Bloodshed of Eagles. William W. Johnstone

be?”

      “In Montana.”

      “Montana?”

      Harris lifted his mug and smiled before taking a swallow. “We’re going to sell rifles to the Indians,” he said. “For twenty dollars apiece.”

      “Are you crazy? I don’t cotton to doin’ business with Injuns in the first place, but even if I did, why would we sell them rifles for twenty dollars apiece when they are going to cost us that much or more?”

      “I already got the rifles,” Harris said. “And they didn’t cost me nothin’.”

      “Really? Where did you get them?”

      “Let’s just say I have a contact in the Colorado Home Guard. These rifles were supposed to be shipped to the armory in Denver, but a simple rerouting of the shipping order caused them to go to a warehouse in Rapid City, in care of Harris Farm Implements. They’re waiting there for me now. All we have to do is pick them up and deliver them to Cut Nose.”

      “Who is Cut Nose?”

      “He is a subchief for the Oglala Sioux. The Sioux are off the reservation now, and they need rifles for hunting and such.”

      “Hunting? Do you really think they will use them for hunting? If they are off the reservation, you know what they will use those rifles for,” Garon said.

      “Do you care? As long as we get our money?”

      Garon was quiet for a moment; then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “As long as we get our money, I don’t care.”

      March 22, 1876

      The Governor’s Office, Denver, Colorado Territory

      Governor John Long Routt stood at the window of his office watching the snow come down. Although it was cold outside, the office of the territorial governor was toasty warm, kept that way by a wood-burning stove that snapped and popped as it pushed heat out into the room.

      “Will this accursed winter ever end?” the governor asked.

      “I think we’ll have an early spring,” Falcon said.

      “I certainly hope so,” the governor responded. He turned away from the window to study the tall, muscular man who was sitting on the other side of the room on a leather sofa that was against the wall. A rack of deer antlers hung from the wall just above the sofa.

      “I hope you are right,” the governor said. He came back across the room and sat in a chair across from Falcon. “Now, where were we?”

      “I was saying no,” Falcon replied.

      The governor chuckled. “I’ll give you this, Falcon. You are not a man who wastes words. But I wish you would reconsider. I’m offering you a state commission of lieutenant colonel. