They had been on the scout for four days when they saw several buzzards making circles over one spot.
“You see that?” Dorman asked, pointing to the birds.
“Yeah, I see them.”
“There sure are a lot of them. Whatever is dead up there is bigger than a rabbit, or a deer,” Dorman said.
The two riders slapped their legs against the sides of their horses to hurry them into a trot, and they closed the distance in just over a minute. They could smell the stench long before they got there. They saw the wagon first; then, as they drew closer, they saw the two dead mules. Wolves had been at the mules and much of the flesh was eaten away, leaving exposed rib cages and entrails…There was an arrow protruding from each of the mules, and three other arrows sticking out of the wagon.
“Damn,” Dorman said. “That is one powerful stink. What is it, do you suppose? Prospectors?”
“I don’t know, I don’t see any bodies,” Falcon said. “Wait a minute, look at this.”
On the canvas of the wagon, not obvious as they had approached, but now clearly visible, were stenciled words:
COLORADO HOME GUARD
“That’s the wagon we’ve been looking for,” Falcon said, dismounting and hurrying over to look into the back. “The guns aren’t here. But I didn’t think they would be.”
“Whoever took ’em, it wasn’t Injuns,” Dorman said. He pointed to the mules. “And as nearly as I can tell, the mules weren’t killed in any sort of a fight. It looks like they have been shot through the head. Don’t think the Indians would have done that.”
“I think you are right. Harris evidently decided he would be better off without the wagon,” Falcon said. “These wagons normally take a team of six, they’ve taken four of the mules with them. Two for each gun.”
“It ain’t goin’ to be hard to follow them,” Dorman said. “Pullin’ them caissons like they are, why, they might as well be leavin’ us maps. Depends on how long a head start they have.”
“From the looks, and the smell of the mules, I would say we are about six or seven days behind them,” Falcon said.
“Seems about right,” Dorman said. “Listen, Falcon, you seen all you need to see here? I got to get away from this stink, else I’m goin’ to start pukin’.”
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” Falcon agreed.
“Let’s get on out of here then.”
Falcon nodded, and the two rode away, following the clear trail left by the gun caissons.
It came up a thunderstorm that afternoon, and as Falcon and Dorman rode through the rain, it slashed against them and ran in cold rivulets off the folds and creases of their ponchos. It blew in sheets in front of them, turned the trail into mud, and whipped into the trees and bushes.Wicked forks of lightning were followed immediately by thunder, snapping shrilly at first, then rolling through the valleys, picking up the resonance of the hollows and becoming an echoing boom.
“The rain is washing the trail away,” Dorman complained. He had to yell to be heard over the storm.
“True,” Falcon called back. “But they were going this way when we lost their trail, and there’s really no other way they can go except straight ahead.”
It stopped raining around nightfall, and though the moon was in the third quarter, it was a surprisingly bright moon that peeked out from behind a large, fluffy, silver cloud. Mud puddles and rivulets of water reflected the glow, helping to provide enough illumination to allow the two men to proceed without danger of misstep in the dark. They continued on until about ten p.m., then tied down for the night.
May 26, 1876
When Clete Harris awoke that morning, he saw Cut Nose and at least thirty other Indians standing there, looking down at him.
“What the hell?” he shouted in a loud, startled voice. “Garon! Bryans! Richland! Wake up!”
“Damn!” Garon said, waking then to see the array of Indians.
“Bryans, I thought you were keeping guard,” Harris said.
“I was,” Bryans answered. “But at four, I turned it over to Richland.”
“You have Geetleen guns?” Cut Nose asked.
“Gatling guns, yeah, I’ve got two of them,” Harris said.
“I want.”
“Well, that’s why we come up here, Chief. We brought them to you.” He pointed to the two guns. “Do you have any money?”
Cut Nose looked at one of the other Indians, who walked back to his horse, then brought two cloth bags. He emptied the bags onto the blanket Harris had been sleeping on. The contents were a mixture of gold coins and gold nuggets. Even the quickest estimate convinced Harris that there was more money here than he had anticipated. So much that he didn’t even bring up the idea of charging more for the ammunition.
“It is not as much money as I wanted, but it will do,” he said, not wanting to let on how pleased he really was with the amount. “But we brought the guns here, so they are yours.”
“You show how to use,” Cut Nose said.
“Yeah, all right,” Harris said.
Opening the box on the caisson of one of the guns, he took out an empty magazine, then showed it to Cut Nose.
“This is called a magazine,” he said.
Opening one of the cases of ammunition, he took out a handful of bullets and started sticking them down into the magazine.
“Before you can shoot the gun, you have to fill the magazine with bullets. Like this.” He demonstrated by pushing several down into the magazine.
“Next, you stick it down in here like this, point at what you want to shoot”—he aimed the gun at a small bush—“then turn this crank.”
Harris turned the crank rapidly, spinning the six barrels. As each barrel came under the firing pin, it fired the rounds in rapid sequence.
The gun roared, fire leaped out from the end of the barrel, and the small shrub that Harris had selected as a target, began disintegrating as the stream of heavy fifty-caliber bullets whipped through the branches.
“Ayeee!” several of the Indians shouted at the demonstration.
“Now you try it,” Harris said, holding his hand out toward the gun and stepping away so Cut Nose could move behind the gun. Cut Nose stepped behind the gun and started turning the crank. It began firing, but because Cut Nose was not bracing it, the gun pivoted about on its caisson wheels, spraying bullets everywhere. Harris and his men managed to get down. But one Indian and two of the Indian ponies were hit, and they went down.
