Scream of Eagles (26 page)

The kids would be taken in by the family, and Falcon would return from time to time, but it would never be the same for him.

Jamie drained his coffee cup. With a sigh he got up and blew out the lamps.

Tomorrow he'd ride out of Valley.

For the last time, that thought once more came to him.

“Crap!” Jamie said, and went to bed.

“Y'all hush all this blubberin' and bleatin',” Jamie told the women gathered around him. “You kids have seen me ride off dozens of times over the years. This time is no different. When, or if, I find out something about Marie, I'll get word back to you.” Jamie swung into the saddle and lifted the reins. He waved at his kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, and many friends, and pointed Sundown's nose north. He did not look back at the town.

Jamie had no way of knowing that hundreds of miles to the north and east, Brigadier General Alfred H. Terry, commander of the department of Dakota, had received orders from Washington to prepare for military action against the Sioux and Cheyenne tribes.

The seventh night out Jamie spent with a small band of peaceful Indians who were not going to take any part in the upcoming fight—or so they said. But Jamie noticed they had no women with them and were packed for travel. He made no mention of that.

“Bear Killer has always been a friend to us,” an elder said. “So we will tell him what we know of Marie Gentle Breeze. Bad Indians planned to take her north against her will. She fought them constantly. They killed her. Crushed her head with a war axe and threw her into the Colored River.”
²⁷

“Did they rape her?”

“Many times. They thought by taking the woman they would gain much respect from others and be allowed back into the tribe. They were wrong. They are under sentence of death by the council.”

Jamie drew a line in the dirt. “Show me where they threw her body into the river.”

The elder pointed to a spot. “There.” He lifted his eyes and stared at Jamie. “Man Who Is Not Afraid should not ride with the soldiers. Not this time.”

Jamie did not push the conversation, for he knew that warning was all he was going to get from the elder. He was gone just after dawn the next morning. For several days, he rode and walked for miles on both sides of the river. He finally found what was left of Marie, and it was not much. What was left of Falcon's wife was wedged in between a log and a large rock just a few feet away from the west bank of the river.

Jamie gathered up what he could of Marie, handling the remains with as much dignity as was possible, considering the condition of the body, and buried her. He piled a mound of rocks over the grave and marked it carefully.

He rode over to the mining town of Georgetown, got himself a room at Louis Dupuy's fancy Hotel de Paris, and sent word to Falcon.

Sitting on the side of the bed in the luxuriously appointed room, with its solid walnut bed, hot and cold water taps over marble basins, and the finest of linens on the bed, Jamie suddenly realized he was tired, and it was only mid-day.

Age is catching up with me fast, Jamie thought, then added this to his thoughts: Well, why not? How many times have I been shot and stabbed? And I was once left for dead with injuries so severe it took months for me to heal. All those things had to have taken a toll on me.

Jamie bathed and dressed in his one set of good clothing he'd brought with him, then walked down to the hotel bar. He was not expecting any trouble, for of all the mining towns in the West, Georgetown was now and always had been the calmest; and in the hotel, Louis would tolerate no trouble of any kind, no matter who started it. Wild Bill Hickok made Georgetown his home for a time back in '72, and even he respected the hotel's reputation as a safe haven.

That was not to say that Georgetown was not a whiskey-drinkin', poker-playin' and whorin' town, for it was. It just never saw much trouble.

Jamie enjoyed two slow drinks of fine whiskey at the bar; then Louis came in and motioned him over to his private table. He shook Jamie's hand.

“An honor, monsieur,” the Frenchman said. “Your exploits are known world wide.”

“Thank you,” Jamie said modestly.

“Do you ride north to fight the Indians, monsieur?”

“Yes. With mixed emotions.”

“I do understand . . . both sides, I try to tell myself.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But can a white man ever understand the Indian?”

“Louis, I have a long distance to travel, and I have a feeling that time is running out.” Jamie could not, of course, realize at the time just how prophetic those words would prove to be. “I think my son, Falcon, will be along in a few days.” He handed the hotel owner a carefully drawn map. “Would you see that he gets this, please?”

