Scream of Eagles (22 page)

He was going to make the best of those years.

“What are you thinking, Pa?” Joleen broke into his thoughts.

Jamie smiled at her. “Oh, nothing of any importance.”

After his kids had left, and the cabin was silent, Jamie sat for a time, looking at the pictures of Kate on the mantel and on tables around the large room. “I got me a hunch, Kate. I got me a feeling that I'm gonna be seeing you 'fore too much longer. Custer is a fool, honey. And I may be a bigger fool for riding with him. I guess we'll just have to see.”

Jamie stepped outside to stand on the porch. He looked up into the impossible blue of the Colorado sky. High above, an eagle soared and screamed.

Sundown was rarin' to hit the trail when Jamie threw a saddle on him and led him around to the front of the cabin. He was to link up with Custer and his men at Fort Abraham Lincoln in the Dakotas, on the west bank of the Missouri River and just north of the Cannonball River.

Jamie stood for a moment, looking down at Kate's grave on the ridge below him. “You rest easy, old woman,” he muttered. “I'll be back, I promise you that.” He turned away and swung into the saddle.

Jamie rode down the mountain, packhorse trailing, and then up part of the main street of town. He returned the dozens of waves from friends and relatives (mostly relatives), and then was out of Valley and riding north. The day was uncommonly warm for this time of year, and Jamie felt the years being blown away from him.

This was his destiny. This was his way of life. He was no more cut out for a rocking chair than an eagle was to be confined in a cage. Jamie did not want to die in a bed, with long-faced family members hovering about. This was where he should fight the final fight, out under Man Above's skies.

Only one thing wrong with that: he wanted his bones to lie beside Kate.

A small detail he'd have to ruminate on some.

* * *

“Colonel MacCallister,” Custer said, rising from his chair and extending his hand in greeting. “How good of you to join us. What a grand adventure awaits us in the Black Hills.”

Jamie smiled and took the offered hand.

“We'll have at least three newspaper correspondents accompanying us,” Custer rambled on. “And several prospectors, too.”

Jamie's expression did not change at the news of the prospectors, but silently he congratulated himself for being right about the true objective behind the expedition. He would probably never know the entire truth of the matter, but he had figured all along that certain members of congress and some money and land speculators had gambled that if Custer could find gold, the miners would swarm in by the thousands and not leave. They would force the Indians to attack, and the army would then be sent in to put down the rebellion. The Indians would then be accused of breaking the treaty, and could be rounded up and put on reservations. More country would be opened up for pioneers, and the Indians would be put in their place where they could cause no more problems.

Very neat, Jamie thought. Not very ethical, but very neat.

Later that evening, alone in his quarters, Jamie amended his thinking somewhat. He was in sympathy with the Indians, but he also realized that civilization and progress went hand in hand, and many, if not most, of the Plains Indians simply would not accept the white man's way. They were hunters and warriors, not farmers and shopkeepers, ranchers and cowboys and laborers. They were nomadic, not settlers. And they would stubbornly hold on until the end. Jamie also knew that for many, the end was not that far away. For some, it was over.

Out in California, the warring Modoc tribe was forced into surrender, and four of their leaders, including the main leader, Captain Jack, were hanged at Fort Klamath in October of '73.

Out in Nevada, the richest strike to date in the history of mining had occurred just a few months back, and the miners and prospectors were pouring across the land to get to Virginia City. A vein of ore, both gold and silver, had been discovered that was some fifty-five feet wide.

Also a few months back, silver was dropped as a coin, and gold was made the sole monetary standard. Many called the action the “crime of 1873.”

And Jesse and Frank James held up their first train in 1873, killing an engineer and several passengers.

* * *

Just the column itself was impressive. One hundred and ten wagons accompanied the 7th Cavalry as they pushed off from Fort Abraham Lincoln in early summer, 1874, heading for the Black Hills, the most rugged and remote part of the Sioux reservation, located in the western Dakotas.

