he saw were carrying war shields, and many carried both bows and arrows and rifles. That meant only one thing: war.

Jamie was forced to alter his route of travel. He cut east for a time, then once more turned Sundown's head to the north. Just north of Pyramid Butte, he was scanning the terrain ahead of him and spotted an army patrol. He left his scant cover and rode toward the patrol, smiling as he drew close enough to be able to pick out features.

It was Lt. Cal Sanders.

“Stars and garters!” the young lieutenant blurted. “Mr. MacCallister. I haven't seen you since El Paso, sir.”

Jamie pulled in close and shook the offered hand.

“The men who were riding with you, sir . . . how are they?”

Briefly, Jamie brought the young lieutenant up to date.

“I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Green. He seemed to be a very fine and capable man. Sir, we heard you were going to scout for the army on this foray. But I don't think it's going to amount to very much. We've seen only a few scattered bands of hostiles, and they ran away from us.”

“Which direction did they go?”

“West, sir. Always toward the west. But what's odd about it, is that they always taunted us before they fled.”

Jamie cut his eyes to the Arikara scout riding with the party. He noticed a decidedly worried look in the Arikara's eyes.

“Did it seem like they wanted you to follow them?” Jamie asked the lieutenant.

“Well . . . yes, it did. But we're under orders not to engage the enemy. Just report on their movements.”

Jamie looked at the Arikara scout. “What tribe?”

“Lakota.”

“Are you with Custer?” Jamie asked the lieutenant.

“Yes, sir. Under Captain Benteen's command.”

“That's good.” Jamie had heard from several good sources that Captain Frederick William Benteen despised Custer, considering the man to be no more than a glory-hungry fool. “Can you take me to Benteen?”

“Of course, sir. If you can wait until tomorrow. We're on the last leg of this patrol. We were just turning around to head back when you were spotted.”

“That'll be fine.”

After chatting with Jamie for a few more minutes, Lt. Sanders ordered the patrol to turn back north, with Jamie riding for a time with the Arikara scout. “How are you called?” Jamie asked.

“Jumping Wolf. It is an honor to meet the great Bear Killer.”

“The tribes are gathering to make war, Jumping Wolf.”

“I know. But I cannot convince any officer of that. I have spoken with other scouts, Two Whistles, Spotted Setter, and White Man Runs Him.
³⁰
They have seen with their own eyes large bands of Sioux and Cheyenne gathering. But no one believes them.”

“I believe them,” Jamie said. “I've seen the same thing.”

“Long Hair is a fool,” Jumping Wolf said bluntly. “I think that many will die, and very soon. He cut his hair short before leaving the fort. Bad sign, I think.”

“What about Bloody Knife?” Another Arikara scout who was Custer's favorite and a man Custer usually listened to. But not this time.

“Bloody Knife has told Custer that there are more Sioux gathering than his men have bullets to kill them. Custer did not believe him.”

“I do.”

“It is good you do. Perhaps you can convince Long Hair that we are riding toward our doom.”

“I doubt I'll be able to do that. How about Lonesome Charley Reynolds?” Jamie asked.

Lonesome Charley was a friend of Jamie's. The two men had scouted together many times in the past.

“There he rides,” Jumping Wolf said, pointing ahead. “Ask him yourself.”

Jamie and Lonesome Charley greeted each other warmly, and Charley shook his head. “It's bad, Ol' Hoss. And it ain't just Custer who's playin' the fool. I been out here for months and seen what's happenin' up close and personal. The Injuns has been gatherin' guns by the hundreds. But I can't convince them brass-buttoned sons of bitches of the truth. Jamie, I think they's upwards of six to eight thousand Injuns gatherin'.”
³¹

“Eight
thousand!”
Jamie blurted.

“Yep. At least that.”

“More,” Jumping Wolf said.

“More?” Jamie turned to the Arikara scout.

“More,” Jumping Wolf said stubbornly.

“What the hell are we getting into here, Charley?” Jamie asked.

“Bad trouble, Ol' Hoss. Real bad trouble.”

Jamie sat his saddle, too stunned to speak.

“Even most of the scouts don't agree on any set number,” Charley said. “Most of them put the figure at two, maybe three thousand, at most.” He paused and met Jamie's steady gaze. “I've tried to get General Terry to relieve me, but he won't.”

“You're that worried about it?”

“You bet I am.”

The men quieted as Lt. Sanders rode up, all smiles. “When we do catch up with the hostiles, gentlemen, it's going to be a grand fight.”

Lonesome Charley Reynolds looked at the young officer. “Yeah,” he said drily.

* * *

Falcon buried the dead far away from his wife's grave. He did not mark the shallow, mass grave. One attacker who had survived the fight had told Falcon who had led the ambush. Falcon had seen to the man's wounds as best he could with what he had, put him on a horse, and told him to go home, adding, “If I ever see you again, I'll shoot you on the spot.”

“You'll not see me no more,” the man said. “But Asa will be back. Bet on it.”

“The man must be insane,” Falcon said, then slapped the horse on the rump and sent him galloping.

Falcon spent the rest of the day finishing the marker for Marie's resting place. Then he tidied up the area and stood for a time by Marie's grave. Falcon put his hat on his head, walked to his horse, and rode away without looking back. He did not know where he was going. He was just riding. He headed west, toward Utah. Falcon wanted only to ride away his grief; just be alone for a time and let the wind and the rain help cure the ache deep inside him.

He had no way of knowing at the time that he was about to become one of the most wanted men west of the Mississippi River.

* * *

The first thing Jamie heard when he rode into the military encampment was chanting.

Dismounting, Lt. Sanders said, “That doesn't sound like happy chanting to me.”

“Far from it,” Lonesome Charley Reynolds said. “Them's the Arikara and Crow scouts singin' their death songs.”

“Where's Custer?” Jamie asked.

A sergeant who had walked over to the group said, “He left to meet with General Terry and Colonel Gibbon up on the Yellowstone. I think there's been a change in plans.”

“There better be,” Lonesome Charley muttered. “Like a full retreat.”

It was May 17, 1876.

No one, including General Terry, who was on the sternwheeler, the Far West, anchored on the Yellowstone, had any knowledge that on that day—one month to the day after Terry had left Fort Abraham Lincoln—General Crook, at the Rosebud River, came into contact with some fifteen hundred very hostile Sioux, led by Crazy Horse. Crook was forced to retreat. He suffered ten dead and two dozen wounded. He ordered his men to head south and regroup at Goose Creek.

Crook would not be in position when Custer foolishly split his forces and jumped the gun and attacked eight days later. Crook and his detachment would be miles south, in Wyoming. There were some who tried to place part of the blame on Crook for the disaster that occurred but that blame lay squarely on the shoulders of Lt. Colonel Custer.

For several days, Jamie and the other scouts, including a French/Indian named Mitch Bouyer, did little except scout a bit and talk.

Custer returned from his meeting on the Yellowstone and ordered his men to make ready for a march.

“Well,” Lonesome Charley said morosely. “Here we go, boys. Make your peace with God.”

The date was May 22, 1876. Noon.

The trumpets sounded, and six hundred men of the 7th Cavalry, in perfect formation, rode past a group of officers, among which was General Alfred Terry.

About a mile away, several of the scouts had gathered, sitting their saddles and watching the scene.

“Real pretty,” Mitch Bouyer said.

“Just darlin',” Lonesome Charley said.

Custer's favorite and most trusted scout, the Arikara chief, Bloody Knife, looked at the men and said nothing. But his thoughts were dark. He had already sung his death song.

At General Terry's side was Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer, his hair neatly trimmed. He wore buckskins, high boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. He was mounted on his horse, Vic.

All around the men was wilderness. There was no sign of civilization, except for the men themselves.

General Terry consulted his timepiece. “It's time, George,” he said.

Vic was prancing in place, eager to be on the trail. Custer had to keep a tight rein on the strong animal.

Colonel John Gibbon smiled and said, “Now don't be greedy, George. There are plenty of Indians for us all. Wait for us.”

Custer's reply has been studied and analyzed and debated for over a hundred years. “No,” he said, “I won't.” Then he rode away, galloping up to the head of the column.

General Terry frowned and glanced at Colonel Gibbon. “Now, what the hell did he mean by that?”

“I don't know, sir.”

Moments later, the twelve companies of the 7th, under Custer's command, disappeared from view, riding south toward the Rosebud. Only their dust could be seen. At Custer's insistence, he had refused to take along an additional battalion of troops and a battery of Gatling guns.

“They would only slow me down,” he had told General Terry at the meeting on the sternwheeler. “Besides, the 7th can handle anything the hostiles might throw at us.”

As Custer and his column faded from view, General Terry shook hands with Colonel Gibbon. “Good luck, John.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jamie and the other scouts rode out far ahead of the column, ranging north, south, and west of the advancing troops.

Jamie, as did the other scouts, began to see signs that disturbed him. The signs told him that there were far more Indians in the area than the army had thought. Jamie began to wonder if even Lonesome Charley's estimates might be low. Just before leaving camp, Lonesome Charley had given his few personal possessions away.

“I ain't comin' back,” he told one friend.

“There ain't none of us gonna come back,” Mitch Bouyer had added solemnly.

It was one o'clock on June 22. Custer and some two hundred and sixty-one (that figure has been in dispute for a hundred and twenty years) other officers and enlisted men had approximately seventy-two hours to live.

* * *

After getting himself a room in the small hotel in a tiny town in Utah, Falcon went down for a drink and something to eat. Much of the grief he'd been carrying had left him, but he was still not wanting company. He took his bottle and glass and went to a far corner of the saloon.

Two men walked in, one wearing a sheriffs badge, the other with a federal marshal's badge pinned to his suit coat. Falcon was not interested in them and paid them scant attention as they walked to the bar (strutted was more like it, he thought) and ordered whiskey. Falcon returned to his whiskey and his sorrowful thoughts and ignored all others in the saloon.

But Falcon was his father's son; he could smell trouble, and the lawmen had it written all over them. To begin with, they were both small men, about five-six or -seven, and both walked like they had something to prove. And the bigger the man to prove it with, or on, the better.

Falcon was wondering where his dad was and how he was doing when he heard boots approaching his table. He looked up into the faces of the two star packers. Very unfriendly faces.

“Stand up,” the federal marshal said.

“I beg your pardon?” Falcon questioned.

“Get on your feet, Lucas,” the sheriff said.

“My name is not Lucas. It's Falcon MacCallister. And I am very comfortable sitting, thank you.”

“I said get up, you thievin' son of a bitch!” the federal marshal demanded. “Lucas or MacCallister, it don't make no difference. You're still a horse thief and a rustler.”

Falcon took a better look at the men. Definitely related. Probably brothers.

The sheriff pulled a leather-wrapped cosh from his back pocket and held it up threateningly. “Get up, you scum. Or I'll pound your head in where you sit.”

“That would be a real bad mistake, Sheriff,” Falcon warned.

“You makin' threats agin my brother, boy?” the federal marshal asked.

Falcon was getting mad. He could feel his temper being unleashed. “My name is MacCallister. I'm from Valley, Colorado. I have done nothing wrong. Why don't you gentlemen take a seat and we'll talk about this?”

“Get up, you bastard!” the sheriff hollered. Then he took a swing at Falcon with the blackjack.

Falcon ducked the swing and grabbed the edge of the table, overturning it and knocking the two star packers sprawling on the floor. The federal marshal grabbed for his pistol, and Falcon kicked it out of his hand and then put his boot against the side of the man's jaw. The federal marshal kissed the floor, out cold.