Massacre of Eagles

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But the night of danger was not yet ended for the brave and stalwart Falcon MacCallister, for even as he lay in peaceful slumber in his hotel room, Angus Ebersole, Clay Hawkins, and Ike Peters made plans to ply their murderous intentions against him. Their motivation, no doubt, was that they held Falcon MacCallister responsible for the failure of their plot and the justifiable killing of their friends.

Like the most loathsome of vermin who prowl under cover of darkness, the three men acquired the key to Falcon MacCallister’s room, and brazenly attempted to kill him in his sleep. Their attempt, as had been the earlier attempt of their partners in crime, failed, and with disastrous consequences for the perpetrators. Once again, the gallant Mr. MacCallister avoided death. Instead, he dispatched those who would have killed him to the final adjudication of He whose final judgment we all await.

This writer feels a particular sense of gratitude to Mr. MacCallister, for no doubt had the brigands succeeded, they would then have turned their murderous intentions toward Buffalo Bill Cody and your humble scribe, as we were also participants in their failed attempt to rob the train upon which we were passengers.

Falcon MacCallister’s killing of the outlaws was warranted and he was totally exonerated by a legal hearing held by the sheriff and circuit judge.

Ingraham had just finished his notes when Cody knocked on his door. “You still asleep in there?” Cody called.

Ingraham got up from the table and jerked open the door. “Not at all,” he said. “I was just making some notes.”

“More entries in your great American novel?”

“I’ll have you know, sir, that it is not a novel,” Ingraham said. “It is a scholarly work of nonfiction.”

“Is it now? Well, if you want to continue your scholarly work of nonfiction, you’d best get moving. Falcon is seeing to our horses. We are going back a different way.”

“Not back through Yellowstone?”

“No. We’re going through Dead Indian Pass, and will join the Yellowstone River back in Wyoming.”

“Sounds interesting,” Ingraham said.

With Bowman and Clayton

It took Bowman and Clayton half a day to reach the Yellowstone River from their respective ranches. The ride had not been difficult, and was even easier once they reached the river. Here, they had an abundant source of water, and because of the river, there was an abundant source of forage for the cattle.

They caught a couple of trout and cooked them over an open fire. That night they had roasted rabbit. They could have eaten elk; there were plenty to be taken, but as there were only two of them, they didn’t want to waste the rest of the meat that they wouldn’t be able to eat or store.

“I hope I’m not speaking too early,” Clayton said as they bedded down for the night. “But seems to me like this drive is likely to be pretty easy.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing,” Bowman said. “But, just to be safe, let’s extinguish the fire. No sense in leaving a beacon for anyone.”

With the White Bull raiding party, the next day

White Bull gave the reins of his pony to Running Elk, and then climbed to the top of the hill. He knew the warrior’s secret of lying down behind the crest of the hill so that he couldn’t be seen against the skyline, so he lay on his stomach, then sneaked up to the top and peered over. There, on the valley floor below him, he saw two white men. It was obvious that the whites had no idea they were in danger. It would be easy to count coups against them. He smiled, then slithered back down the hill into the ravine where Running Elk and the others were waiting.

“Did you see them?” Running Elk asked.

“Yes,” White Bull answered.

“How many are there?”

“There are two white men.”

“Only two? But we are thirteen,” Running Elk said. “Where is the honor in thirteen attacking two?”

“Where is the honor in the whites killing Many Buffalo and One Feather? Where is the honor in attacking White Deer and Quiet Stream and White Deer’s children?” White Bull replied. “Have you forgotten how the blood ran hot in your veins?”

“No, I have not forgotten.”

“We will claim coups on these white men, then we will show Mean to His Horses that the Crow can be as good warriors as the Cheyenne.”

“When do you attack?” One of the others asked. He was Face in the Wind, a Shoshone. Standing Bear and Jumping Wolf were also present.

“Now,” White Bull replied. He pointed down the ravine. “We will follow the ravine around the side of the hill. We will attack them before they suspect our presence.”

Doyle Clayton and Oliver Bowman had gotten an early start this morning and were well into their trip when Clayton saw a substantial group of Indians coming toward them from the east.

“Look over there, Oliver,” Clayton said. “What do you think that is all about?”

“I don’t know, but there are too many of them to suit me. I think we should get out of here,” Bowman answered.

The two ranchers urged their horses into a gallop, keeping it up for at least two miles until they came into the breaks of the Yellowstone River. There they dismounted, pulled their rifles from the saddle-sheaths, then slapped their horses to keep them running, hoping that would draw off the Indians. Finding a spot in the sand dunes next to the river, they hunkered down to wait for the Indians. The Indians poured over the bluffs, then crossed over the sand dunes so that the two ranchers were surrounded. Bowman and Clayton had cover from the front, but no cover behind except for the river.