Bloodshed of Eagles

“Oh, that’s not possible,” Lorena said. “I’ve only been here for a few days, but I have heard the way he talks to you, and about you, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you. All women should be so lucky.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I should be so lucky.”

“Maybe someday you will be,” Libbie suggested. “I know Tom certainly seems taken with you. Though you may be more interested in Falcon MacCallister.”

“Falcon? No, I—I don’t think so,” Lorena replied. “There is something about him, a deep sadness in his past. I’m not sure what it is, but sometimes, in an unguarded moment, you can look into his eyes and see all the way down to the scars on his soul.”

Libbie shivered, then pulled a shawl about her shoulders.

“Are you cold?” Lorena asked.

“Yes. No,” Libbie said. “For some strange reason, I am very apprehensive about this scout. More so than any previous scout he has ever made, and what you said just now, about a deep sadness, seemed to resonate with me a little more than such a comment would normally.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lorena said. “I had no wish to cause you melancholy.”

Libbie laughed, then reached over and patted Lorena’s hand. “Don’t be silly, dear. I’m a soldier’s wife. Apprehension and unexplained bouts of melancholy are part of it.”

Outside Custer’s tent, most of the soldiers were staying in their own tents, out of the rain. The soldiers and civilians who were attached to the supply train had no such luxury, though. They were working with wagons that were sometimes hub-deep in mud, trying to move them to more solid ground.

As Lorena pointed out, Custer had eschewed the relative comfort of his tent so that he could be personally involved in getting the regiment ready for departure. At one point, he had the men tie a rope on front of the wagon, then he pulled, helping to extricate it from a particularly difficult mud hole.

Falcon, who the day before had gone to the railroad depot in Bismarck to see his brother and sister off, had delayed his own departure until after the Seventh left on their scout. He had come to the field with them, and was sharing a tent with Mark Kellogg, who was a reporter for the Bismarck Tribune and the New York Herald.

Kellogg was sitting at a small field table, writing. “Colonel MacCallister,” he said. “What do you think of this?”

Picking up the tablet, Kellogg began to read. “General George A. Custer, dressed in a dashing suit of buckskin, is prominent everywhere. Here, there, flitting to and fro in his quick eager way, taking in everything connected with his command, as well as generally, with the keen, incisive manner for which he is so well known. The general is full of perfect readiness for the fray with the hostile red devils, and woe to any of the scalp-lifters that come within reach of himself and his brave companions in arms.”

Kellogg looked up from his table with a broad smile, eager for Falcon’s response.

“Sounds like you think the Indians will be easy,” Falcon said.

“Oh, come on, please, Colonel MacCallister,” Kellogg said. “Against General Custer and the mighty Seventh? I’ve no doubt there will be some difficult times on the march, but as to any actual fighting? The Indians will scarcely give battle, I think.”

“Mr. Kellogg?” someone called from outside the tent. “May I come in, sir?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Johnny, come in out of the rain,” Kellogg replied.

The person who stepped into the tent was a boy, no older than fourteen. He was wearing a slicker against the rain, but his face was wet and the hat, which was a billed cap rather than a hat with a brim, had done little to keep his hair from getting soaked.

“Colonel MacCallister, this is Johnny McVey. He works for Western Union,” Kellogg said. “What brings you out here, Johnny? Do you have a telegram for me? Or a message from my editor?”

“Neither one, Mr. Kellogg. This is a telegram for Colonel MaCallister.”

“I’m Colonel MacCallister,” Falcon said.

“You’re not in uniform.”

“No, I’m not.”

“How do I know you are who you say your are? I’m only supposed to give this to Colonel MacCallister.”

“I will speak for him, Johnny,” Kellogg said. “This is Colonel MacCallister.”

“All right,” Johnny said. “If you speak for him, Mr. Kellogg.” The boy handed the telegram to Falcon. “This is for you,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Falcon gave the boy half a dollar, and took the telegram.

COLONEL FALCON MACCALLISTER FT LINCOLN DAKOTA TERRITORY FROM MAJOR ADRIAN BRISBANE FT JUNCTION COLORADO TERRITORY

COLONEL IT IS WITH REGRET THAT I INFORM YOU THAT SERGEANT MAJOR SEAN O’LEARY CORPORAL DARREL BATES AND PRIVATES DEACON MORGAN AND SMITH WERE KILLED WHILE ATTEMPTING TO DELIVER GATLING GUNS TO FORT JUNCTION STOP

IT WASN’T UNTIL AFTER THEY WERE KILLED THAT PRIVATE WILLIE CRAWFORD REPORTED OVERHEARING SOME OF A TELEGRAPH MESSAGE SENT BY GRAHAM POTTER IN WHICH POTTER WAS TALKING ABOUT THE GUNS STOP I IMMEDIATELY PLACED POTTER UNDER ARREST AND QUESTIONED HIM STOP

FROM WHAT WE HAVE BEEN ABLE TO GATHER, THE MAN POTTER DEALT WITH WAS CLETE HARRIS STOP WE BELIEVE HARRIS IS GOING INTO THE MONTANA TERRITORY TO SELL THE GATLING GUNS TO INDIANS AND IS THERE EVEN NOW STOP WE HAVE ALSO LEARNED THAT THE RIFLES WE BELIEVED LOST IN TRANSIT WERE IN FACT DELIBERATELY SENT TO A FALSE LOCATION BY PORTER SO HARRIS COULD ACQUIRE THEM STOP IT IS