CHAPTER TWENTY
Rocking
B Ranch
Oliver Bowman owned the Rocking B
Ranch. His nearest neighbor and close friend, Doyle Clayton, owned
the Lazy C. They were small ranchers, but their ranches were
productive, and this year, between them, they would be taking over
five hundred cows to market. In order to market them, they were
going to have to drive them north to the rail head at Livingston,
Montana Territory.
To that end, Doyle Clayton and his wife
had been invited over to the Bowmans for supper. They enjoyed a
good meal, then the Claytons’ six-year-old daughter Diane and the
Bowmans’ eight-year-old son Clyde went into another room to play
while the adults remained at the table and talked over
coffee.
“We can put our cowboys together,”
Bowman said, “and they should be able to handle the drive all
right. But I’m thinking that perhaps you and I should go on ahead
to scout the best route.”
“There’s only one route, Oliver, and
that’s to follow the Yellowstone River,” Clayton said.
“That’s what I’m thinking, but I would
like to check it out. Also, we’ll need to make reservations at the
rail head up in Livingston.”
“You are probably right. So, when do
you want to go?”
“I was thinking first light, day after
tomorrow,” Bowman said.
“I’ll be here.”
“Oh, Doyle, Oliver, you two be very
careful,” Mrs. Clayton said. “I just don’t like it that the Indians
have gotten so bold of late.”
“Everyone agrees that it’s nothing more
than a handful of renegades,” Clayton said. “This is a big country,
the odds of us running into any of them are pretty
small.”
“Especially since we won’t have the
cattle with us the first time. Indians only attack when they want
something. With just the two of us, it’s not likely we will have
anything they want,” Bowman added.
“Oliver, you have a Winchester, don’t
you?” Clayton asked.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Tell you what, if it will make the
ladies feel any better, we’ll both take our Winchesters, in
addition to our pistols,” Clayton said.
“Good idea. I’ll also bring along an
extra box of bullets.”
“Why is that supposed to make me feel
better?” Mrs. Clayton said. “If you think you have to carry extra
guns, that means you are worried too.”
“No, dear. It just means we are being
careful,” Clayton said.
Cinnabar, the next day
There was a telephone in the Cinnabar
Hotel, so on the morning after the shooting a call was put through
to the sheriff and circuit judge in Livingston. They came down to
Cinnabar on the morning train to hold a hearing into the shooting
incidents in which Falcon had been involved.
There were eyewitnesses to the shooting
in the hotel, so it was easy to establish that the gunman had
attacked Falcon. And, though there were no eyewitnesses to the
shooting in the empty lot, the sheriff and the judge listened to
Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham tell about the train robbery and the
incident with Slayton in Sheridan. In addition, a telegram from the
city marshal in Bismarck told of Taylor being broken out of jail.
Another telegram from the city marshal in Sheridan told of six
horses being stolen, with Slayton as the principal suspect. By
extrapolation, the judge declared the shootings to be justifiable,
and no charges were brought against Falcon.
Later that same morning, Ingraham made
another entry in his book.
Prentiss Ingraham’s notes from his book in
progress:
The reader
may well remember the names of Ethan Slayton and Billy Taylor,
desperadoes whom Falcon MacCallister had encountered upon previous
occasions. The third name, Jim Dewey, may be new to the readers,
but the brigand himself is not new, for he was one of those whose
nefarious scheme to rob the Northern Pacific Railroad met with
disaster at the hands of the aforementioned Falcon MacCallister and
Buffalo Bill.
One can only
wonder what motivates such men to commit acts of such brazen
wantonness as were perpetrated by these three men when they made
their ill-advised attempt to murder Falcon. Encountering
MacCallister in an empty lot in Cinnabar on the very night of
celebrating the auditions for the Buffalo Bill Cody Wild West
Exhibition, Dewey, Slayton, and Taylor discharged their pistols
toward him repeatedly, but with no effect. Falcon MacCallister
fired but three shots in reply, all balls finding their targets
with devastating results.
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.
One of the Indians tried to sneak up
from the river, but Clayton shot him. For the rest of the day, the
cattlemen and the Indians exchanged shots, though Clayton’s
response was measured to preserve ammunition. They warned each
other not to waste a bullet until they had a good, clear
target.
The two were well-positioned, and for
the first hour or so they were able to hold the Indians off,
killing no fewer than four of them. Finally, the Indians quit
trying to advance on them, but stood off and fired arrows from over
a hundred yards away, launching them high into the air so they
would rain down on the other side of the dunes.
