CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mean to His Horses and ten warriors had
wandered far south from the Cheyenne reservation, and were waiting
at a ford on the Big Horn river. They had no particular target in
mind, though they knew that any wagon or coach that traveled the
road between Sheridan and Yellowstone Park would have to cross the
river here, and when they did so, they would be vulnerable to
attack.
They heard the coach before they saw
it, the sound of a popping whip, the whistles and calls of the
driver, and the drumming hooves of six trotting
horses.
“Make yourselves ready,” Mean to His
Horses said.
Only Mean to His Horses and one other
of his band had firearms. The rest of the warriors had bows and
arrows only. But Mean to His Horses believed that would be enough
to overcome the stagecoach, which normally had only one armed
guard. Then he would be able to take the guns the stage passengers
had.
The six passengers inside the coach
were relatively quiet, just enjoying the scenery or lost in their
own thoughts. Even though Gary’s arm was in a sling he was holding
it, and it was obvious that every bump made it hurt because he
winced in pain, though he did not cry out.
Cody looked him, then smiled. “Gary,
did you know that Mr. Ingraham writes stories?” Cody asked Gary and
Abby.
“What kind of stories?” Gary
asked.
“Oh, all kinds of stories,” Cody
answered. “Ingraham, why don’t you entertain us with a story? One
that the children will like.”
“Well, what kind of stories do you
like?” Ingraham asked.
“I like stories about princesses,” Abby
said.
“And sailing ships,” Gary added. “Have
you ever been on a big sailing ship?”
“Indeed I have,” Ingraham
said.
“And have you ever seen a real
princess?” Abby asked.
“Yes, I’ve seen a real princess. And it
so happens that I can tell a story about a princess and a sailing
ship.”
“Oh, good,” Abby said.
“Once upon a time, in a land far, far
away,” Ingraham began, and within moments he had both children
spellbound as they lost themselves in his story.
The serenity of the interior of the
stagecoach was broken by a whizzing sound, followed by a loud
“thock.” An arrow had embedded itself in the stagecoach, less than
an inch away from the window opening where Falcon was sitting.
Looking through the window, Falcon saw several mounted Indians
galloping toward the coach. Even as he saw them, he also saw
several arrows in flight, streaming in the same direction. At least
three more hit the stagecoach with the same “thocking” sound as the
first.
“Indians,” Falcon said, though he
didn’t have to tell them. By now everyone in the coach was aware of
what was happening.
Falcon opened the door of the stage,
which had increased its speed as the driver whipped the team into a
gallop.
“Where are you going?” Cody
asked.
“On top,” Falcon said. “I’ll be in
better position to shoot from up there, and it will also draw the
Indians’ fire away from the inside of the coach.”
“Good idea, I’ll join you,” Cody said.
“Ingraham, you stay with Mrs. Kirby and the children.”
“I’ll do that,” Ingraham shouted back,
his pistol already in his hand.
The two men climbed up to the top of
the stagecoach, one on either side.
“Good to see you boys comin’ up here!”
Hank yelled.
“Bo, keep the team running as fast as
you can!” Falcon shouted.
“If we go any faster we’re going to
start flying!” Bo replied as he popped the whip over the galloping
team.
Falcon and Cody lay on their stomach on
the coach, then began shooting. With their first shots, two Indians
fell. The shotgun guard got one, and as one of the Indians galloped
up alongside the stage, Igraham shot him. Then Falcon got another
one.
Mean to His Horses saw five of his
warriors fall in the first few minutes of their attack, including
the only other Indian who was carrying a rifle. That was half of
his band, so he called a halt to the chase.
“Why do we stop?” one of the warriors
asked.
“They have many guns, we have one,”
Mean to His Horses said. “We will fight another day.”
“It would be better if we had
guns.”
“We will get guns,” Mean to His Horses
said.
“They’re gone!” Falcon said to the
driver. “Hold it up!”
“Whoa!” the driver said, hauling back
on the reins as he also put his foot on the brake.
The stagecoach came to a halt, and as
it set there, the dust kicked up by the rapid pace caught up with
them and began billowing around the coach. The horses twitched and
tossed their heads and whickered in discomfort at having had to
stop so quickly without cooling off.
“Hank,” the driver said. “Keep an eye
open in case them heathens decide to come back. After a run like
this, I’d better check out the harness.”
“All right, Bo,” Hank replied. Holding
his rifle at the ready, he searched the road behind
them.
