Massacre of Eagles

Cinnabar, where I will be holding an audition.”

“An audition?”

“Yes, I will be looking for new cowboys. Where do you think I get the people for my exhibition?”

“I don’t know,” Falcon replied. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Well I think about it, all the time. I have to think about it. And believe me, I can’t get cowboys from Brooklyn. They have to be authentic, or the people who come to my shows will see it in a second. And to be honest, I would like to have you help me pick out the ones I can use.”

Falcon chuckled. “All right,” he said. “I’ve never thought of myself as a talent scout, but I suppose I could do that.”

“I suppose you are coming too, Ingraham?” Cody said.

“Of course. There is still a chance that something exciting may happen that I can write about,” Ingraham replied.

Prentiss Ingraham’s notes from his book in progress:

He is a small man, and physically most unprepossessing, though he struts and frets his hour upon the stage as if the entire nation weighed heavily upon his shoulders, and not merely the administration of a small Indian agency. His name is Major James McLaughlin, and a more unpleasant gentleman you are unlikely to meet during your appointed years on earth.

McLaughlin is in charge of none other than Sitting Bull, unquestionably the most famous of all America’s Indians. Perhaps intimidated by the bearing and dignity of the celebrated chief, McLaughlin has done all in his power to demean and discomfit the noble Sioux leader. Despite his ignoble efforts, Sitting Bull has maintained all the dignity and elan of one of his station. During his audience with Buffalo Bill Cody and Falcon MacCallister, he was straight forward and completely in command of himself. The result of the meeting was just as Buffalo Bill expected. Sitting Bull is not a part of the Spirit Talking movement which has so animated the Indians of late.

Bismarck

It was just after midnight in Bismarck, and by now even the saloons were quiet. The Missouri river gleamed silver in the moonlight as Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, Ike Peters, and Jim Dewey walked quietly down 4th Street, heading for the jail, from which a light was shining, dimly.

Looking around to make certain they weren’t being watched, the four men stepped up onto the porch of the jail. Ebersole tried the door, but it didn’t open.

“Damn, it’s locked,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be locked,” Hawkins said. “It’s a jail.”

“Yeah, but jails are supposed to lock people in, not lock ’em out,” Ebersole said.

“I got an idea,” Dewey said. “Knock on the door.”

“Ain’t much chance of surprisin’ him by knockin’ on the door,” Ebersole said.

“I’m goin’ to pretend to be drunk,” Dewey said. “Knock on the door, when the deputy opens it, tell him you want to put me in jail to keep me out of trouble.”

“That might work,” Hawkins said.

“May as well try it,” Peters added.

Ebersole nodded, then knocked loudly on the door. “Marshal!” he called. “Marshal, you in there?”

He knocked again.

The door opened and a young man, wearing the badge of a deputy, stepped back from the open door. He was holding a double-barrel shotgun in his hands.

“What do you want?” the deputy asked.

“Our pard here is drunk,” Ebersole said.

“I ain’t no more drunk than you are, you lyin’ sumbitch!” Dewey said, slurring his words.

“What does that mean to me, that he is drunk?” the deputy asked.

“Well, we want you to lock him up tonight so’s he don’t get in no trouble.”

“Just take ’im somewhere and let ’im sleep it off,” the deputy said. “I don’t have any authority to lock someone up.”

“What do you mean you don’t have any authority? You’re a deputy, ain’t you?” Ebersole said.

“I can’t lock someone up just for being drunk. If I did that, the jail would be full every night.”

“See, I tole’ you I wasn’t goin’ to spen’ no night in jail,” Dewey said. He made a drunken lurch toward the deputy. “You’re a good man, dep’y,” he said as he reached him. “Yes, sir, you’re a good man.”

The deputy tried to back away from him, but it was too late. Dewey grabbed his shotgun and pointed it straight up, then jerked it away from him.

“What the hell?” the deputy yelled, but before he could say anything else, Ebersole brought his pistol down, sharply, on the deputy’s head. He fell unconscious to the floor.

“Billy?” Ebersole shouted. “Billy boy, are you back there!”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Billy answered.

“Hold on a second. We’re gettin’ you out of here.”

Ebersole got the key from a hook on the wall, then went into the back of the jail. The cell door was held closed by a hasp and padlock. He tried three keys before he found the right one. The padlock clicked open, then Ebersole removed it and opened the cell door.