Custer was a happy man: he was back in the field again, and he did cut a resplendent figure, dressed in his buckskins, the sun shining off his long yellow hair. George Armstrong Custer sat a horse well . . . although that was about the only thing he did well. He was unaware up to his death that a few years before, General Sherman had written to a friend, “George A. Custer appears to not have much sense.”

The band was playing gaily as the 7th moved out that day, with Custer sure they were heading for fame and glory. His wife, the lovely Libbie, waved her hankie at her man, and Custer's pets howled and barked and whined and carried on. The couple had no children, but Custer did have his pets. Lord, did he have pets! He had a tame mouse and a not so tame wolf. He had a raccoon and an opossum and forty dogs. And a pelican he had captured on the Arkansas River. Custer would, on occasion, carry the mouse in his long, flowing hair (it was sometimes quite a shock to visiting guests to see the mouse running around George's head, occasionally peeking out through the flowing locks). History did not record whatever happened to the mouse, the wolf, the raccoon, and the opossum . . . or to the Cheyenne girl (captured after the battle of Washita) that Custer reportedly kept as his mistress.

Jamie was amused by all the hoopla as the long column snaked its way out of the fort and headed west. Custer was certain his 7th Cavalry would encounter many hostiles during this expedition and return with souvenirs of glorious victories. But Jamie knew something that Custer did not: the tribes that occupied the area around the Black Hills were gone; they were in Montana for their annual summer's reunion.

Jamie kept that information to himself, not wanting to put a damper on Custer's euphoric mood. When George was in a good mood, he was an amusing and charming fellow. When he was in a bad mood, he became petty, demanding, red-faced and sullen . . . and he stuttered.

Despite all that, George Armstrong Custer was a man of undeniable courage; he would, without argument, charge through the gates of hell in pursuit of an enemy.

He just didn't have any common sense.

Jamie scouted far ahead of the long column, choosing the best places to camp for the night and the best places to ford the rivers.

As always, on this expedition George would suddenly leave the column to go hunting by himself. But George had a lousy sense of direction and never strayed too far from the main column. Not since several years back when he had galloped off to go buffalo hunting, but instead of shooting the buffalo he'd found, he accidentally shot his horse in the head, killing the animal instantly. Miles from the column, in the middle of hostile Indian country, he was lost. He finally followed his dogs back to the column. Since that episode, George had become much more careful about straying too far from the dust of his soldiers.

Whenever possible, George would ride with Jamie, and was always after him to relate stories about the fight at the Alamo, his life with the Shawnee, and of the many adventures in Jamie's long years on the frontier. Consequently, Jamie tried to stay miles ahead of the column and away from Custer. Jamie did not have a very high opinion of the man.

The weeks wore on and the days became a blur. Not a single Indian was spotted. Finally Jamie told Custer that the Indians were gone up into Montana for the summer.

“Drat!” said Custer.

The column pushed on.

Custer didn't find his Indians, but he did find that the area offered the white man timber, game, and thousands of acres of grazing land. And the prospectors riding with Custer found gold.

That find was to be the beginning of the end for both the Indians and for Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer, commanding officer of the 7th Cavalry.

* * *

In late fall of 1874, Jamie, with permission, left the column and headed south. His work was finished . . . or so he thought. He had no way of knowing that he would ride one more time with Custer.

“There's a man to ride the rivers and the wild and lonely lands with, gentlemen,” Custer told his officers as Jamie rode away. “I assure you, I will personally see to it that one day he will ride with the 7th into glorious victory against the hostiles.”

Part of that statement would certainly come to be. But not the whole.

More than gold was found in the Black Hills. Silver, beryl, feldspar, and mica were also discovered. The Black Hills was soon called the richest place on earth. When the column finally returned to Fort Abraham Lincoln in late 1874, and the reporters could get their stories out and back to the eastern newspapers, the stampede west began, and the Indians had no choice but to fight. This land had been given to them, promised in writing to be theirs forever and ever. But once again, the white man had broken his word.

Jamie had angled some west, and rode down through southeastern Wyoming. At a trading post near Fort D. A. Russell, Jamie heard a familiar voice and turned to see Red, Logan, Canby, and Rick, sitting at a table in the far corner.