“But of course. Consider it done.” He picked up a menu and with a smile said, “Now, if you would do me the honor of selecting your evening meal? . . .”

“Of course.”

* * *

Jamie rode out of Georgetown before dawn the next morning, heading north. He had told the army he would rendezvous with them on the Yellowstone, where Rosebud Creek flowed out of the Yellowstone.

Actually, he was looking forward to the ride.

* * *

It was one of the many councils among the chiefs of many tribes. Sitting Bull, Gall, Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Low Dog, and a dozen others. There were various tribes of Sioux represented at the council as well as Cheyenne, Sans Arc, and Blackfeet: Hunkpapa, Miniconjoux, and Oglala. Soon there would be fifteen thousand Indians gathered along the banks of the Greasy Grass River.
²⁸

“We will fight and destroy them all,” Crazy Horse said. “We will drive them from our lands forever.”

“We might win the battle,” the more moderate Red Cloud said. “But we will never win the war. Why can't any of you see this?”

“Bah!” Crazy Horse said. “You have talked and talked and talked with the white man. Has he ever kept his word? No. Seven times you have traveled on the iron horse to see the white leaders in Washington. Seven times they promised this and that, and seven times they
lied!
The white man has the tongue of a snake. The truth is not in them. You are the only one among us to hold out, Red Cloud. Your influence is gone. I do not wish to hear your words. They are the words of a frightened woman.”

Brave and bold words on the part of Crazy Horse, for Red Cloud was a man who once held a lofty position within the tribe . . . but no more. Crazy Horse had openly helped push along Red Cloud's decline of power.

Red Cloud rose from the circle in the tipi and left. There was great sadness in the man's heart, for he had been east many times, once to speak at the Cooper Institute in New York City, where (not surprisingly) there was much pro-Indian sentiment among those men and women who had never been farther west than New Jersey.

Those in attendance had wildly applauded Red Cloud's words as they were translated. Immediately afterward, the idealists drew up a plan, which was never shown to Red Cloud or implemented. Which was fine, for it wouldn't have worked anyway. The idealists (not surprisingly) did not understand what most westerners knew practically from birth: the majority of Indians did not want to be civilized, at least not in accordance with the white man's definition of the word.

On this day, Red Cloud walked away from the council tipi to be alone with his wisdom. “All is lost,” the great chief muttered. “All is lost. For we cannot win. Crazy Horse and Yellow Hair
²⁹
could well be brothers, for while they are brave men, they are also fools. One wants to kill all the whites; the other wants to kill all the Indians. All is lost.”

* * *

Falcon arrived at Georgetown days after his father had left and was given Jamie's message and map. He immediately set out to find the grave of his wife, unaware that his arrival in, and the quick departure out of, the mining town had not gone unnoticed by a group of men who had just missed Jamie.

The men followed the grieving Falcon from a safe distance. They would strike when the time was right. When it came to being dead, one damned MacCallister was as good as the other.

* * *

General Alfred H. Terry had received orders from Washington to pull out of Fort Abraham Lincoln on May 17, 1876, with a massive force of men, including twelve companies of the 7th Cavalry, commanded by Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer. General Sheridan had personally drawn up the plan: General Terry would move west to the Yellowstone, Colonel John Gibbon would move east out of Fort Ellis, Montana, and General George Crook would move north out of Fort Fetterman in Wyoming.

The commanders had been assured they would not do battle with more than five hundred hostiles at any given time.

They were going to be in for quite a surprise. Especially Custer. Briefly.

* * *

Jamie headed straight north through Wyoming, following an established Indian trail that in the years ahead would become a major north/south highway. (The Indian has never been given credit for finding the easiest route through difficult terrain.)

By the time Jamie reached the North Platte River, unalterable events were taking place, occurrences that would end with tragic results for both the Indian and the white man . . . but much more so for the Indian: the tribes were gathering along the banks of the Greasy Grass River in Southern Montana. Thousands of them.

