Bloodshed of Eagles

“No, I don’t,” Richland said.

“Then don’t worry about it. Most of the army is dumb Irish or Germans anyhow.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Damn right I’m right,” Harris said. Harris picked up his beer mug and held it out toward the others. “Here’s to two thousand dollars.”

The four men clicked their mugs together, then drank.

“Damn,” Bryans said. “I just figured out what I’m goin’ to do with my share of the money.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m goin’ to use it to outfit myself. Then I’m goin’ into the Black Hills and get me some of that gold they say is just lyin’ around up there.”

Chapter Eight

May 8, 1876

Omaha, Nebraska

As the riverboat Far West backed away from its mooring at Omaha, the steam cylinders boomed like cannons, the sound echoing back from both sides of the Missouri River. Scores of people were gathered on the docks to watch the steamboat begin its journey upriver to the town of Bismarck, Dakota Territory. Captain Grant Marsh blew the long, two-tone whistle and it, like the sound of the cannon-like steam cylinders, rolled back across the water, as if answered by another boat.

“Good-bye, Omaha!” someone yelled from the deck of the boat. “By the time I come back through here, I’ll be rich as Croesus.”

“If you have that much money, you can buy us all a drink!” someone yelled back from the riverbank, and those ashore and those on the boat laughed.

The paddle wheel, which was in reverse, stopped, then started again, this time rolling forward. For a moment, it did nothing but churn up the water; then it caught purchase and the boat started moving upstream, searching for the channel. As it did, one of the deckhands went to the bow of the boat and threw over a line, then, pulling it up, called out loudly: “By the mark, eight!”

The Far West was a stern-wheeler, shallow-draft, wooden-hull packet boat powered by three boilers. It was 190 feet long, and could carry two hundred tons and thirty cabin passengers. On this day, though, there must have been at least seventy passengers, many of whom were making the journey on the deck of the steamer.

Falcon, who had a cabin, was standing at the stern watching the wheel turn, frothing up the water and leaving a rolling wake for a long way behind the boat.

“The first thing I’m going to get me,” one of the passengers on the boat said loudly, “is a three-piece suit with a diamond stickpin on my vest. And I’m going to get me a cane, too, one of them black shiny canes, with a silver head. Then, I’m going to walk right down Fifth Avenue in New York and tell them coppers what used to pinch me all them times when I was hungry and I’d take no more’n an apple, that they can just kiss my rich backside.”

The pronouncement was met with loud laughter from all the other passengers. With very few exceptions, the passengers were all men, all loud and boisterous, and nearly all from Eastern cities and towns. When asked, they would say that they were coming West to make their fortune in gold. Most were clinging to their little treasure of camping and or mining equipment, bought from unscrupulous suppliers who were going to make their own fortune from the fortune seekers.

Several had maps as well, the maps purporting to show them exactly where to go, and giving such details as: Good water here, adequate firewood here, wild fruit and good fishing here. Falcon, who had been all through the Dakota territory, had seen a couple of the maps. They were not only wrong, they were incredibly wrong—drawn not from any exact knowledge, but simply extrapolated—with a lot of imagination—from published maps. They put rivers, creeks, and lakes where there were none, and mountain passes where only sheer rock walls stood.

The men would often retire to a part of the boat where they could find some privacy, then sit there and study their maps, learning every detail so they would be well prepared when they started on their quest. Falcon tried to tell one that a “good water” stream that was on his map didn’t exist at all, but the passenger didn’t believe him.

“I paid good money for this map, mister, from someone who came out here and made his own fortune,” the passenger said. “This here map not only tells me where to find water and such. It also tells me which creek beds are filled with gold.”

“Whatever you say, friend,” Falcon replied, not wanting to argue with him.

When Falcon MacCallister boarded the boat at Omaha, he was curious as to why there were so many Easterners on board. He asked Captain Grant Marsh about it, and Marsh replied, his answer accompanied by a snort that betrayed his derision for the passengers.

“They are gold hunters,” he said. “They are going into the Black Hills to get rich.”

“What makes them think they can get rich in the Black Hills?” Falcon asked. “What they are most likely to get is to have their scalps lifted. Don’t they know the Black Hills belong to the Sioux? In fact, the Black Hills are sacred to the Sioux.”

“That doesn’t matter a whit to them,” Marsh said. “These men all have the gold fever, and nothing is going to stop them.”

“Surely, when they get out there, the army will prevent them from going into Indian territory,” Falcon said.

“I don’t think even the army can stop them,” Marsh said. “And, from reading that fool article in the newspaper, I’m not sure Custer even wants to stop them.”