Amid whoops and hollers, the men immediately started making plans to get into some mischief.

“I heard you was scoutin' for the army,” Canby said.

“I was. One time only. With Custer,” he added, smiling at the sudden grimace on Canby's face. “What are you boys up to?”

“Prowlin' around,” Logan said. “We got out of the Muggyowns in the nick of time, with about a hundred screamin' savages right behind us. Damned unfriendly bunch of heathens. Way they was actin' you'd a thought we goosed the chief or humped his wife or somethin' equally awful.”

“We heard you caught up with them ol' boys that done them turrible things to your kin,” Red said.

“That I did,” Jamie confirmed.

“You still got people after your hide, Mr. Mac,” Rick said. “That crazy damned Asa Pike and them Jones boys is still prowlin' around makin' threats.”

Jamie shook his head. “I can't be worried about that pack of nitwits. But I can guarantee you boys one thing: if they ever show up in Valley, they'll be dead within the hour. My son Falcon doesn't make idle threats.”

“Yeah, we sorta got that impression,” Red said with a smile.

“Where are you boys wintering?” Jamie asked.

The four men exchanged quick glances. “We thought we'd head down to Texas, maybe,” Canby said. He smiled. “Jamie, you 'member Rick here tellin' us 'bout all them Kermit brothers bein' after him?”

“I do.”

“Whole pack and passel of 'em is down Texas way. They bought 'em some sort of ranch down yonder. They're a crazy bunch; heavy into thievin' and rustlin'. But they pass themselves off as lovers of the Lord. We thought we'd amble down there and get them off the boy's back and do the sheriff a favor whilst we was at it.”

Jamie nodded his gray head. “Sounds good to me. Where in Texas?”

“Some little two by twice town just north of the border. Called Eagle Pass,” Logan said.

“Well, hell,” Jamie said. “I've never been there.”

“Wanna go?” Red asked, a hopeful note behind his words.

“Sure. Why not? Let's provision up and put some miles behind us. That's a far piece from here.”

“We got us some gold, Mr. Mac,” Rick said softly, his eyes twinkling.

“Hit you a strike down in the Muggyowns, did you?” Jamie asked with a smile.

“Not no mother lode,” Logan whispered. “But enough to carry us for a time without worryin' where our next meal was comin' from.”

“That's always a good feeling. You boys ready to go?”

“There ain't no moss growin' on my feet,” Canby said.

Jamie tossed some coins on the table, and the five men rose from their chairs and hit the air.

“What a crew,” a man muttered when the five were safely out of earshot.

“What do you mean?” his riding partner asked.

“Hell, man. You can practically smell the gunsmoke hangin' all around them ol' boys. That big, mean-lookin' one is Jamie Ian MacCallister ...”

“Really?
”

“You bet your boots it is. The young one is Rick Hanes. A first-class pistolero. The old scruffy one is Logan, the mountain man. And Red Green is no one to fool around with. Canby was in the army for about thirty years and is still as tough as they come. You can bet that them ol' boys is out to stir the mischief pot some.”

“Wanna tag along?”

“Not me. I ain't got no death wish. Way I hear tell, them ol' boys got a habit of goin' where
angels
won't even go. Them's the ones that shot up New Mexico a while back.”

“You don't say!”

“I do say.”

“I 'member hearin' somethin' about that. Killed a whole bunch of folks down there.”

“Yeah. And from the looks of things, they's gonna be some more get dirt shoveled in their faces.” He smiled. “I sure hope I'm in that good a shape when I get their age.”

Jamie looked over at Logan, noticing a slight limp as the man walked along. “What's the matter with you, Logan?”

“I got a damn rock in my boot!”

“Well, why don't you shake it out?” Rick asked.

“I's thinkin' 'bout gettin' me a crutch instead,” the old mountain man said with a straight face.

Red whipped off his hat, dragged it through a watering trough, then dumped the contents over Logan's head.

Laughing, the men walked on, to fill yet another page of western history.