Despite the fact that he had shot one of his own, and two ponies, Cut Nose let out a shout of enthusiasm and excitement. After that, he started dancing around, and the others joined him.
“Listen to that! That’s a Gatling!” Falcon said, slapping his legs against the side of his horse and urging him forward.
Dorman hurried behind him.
After a short gallop, they were close enough that they could hear some of the bullets cutting into the trees around them.
“Whoa, hold it!” Falcon said, reining in his mount. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we’d better stop here.”
Both riders stopped, then led their horses into a little draw where they would be protected from stray bullets. Pulling their carbines from their saddle sheaths, they climbed up the side of the butte to get into position to look down on the other side. Once in position, they saw the two guns, and those who were gathered around them. One of the Indians was pushing shells into the magazine, while one of the white men was showing him how to do it.
“That’s Cut Nose,” Dorman said quietly, pointing to the Indian. “He’s a mean one, all right. If he could get these guns back to the Indians before the gen’rul runs into ’em, why, he could become the top dog among ’em.”
“And I recognize two of the white men,” Falcon said. “That is Clete Harris, and that is Jim Garon. It’s no wonder now that Garon beat the stagecoach robbery charge. Harris was the foreman of the jury. The two men were in cahoots.”
Suddenly, an Indian leaped out from behind them and with a yell, charged with his war club erect. Falcon turned just in time to see him and, as the Indian closed on him, Falcon grabbed the Indian by the wrist to keep him from using his war club, then fell on his back, put his feet in the Indian’s stomach, and threw him over. The Indian went over the edge of the butte, screaming as he fell, headfirst, over one hundred feet down.
“Harris, up there!” one of the white men shouted, and Cut Nose pushed the magazine into place, then elevated the gun and began shooting.
He could not elevate the gun high enough, and the bullets ricocheted off the stone wall, several feet below Falcon’s position.
The others began firing as well, and their shooting had more effect as the bullets whizzed by very close, some of them even kicking up little chips of rock that cut into Falcon’s face.
Falcon and Dorman began returning fire, and one of the white men went down as well as two of the Indians.
Cut nose turned and leaped onto one of the mules that were still attached to the Gatling gun and with a yell, started the team running. Seeing him, one of the other Indians jumped on the back of the mules attached to the other gun, but Falcon shot him, and the mules stood their ground.
There was a further exchange of fire; then all the Indians and the whites were gone, the Indians going one way, the whites another.
“Which ones are we going after?” Dorman shouted.
“We have to get that other gun back,” Falcon said. “We can’t let the regiment go up against them.”
Retrieving their horses, Falcon and Dorman rode back down into the flat where they had seen the guns. There were three dead Indians and two dead ponies. The Indians had gotten away with one of the guns, but the other one was still there. There was one white man lying near the gun and he was alive, but barely.
“They left me,” the white man said. “The sons of bitches run off and left me.”
“Who are you?” Falcon asked.
“The name is Richland. Ken Richland,” he said. “You are Falcon MacCallister, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
Richland coughed, and blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “I thought so. You don’t know me, but I’ve seen you before.”
“I recognized Clete Harris and Jim Garon,” Falcon said. “Who was the other man?”
“Why should I tell you that?”
“Why not? Like you said, they ran off and left you.”
“Yeah,” Richland replied, his voice strained with pain. “Yeah, they did, didn’t they?”
“The third man. What is his name?”
“His name is Bryans. Jay Bryans.”
“Why did you do this, Richland? Why did you put Gatling guns in the hands of the Indians? Don’t you know they are going to use them against whites?”
“We did it for money,” Richland said. “And we got us a lot of money for them guns. A lot of money.”
“It’s not doing you a lot of good right now, though, is it?” Falcon asked.
The smile left Richland’s face as he realized the truth of what Falcon was saying. Then his face was racked by a spasm of pain. He coughed again, coughing up more blood, then, with a gasp, quit breathing. His eyes remained open, but the stare was sightless.
Standing up, Falcon looked over toward Dorman, and saw that he was squatting by one of the Indians.
“Is he still alive?”
“Not now, he ain’t,” Dorman replied. “His name was Two Bears.”
“Did you know him?”
Dorman nodded. “Yeah, I knew him,” he said. “Falcon, we’re in a lot of trouble here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Accordin’ to Two Bears, they’s Indians from all over the nations gatherin’ up for this fight. They actually figure on pushin’ the white man out of here once and for all.”
“How many Indians are we talking about?” Falcon asked.
“They’re comin’ from six tribes. Miniconjou, Oglala Blackfeet, Hunkpapa, Cheyenne, and Sans Arc,” Dorman said. “Maybe as many as twenty thousand of ’em.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“If all them tribes get together, there will be that many,” Dorman said. “I’m tellin’ you the truth. We are goin’ to have us one hell of a fight on our hands.”
“You’re right,” Falcon said. “I don’t think the general realizes that.”
“So, what do you want to do? Try to run down that gun? Or go back and tell the gen’rul what we found out?”
“Look,” Falcon said, pointing to a couple of boxes of ammunition. “They got away with one of the guns, but none of the ammunition.”
“Don’t you think they’ve got bullets?”
Falcon shook his head. “Not this kind,” he answered. “These are special fifty-caliber bullets. The cartridges have to be machine-made to fit these guns, or the gun will jam up. We’ll spike this gun and burn the ammunition. Without bullets, I don’t think they will be able to do much with the gun they got. We’ll go back and warn the general.”
A few minutes later, as they were riding away, they heard the ammunition explode. Falcon hadn’t recovered the guns, but he had made it so that they weren’t going to pose a danger to the cavalry.