Massacre of Eagles

“I’ve read about you,” the ticket agent said. “I—well, just a minute, let me show you.”

The ticket agent reached down into a case that was on the ground by his table and pulled out a book. The title of the book was Falcon MacCallister and the Mountain Marauders.

“This is a real good book,” he said.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Ingraham said. “Would you like me to autograph it for you?”

“Don’t tell me you are . . .”

“Prentiss Ingraham,” Ingraham said, answering the ticket agent before his question was completed. “And you have chosen well. This is one of my personal favorites.”

The ticket agent shook his head. “My wife isn’t going to believe this,” he said.

Half an hour later, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham were aboard when the captain stepped to the front rail of the wheelhouse.

“Draw in the gangplank,” he shouted, and two deckhands responded by pulling in the ramp by which all had boarded.

“Cast off all lines!”

With that accomplished, the pilot called for fullreverse engine, and the stern paddle pulled the boat away from the bank to the middle of the narrow, shallow river; then it turned, nose downriver. The paddlewheel stopped, then started spinning in the opposite direction as the boat started its journey down the Tongue River.

An hour later, Falcon was standing at the stern, watching the paddlewheel spin through the water, leaving a frothing wake behind them. The river was not very wide and was quite shallow, so the boat was equipped with spars. They had not gone very far when the captain ordered the first use of the spars.

“Stand clear of the line, sir,” a boatman said as he approached the spar on the starboard side of the boat, the side on which Falcon was standing. “When the line gets taut, if it breaks, it could hurt you bad.”

“Thanks, I’ll stay out of the way,” Falcon replied.

“Stand by the spars!” the captain yelled through his megaphone from the Texas deck.

The boatman who had spoken to Falcon grabbed hold of the spar.

“Spars in the water!” the captain called through his megaphone.

The riverman stuck the end of the spar down into the water, then wrapped the line around a capstan. “Aye, Cap’n, spar in the water!” he called back.

The deckhand who was handling the spar on the other side of the boat repeated the call.

“Commence sparring!”

The boatman pulled a lever and the capstan, powered by steam, began putting pressure on the spar, while the same thing was being done to the spar on the port side.

Sparring lifted the bow of the Queen of the West as if it were on crutches, up and off the sandbar. With the bow raised, the paddlewheel got more purchase in the water and moved the boat forward. Because it was a particularly long sandbar, the action had to be repeated, in a procedure that Falcon knew was called grass-hoppering, or walking, the boat. The procedure had to be repeated several times until, finally, the boat was clear of the sand bar and the captain was able to proceed downriver at a rapid clip.

As the boat continued down the river, Falcon examined the banks sliding by. He saw a lot of deer coming down to the river to drink, amazingly unafraid of the huge fire bellowing, and the thundering monster that was moving down the river. He also saw elk, bighorn, and even a couple of bears coming down to get a drink.

Once he saw three Indians on horseback, high on an overlook as they watched the riverboat pass by on its downriver transit. Shortly after they crossed from Montana territory into Wyoming territory, they saw a young white boy and girl standing on rock jutting out into the river. They were waving and Falcon waved back. Behind them stood a very small log cabin, and in a field alongside the cabin, a man Falcon presumed to be their father was plowing a field.

“Falcon,” Cody called, and Falcon turned away from the railing to see what his friend wanted.

“We are getting a card game together in the salon. Come join us.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Falcon replied.

The salon was the social center of the Queen of the West. Here the passengers could have a drink, take their meals, play cards, or simply engage in conversation. There were many more men on board than there were women, and the women passengers tended to gather in one corner to talk among themselves.

The game Falcon joined had six players: Falcon, Cody, Ingraham, and three others, all gold hunters. Reynolds, one of the card players, was a veteran of prospecting in the Big Horn Basin, and during the course of the game he was telling the others some of the places they could look for gold.

“Of course, I tell this, but with a warning,” he said.

“A warning about what?” one of the gold hunters asked. “Bear? I know there are bear there. I plan to keep away from them.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about bears,” Reynolds said. “Though you’d be smart to keep a lookout for ’em. I’m talkin’ about Injuns.”

“Indians?” Cody said. “But the Crow live there. They are friendly.”

“Yeah, I reckon they are supposed to be,” Reynolds said. “But we’ve been havin’ a little trouble with them. They’ve kilt a few prospectors, and here just recent, why they kilt a whole family, husband, wife, and their little child.”

“Are you talking about the Kennedy family? That was Mean to His Horses, wasn’t it?”