Still, the army commanders were being told again and again by messenger that they would encounter only a few hundred hostiles at any given time, for the Indians had never banded together under one commander and certainly would not do so now. Be assured of that.

Somebody forgot to tell the Indians that.

* * *

Falcon found Marie's grave and sat by it for a time, trying to make some sense out of her death. He could not. Falcon had brought along a heavy hammer and a chisel, and after looking around for a proper stone, found one, muscled it into place, and began the laborious job of slowly chiseling her name into the stone.

He was intent upon his work, but not so much that he failed to occasionally check his surroundings, for despite all the moves toward civilization, this was still the Wild West. And Falcon had been well-schooled by his father.

Falcon became aware that he was being watched. And not by Indians. Falcon allowed himself a very small smile. He had never seen an Indian this clumsy. He continued his work on the stone, but only after furtively slipping the leather loops from the hammers of his pistols and checking to make sure his rifle was close at hand.

After concluding that his watchers were at least six strong, and probably more, Falcon made several trips to his packs, ostensibly for a drink of water, but really to stuff his pockets full of cartridges for his rifle and pistols. Then he would return to work on the stone.

He worked and waited and wondered.

* * *

Jamie continued to ride north, drawing ever closer to his date with destiny.

* * *

In Valley, Ben F. Washington, after Falcon let him read the message from Jamie to his son, sadly prepared the obituary notice for Marie MacCallister. Then a sudden and sobering thought caused him to put aside his pencil. He wondered, right out of the blue, if he would ever see Jamie Ian MacCallister again.

He leaned back in his swivel chair and wondered why that terrible concern had popped into his brain.

Ben shook his head and returned to his writing.

* * *

“I wish Pa had not gone off on this scout,” Morgan said to his brothers, Jamie Ian and Matthew.

Andrew and Rosanna were touring in the East and would leave for Europe in late June. Their sailing date was scheduled for the 26th of June.

“You got a bad feelin', too?” Matthew asked.

“Yeah, just like Ian. A real bad feeling about it.”

“The girls are all tore up about it,” Jamie Ian said. “Pat told me Joleen cried all the night.”

“That's the same thing Jim told me about Megan.”

“Anybody seen Ellen Kathleen?”

“She's holdin' up. But William told me she's wearin' a face like a thundercloud.”

“I worry more about Falcon than Pa,” Matthew said. “Pa's been ridin' with death all around him for almost sixty years now. Tell you the truth, and it's a hard thing to say, I don't think Pa gives a damn anymore. Not since Ma passed. I think he's ready in his mind to die. But Falcon . . .” He shook his head. “Folks better fight shy of him, mood he's in.”

Morgan looked at Jamie Ian and smiled. “How's your boy and Mary Marie doin'?”

Jamie Ian laughed, lightening the somber moment. “That girl keeps him at a flat lope all day long. They've been married now, oh, four and half years. Expecting their third child this fall. Red-haired, freckle-faced, and blue-eyed.”

“Way that boy works at the farm, he don't have time to do much else than some nighttime cuddlin',” Matthew said with a smile.

“Seems like that's about all we done, too,” Jamie Ian said. “When you take a look at all the kids in this town.”

* * *

With the waters of the Blue River softly flowing not far away, Falcon heard the men when they made their rush toward him. He turned, dropped to one knee, and drew his right-hand pistol, all in one fluid motion.

“We want him alive!” Asa Pike shouted, just as one of his men pointed a gun at Falcon.

Falcon shot the man in the chest and then threw himself to one side as the men rushed him. He drew his other pistol and opened fire; at nearly point-blank range, his fire was devastating.

The Jones brothers, Lloyd and Bob, were among the first to go down, both of them mortally wounded. Lloyd stumbled backward and lost his balance, finally tumbling over the side of the bank and falling into the river. Bob sat down hard, both hands holding his bullet-perforated belly.

Falcon had no time to observe what Bob did next; he was in a fight for his life without having any idea why the men had attacked him.