Massacre of Eagles

and drink whiskey. Toward the end, he wouldn’t even talk to anyone, nor would he get out of bed. His depression got deeper and deeper, and his drinking got worse and worse, until one day he lay down to take a nap, and he never woke up.

“All that in less than six months,” Benteen said. “The young, aggressive, courageous officer who stormed the hill in his attempt to go to the rescue of his commander was, within six months of that date, a helpless, drunken, despondent invalid, dying in bed in a fifth-floor walk-up apartment in New York.”

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning as Falcon was shaving in his room at the BOQ he heard a knock at his door. With the towel draped across his shoulder and half his face still lathered, he took the few steps to the door and pulled it open. A tall, muscular black soldier was standing there. The stripes on his arm indicated that he was a sergeant.

“Colonel MacCallister?”

“Yes, I’m MacCallister.” Falcon still wasn’t all that comfortable with referring to himself as Colonel MacCallister.

The black sergeant saluted. “I’m Sergeant Major Coletrain, sir,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant. “Major Benteen has assigned me to you, Colonel Cody, and Colonel Ingraham for the day.”

“What do you mean he has assigned you?”

“Aren’t you three gentlemen catching the boat, goin’ down river?” Coletrain asked.

“We are.”

“I’ve got a team connected to the CO’s carriage. I’ll be driving the three of you to the steamboat dock.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“No, sir, it’s my privilege to thank you,” Coletrain said.

“Thank me for what?”

Coletrain chuckled. “I reckon when someone like does a thing, you don’t always know all the good that’s goin’ to come of it. But some time ago you killed an outlaw by the name of Luke Mueller. Down in Arizona, it was.”

“I remember,” Falcon said.

“I was in Arizona at the time, the Ninth was fightin’ Apaches then. I was married to the prettiest young girl you ever did see. She was a laundress at the post.

“Well sir, one day when she was goin’ into town, Luke Mueller raped her, and kilt her. When I found out who done it, I was plannin’ on desertin’ the army to find him and kill him. Only he run across you, and you kilt him instead.

“I wish it had been me that kilt him, but thinkin’ back on it, dead is dead, and I never got myself in trouble with the army. So, Colonel MacCallister, as you can see, I do have somethin’ to thank you for.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” Falcon said.

“Yes, sir, well, what is done is done,” Coletrain said. “You can go on outside to the carriage if you want, I’ll get the others.”

Sergeant Major Coletrain drove the others down to the riverside where the Queen of the West, a very shallowdraft riverboat, was tied nose in to the bank. The riverbank was crowded with people who had just arrived, those who were departing, those who were seeing people off or welcoming them. There were also several others there, just for the excitement. The ticket agent was sitting at a table in front of the boat, checking the tickets of those who had already booked passage, and selling tickets to those who had not yet done so.

Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham were among the latter, so they stood in line for a moment until it was their time. Looking up at them, the ticket agent smiled.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Buffalo Bill Cody?” the ticket agent asked Cody.

“I get that a lot,” Cody said.

“It must make you angry, being compared to that phony,” the ticket agent said.

“Oh, sometimes it does,” Cody said with awry smile.

“All right, one ticket to Sheridan,” the ticket agent said. “Your name, sir?”

“Cody. William F. Cody,” Cody said.

“Cody, Will . . . ,” the ticket agent looked up in surprise. “You—you mean you really are Buffalo Bill?”

“Guilty,” Cody said.

“Oh, Mr. Cody, I’m so sorry,” the ticket agent said. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just shooting off my mouth. I, uh, I’m sorry.”

“Think nothing of it, friend,” Cody said.

Falcon was still chuckling as he stepped up to the table.

“Yes, sir,” the nervous ticket agent said. “Your name?”

“McCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”

“What? Are you the Falcon MacCallister?”

“I don’t know,” Falcon replied. “I may be, since I am the only Falcon MacCallister I know.”