Clayton was hit in the arm, and again
in the side. Bowman pulled both of the arrows out.
“Damn,” Clayton said, grunting with
pain. “Those things go in easier than they come out.”
“I know, but we can’t leave ’em in or
they’ll start festerin’, and the next thing you know you’ll have
gangrene,” Bowman said.
Bowman was bandaging Clayton’s arm when
one Indian came over the top of the dune to claim coups. Clayton
was lying on the ground, and even though his left arm was being
bandaged he was holding his pistol in his right hand. When the
Indian appeared over the top of the dune, Clayton raised his pistol
and shot him at point-blank range. After that, no other Indian
tried to breach their defense.
That night Clayton developed a fever.
“I’m going to die,” he said.
“No you ain’t.”
“Yes, I am. I’m goin’ to die, so here’s
what I want you to do. I want you to leave me here. It’s nighttime
so I think you can get away.”
“I ain’t leavin’ you here by
yourself.”
“Leave, damnit!” Clayton said. “Don’t
you understand? You are our only chance. If you can get away, you
can bring help back.”
Bowman thought for a moment, then he
nodded his head. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go. But I’ll be back.”
Bowman handed his rifle and a handful of .44-.40 cartridges to
Clayton.
“You take my rifle and bullets, I’ll
just keep my pistol.”
“All right, if they come after me, I’ll
take out as many as I can before they get me,” Clayton
said.
Even though it was relatively cool,
Bowman stripped down to his underwear, thinking that if he stayed
in the river he would be less likely to encounter an Indian. But
shortly after he left, he encountered a mounted Indian riding down
the middle of the river. He moved over to stay as close to the bank
as he could.
Bowman stayed in the river, continuing
downstream until daybreak. Then, cold and barefooted, he started
south across the rocks, cactus, and sage.
“I think they are both dead,” Jumping
Wolf said.
“I think they are not dead,” White Bull
replied.
“I am going to see. If they are dead, I
will count first coups.”
“I think we should wait until first
light,” Running Elk said.
“I think Running Elk is a coward,
afraid to see if the white men are dead,” Jumping Wolf
said.
“I am not a coward, I am pragmatic,”
Running Elk said, saying the word “pragmatic” in English. It was a
word he learned in the white man’s school, and he thought it fit
this situation perfectly.
“What is pragmatic?” Jumping Wolf
asked. He had trouble pronouncing the word.
“It means I have good sense,” Running
Elk replied.
“I think it means you are a coward,”
Jumping Wolf said.
Running Elk stood and drew his knife.
“I will show you who is a coward,” he said.
Jumping Wolf held out his hand. “I do
not want to fight you now. Now I will claim coups on the white men.
When I return, I will fight you.”
“You will not return,” Running Elk
said.
Clayton was trying to stay awake but he
kept dozing off. Each time he would doze off he would dream, and in
one of his dreams he was talking to Diane, his six-year-old
daughter. She was showing him the new dress her mother had made for
her doll.
“That is a very nice dress,” Clayton
said.
“It is the prettiest dress, so I put it
on my favorite doll,” Diane said.
“Yes, I think that is the one I would
put it on too.”
“You had better wake up now, Daddy,
because there is an Indian coming.”
Clayton opened his eyes just in time to
see an Indian kneeling over him, with his war club
raised.
“Ahhh!” Clayton shouted, and, raising
his pistol, he shot the Indian in the head. The Indian fell across
him, dead.
It was a struggle to get out from under
the Indian’s body, but he managed to do so, then he lay there,
breathing hard, feeling his heart pounding in his
chest.
He vowed not to go back to
sleep.
With
the White Bull raiding party
Jumping Wolf did not come back. Running
Elk, White Bull, and the others had heard the shot in the middle of
the night, and because Jumping Wolf had carried only a war club
with him, they suspected that he had been seen.
White Bull had left their encampment
with Running Elk and eleven others. But in the time they had been
here, they knew for sure that four of their number had been killed,
and now they believed that Jumping Wolf had been killed as
well.
“Perhaps he claimed coups, then left,”
Face in the Wind suggested.
“Why would he do that? Would he not
want to return and brag of his coups?” Standing Bear
asked.
“Yes, and did he not challenge Running
Elk to a fight?” Red Eagle asked.
“Perhaps he is afraid of Running Elk,”
Face in the Wind said.
“No,” Running Elk said. “Jumping Wolf
was a brave warrior. I do not think he feared me. But I think he is
dead. I think the white men killed him.”