Massacre of Eagles

and looked back down at the track as the passengers and train crew worked to clear it.

“I thought you said this would be easy,” Hawkins complained.

“I didn’t say it would be easy, I said it would pay off well,” Ebersole replied. “That train is carrying army payrolls for three forts. There’s no tellin’ how much money is there.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Hawkins said. “The money is there, it ain’t here.”

“How was I to know that Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill would both be on that train?” Ebersole asked. “There just ain’t no way of findin’ out about stuff like that.”

“You think that was really them?” Dewey asked.

“You seen how easy they cut down Smitty, Hunt, and Collins, didn’t you?” Ebersole answered. “Yeah, I think it was really them.”

“I didn’t know they was real,” Peters said.

“What do you mean you didn’t think they was real? You seen ’em, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I seen ’em. But like I said, I didn’t think there was really any such people. I thought they was like Santa Claus, I thought they was just somethin’ someone made up to tell stories about.”

“They are real, all right,” Ebersole said.

“What if we was to go back down there now, catch ’em while they’re workin’?” Dewey said. “We might be able to surprise ’em.”

“The rest of us might also get kilt,” Ebersole said.

“Damn, and I ’bout had that money spent,” Hawkins said.

“I reckon ole Billy Taylor won’t be havin’ hisself none of them Mexican gals,” Dewey said.

“Won’t none of us be doin’ nothin’,” Peters said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ebersole said, turning his horse away from the track.

Bismarck, Dakota Territory

It was mid-morning when the train rolled into Bismarck, Dakota Territory, where it was met by Mr. I.W. Emmons, the station agent. Behind them the train, temporarily at rest from its long run, wasn’t quiet. Because the engineer kept the steam up, the valve continued to open and close in great, heaving sighs. Overheated wheel bearings and gearboxes popped and snapped as tortured metal cooled. On the platform all around them, there was a discordant chorus of squeals, laughter, shouts, and animated conversation as people were getting on and off the train.

Told of the attempted robbery, the station agent summoned Sheriff Walter Merrell, who took the prisoner into custody. Within fifteen minutes of the arrival of the train the entire town was aware of the attempted train robbery. They also knew that the robbery was prevented by Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody, two of the nation’s most storied Western personalities.

The three would-be robbers who had tried to gain access to the express car had succeeded, but only in death. They had ridden the distance between the holdup attempt and Bismarck in the express car. Now their bodies were removed and laid out on the depot platform, waiting for the undertaker to call for them.

As they lay there, scores of people passed by to stare down at them in morbid curiosity. Though only two men had been shooting at them, all three had multiple bullet wounds in their torsos, and one had a bullet wound in his forehead.

“Look at that. That was some good shootin’,” one man said.

“Well, yeah, when you consider who it was that shot them, you wouldn’t expect anything but good shooting.”

“Who did you say shot them?” someone asked.

“It was Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill Cody.”

“Wow. I sure wish I had been on the train to see that.”

“I was on the train,” another said. “But it was too dark to see anything but the muzzle flashes.”

“It sure would have been something to see.”

That same morning, Prentiss Ingraham presented himself to Marshal Jewel, editor of the Bismarck Tribune. The Tribune had been started by C.A. Lounsberry, and was made famous by its coverage of Custer’s last fight at Little Big Horn, but Lounsberry sold the paper in 1884 during his unsuccessful bid to be governor of the territory.

“My good man, I am here to offer you the sum of fifty dollars,” Ingraham said.

“Is that a fact? And just what do I have to do for you for that fifty dollars?” Jewel asked.

“Oh, you don’t understand, sir,” Ingraham said. “It isn’t what you are going to do for me, it is what I am going to do for you. I am Prentiss Ingraham, famous author and journalist. It so happens that I was on the train, and was a direct witness to the thrilling events involving Buffalo Bill Cody, Falcon MacCallister, and the would-be train robbers. I am offering you my services in writing the story for you. Normally, I would get seventy-five, even one hundred dollars for the story, but I am going to do it for you for the paltry sum of twenty-five dollars.”

“Wait a minute,” Jewel said. “I am to give you twenty-five dollars? I thought you were going to give me fifty dollars.”

“Oh, but I am, my good man. Consider that, by writing an article for you for the paltry sum of twenty-five dollars, you are to the good in the difference my efforts normally earn.”

The editor laughed. “Very well, Mr. Ingraham. I confess that I have heard of you, and it may do my paper well to have a story written by the famous author of so many dime novels.”

Borrowing a pen and paper from Jewel, Ingraham sat at a table in the back of the newspaper office and began