Falcon and Cody climbed down from the
top of the stagecoach. It wasn’t until then that Falcon noticed an
arrow sticking out of the top of the coach, less than an inch from
where he had been lying.
On the ground, Falcon opened the door
to the coach and looked inside. Mrs. Kirby was holding both her
children close to her. Ingraham, with a wide grin on his face, was
still holding a smoking pistol.
“Are you folks all right in here?”
Falcon asked.
“Yes, we are fine,” Mrs. Kirby said,
“thanks to you three gentlemen.”
“And the shotgun guard,” Falcon
added.
“I have taken the trip to Sheridan many
times,” Mrs. Kirby said. “I have never known the Indians to be so
bold. I have no idea what might have provoked them to such a
thing.”
When they rolled in to DeMaris Springs
two hours later, several people noticed that there were arrows
sticking out of the side of the coach. And because they had noticed
it, they began running alongside, keeping pace with the coach until
it pulled into the depot.
“What happened?” one of the townspeople
called up to the driver.
“What happened? We was attacked by
injuns, that’s what happened,” the driver said. “But we run them
heathens off.”
“And we kilt five of ’em while we was
runnin’ ’em off,” the shotgun guard said.
“You kilt five of ’em, did you,
Hank?”
“No, far as I know, I only got one,”
Hank said. “Buffalo Bill, Falcon MacCallister, and Mr. Ingraham got
the others.”
“Buffalo Bill is here?”
“Yep, he’s in the coach.”
“Are you sure it was Indians, and not
just some bandits dressed like Indians?” someone
asked.
“Oh, they was Injuns all right. There
ain’t no doubt about that,” the driver said.
When Cody and Falcon stepped out of the
stage, Cody was recognized immediately.
“It’s Buffalo Bill!”
“Buffalo Bill, what are you doing
here?” another asked.
“I’m here to show my friends where my
new town is to be built,” Cody said.
“Does Bellefontaine know about
that?”
“More to the point, will he approve of
it?”
“I have not discussed this with Mr.
Bellefontaine,” Cody said. “And to be honest, I don’t care whether
he approves of it or not. My business dealings are with Thornton
Beck, not with Pierre Fontaine.”
Five minutes later, Davis and Regret
were in Bellefontaine’s office, smiling broadly.
“Did you hear about the stagecoach from
Sheridan gettin’ attacked?” Regret asked.
“I heard. Are you boys responsible for
that?”
“No, sir. This attack was for real,”
Davis said. “What we’ve been doin’ is workin’. We’ve been stirrin’
folks up and the Indian war has started.”
“It’s good that it has started,”
Bellefontaine said. “Now we need to keep it going.”
“We’re working on that,” Davis said.
“I’ve got a line on some guns that we’re goin’ to sell to the
Injuns.”
“The army will have to come in here
then,” Regret said.
“And once the army comes in, the whole
valley will be cleared out, Injuns, prospectors, homesteaders, the
lot of them,” Davis said.
Bellefontaine smiled and took down a
bottle of good blended whiskey. He poured three glasses, then
handed one to each of the other two men. He held his glass
up.
“Gentlemen, to our success,” he
said.
“To our success,” Davis
repeated.
Later that morning there was a town
meeting held in the community center to discuss the growing Indian
problem. The meeting was chaired by Mayor Joe Cravens, but Pierre
Bellefontaine had a seat at the head table. Falcon, Cody, and
Ingraham were sitting in the front row, as were Bo and
Hank.
Mayor Cravens called the meeting to
order.
“Now, friends, I reckon you know why we
have called this meeting. The truth is, this Indian problem is
beginning to get out of hand. First off, we had some prospectors
kilt, and it was plain that it was Indians that done it. Then we
had a rancher, Frank Barlow and his whole family, good people they
were, get kilt by Indians too. And all of ’em was scalped,
includin’ even the woman and the boy.
“Mr. Bellefontaine has somethin’ he
wants to say to us now. Mr. Bellefontaine?”
Bellefontaine was a tall, slender man
with silver hair and light blue eyes. He was exceptionally well
dressed, and looked like the wealthy entrepreneur he
was.
“As most of you know, after the
incident where the Barlow family was slaughtered by the heathens, I
authorized a posse to go after the Indians. Some of you may think
that, as a private citizen, I had no right to do this. But I have
several employees who are required to work all up and down the
valley between here and the Crow camp. I have their safety in mind.
I also have the safety in mind of all the independent prospectors,
homesteaders, ranchers, and farmers who are trying to live
peacefully out there. To that end, I am proposing to pay one
hundred dollars to any prospector who will abandon the valley, and
five hundred dollars to any rancher or farmer now living out there
who will give up his land.”
“Where are we goin’ to get that kind of
money to pay those people to do that?” one of the citizens of the
town asked.
Bellefontaine shook his head and held
up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, friends. I’m not asking the town
to come up with that money. I will personally come up with the
money to pay people to leave.”
“That’s real decent of you, Mr.
Bellefontaine, but I know for a fact that there are some ranchers
and farmers out there who won’t think that’s enough. Fact is, I
don’t think you could pay some of ’em to come out.”
“Whether they stay or come out, the
trouble has started. If any of you have contact with any of these
people, please let them know that the offer is there.”
“Why don’t we call in the army?” one of
the men in the audience asked.
“Funny that you should bring that up,”
Bellefontaine said. “For I am indeed calling in the army, and I am
going to ask them to relocate the Crow. They have shown by their
actions that they are not peaceful. And today, they were so bold as
to attack a stagecoach. It’s one thing to get all the settlers out
of the valley, but the way I see it, that’s not even enough. With
the Crow on the warpath, not even our town is safe.”
“It wasn’t Crow that attacked the
stagecoach,” Falcon said, speaking up from the
audience.
Falcon’s remark elicited several
responses from the audience, but it was Bellefontaine who had the
floor and his voice is the one that got through.
“I beg your pardon?” Bellefontaine
replied. “And who are you?”
“The name is MacCallister. Falcon
MacCallister.”
“Falcon MacCallister!” someone in the
audience said, and his name spread throughout the hall where the
meeting was being held.
“I’ve heard of
MacCallister.”
“He’s nigh as famous as Buffalo Bill
his ownself.”
“Well, Mr. MacCallister, your name
seems to have evoked some response from the citizens of DeMaris
Springs. I apologize for my ignorance, but I must confess that I
have never heard of you.”
“No reason why you should have heard of
me,” Falcon replied.
“Tell me, why do you say that it was
not the Crow who attacked the stage coach?”
“I was on the stagecoach, I saw them.
They were not Crow, they were Cheyenne.”
“They were Cheyenne, you say,”
Bellefontaine said. “And tell me, Mr. MacCallister, am I to believe
that you are so knowledgeable about such things that you can tell
the difference between one heathen and another?”
“I brought one of the arrows that were
sticking out of the stage,” Falcon said. Reaching under the chair
he held it up, then pointed to the markings just before the
feathers. “This crooked black and yellow line here, on the arrow
shaft, is the mark of the Crooked Lance Warrior Society. That’s
Cheyenne.”
“He’s right!” someone else called out
loudly. “I’ve seen the mark of the Crooked Lance Warrior Society
myself. If that’s what’s on that arrow, then the Injuns that
attacked the stage was Cheyenne, not Crow.”
“It was Crow that attacked the Barlow
family though!” someone else yelled and for the next few minutes
there was so much shouting going on that no one could hear what
anyone was saying. Picking up his gavel, Mayor Cravens began
banging on the table.
“Order!” he shouted. “Order! Folks, we
can’t conduct this town meeting unless we have order!”
Mayor Cravens continued to bang his
gavel until, finally, order was restored.
“Now,” he said. “Perhaps we can get on
with the meeting. Mr. Bellefontaine, you may
continue.”
Bellefontaine waited a moment before he
resumed.
“Perhaps, Mr. MacCallister, you are
correct. In fact, I am willing to accept that you probably are
correct, as you seem to know about such things. But, even if they
are Cheyenne, that just broadens the picture and makes our own
position here more untenable. You see, that attack happened well
east of DeMaris Springs, whereas the prospectors and the tragedy
that befell the Barlow family happened west of us.
“It may well be that there has been an
alliance made between the Crow and the Cheyenne, and if that is the
case, we are caught in the middle.”
“The Crow and the Cheyenne are
enemies,” Cody said. “I don’t live out here anymore, but even I
know that.”
“You say they are enemies and they may
have been so in the past,” Bellefontaine said. “But perhaps you
have not heard of this new movement that has begun among the
Indians out here. It is called Spirit Talking, which I am led to
believe is a new kind of religion. I am also told that this heathen
religion seems to have reached out beyond tribal lines, and is
infecting all the Indians.”
Buffalo Bill held up his hand. “May I
speak, Mr. Mayor?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Cody,” Mayor
Cravens said.
“Falcon MacCallister and I are well
aware of the Spirit Talking movement. Indeed, that is why we are
out here. I was summoned to a meeting with General Miles at his
headquarters in Chicago. There, he asked me to meet personally with
Sitting Bull in order to ascertain, one, whether Sitting Bull was
behind this movement and, two, whether this movement represented
the potential outbreak of a new Indian war.
“I am pleased to report that Sitting
Bull has nothing to do with it. And I think the answer to the
Indian question is a simple one. So long as philanthropists are
allowed to weep over the Indians, while politicians plunder them,
while the Indian Agency fails on their promise of decent treatment,
there will be trouble.
“What we should do is make them feel
that we will deal with them honestly and fairly, and that they will
be held accountable for their crimes as individuals, and not be
held accountable as an entire tribe. When we can do that, I believe
that the Indian difficulties will be at an end.”
Cody’s remarks met with a mixed
response. There were those who applauded, and called out, “here,
here.” However, there were others who renewed their demand for the
army to be called in to “settle accounts once and for
all.”
After the town meeting Bellefontaine
invited Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham to his office. The conference
room in his office was as large as the meeting hall had been, and a
big window on the west side of his office afforded a magnificent
view of the snow-peaked Absaroka Mountains. There were comfortable
chairs and sofas everywhere, buffalo-skin rugs on the floor, and
elk heads and antlers on the walls.
“I hope you enjoy the wine,” he said as
one of his employees began pouring. “It is a fine wine that I
import from France.” He passed goblets around to all of them, then
they each took a swallow.
“I’ll bet none of you have ever tasted
anything this good, have you?” he said.
“It is quite a good wine,” Cody agreed.
“But I prefer Beaujolais from the vineyards in the Pierres Dorées
region. I had quite a good conversation with the vintner when I was
there.”
“Yes, Beaujolais is quite good as
well,” Bellefontaine said, somewhat deflated.
Falcon smiled at Bellefontaine’s
reaction.
“Are you really planning on calling in
the army?” Falcon asked.
“Yes. I cannot be expected to continue
to supply posses to take care of the Indians when, by rights, that
should be the job of the army.”
“I agree you have no business sending
out posses,” Falcon said. “But if these are isolated incidents,
don’t you think calling in the army would make it even
worse?”
“What would you propose?” Bellefontaine
asked.
“I would say we follow Mr. Cody’s
suggestion, that we call a meeting with the Crow and tell them that
we do not hold the entire tribe responsible for these atrocities,
but only those who actually committed them. It is my belief that
the Indians would turn the guilty parties over to us.”
“And what makes you believe
that?”
“The Crow have been friendly with the
white man for some time now. It simply does not make sense that
they would suddenly start making war.”
“That’s because you don’t know anything
about the Spirit Talking movement,” Bellefontaine said. “Ever since
they started on that, the Indians have gone crazy. Crazy, I tell
you.”
“Have there been any incidents here in
town?” Cody asked.
“No, nothing here in town. But I
understand the town that you wish to build will be even closer to
the Crow Reservation.”
“A little closer, yes.”
“If you are asking my advice, Cody, I
would say, don’t build it.”
Cody took a swallow of his wine before
he answered.
“I’m not asking for your advice,” he
said.
Prentiss Ingraham’s notes from his book in
progress:
The area
where Buffalo Bill intends to build his town is in the Absaroka
Range, a mountain segment of the northern Rocky Mountains, in
northwestern Wyoming Territory. This magnificent vista extends in a
northwest-southeast direction. It is a large plateau with
spectacular features and many very high mountains. The Yellowstone
valley is formed by the Stinking Water River, which, despite its
name, is a quite beautiful and refreshing stream of
water.
There is
already a town situated here, called DeMaris Springs, named after
the natural hot springs herein located. The town is small and
meanspirited, inhabited by a poor class of citizens who, for the
most part, are dependent upon one man, Pierre Bellefontaine, for
their livelihood. As a result of this unholy alliance,
Bellefontaine treats the townspeople more as subjects than
citizens.
Buffalo Bill
Cody has expressed his belief that upon the emergence of his town,
to be called Cody, that DeMaris Springs will dry up. Those citizens
who currently reside in DeMaris Springs would then be well served
to move to Cody, where they will be able to establish a more
independent life and enjoy that promise offered by the Declaration
of Independence to freely engage in the pursuit of
happiness.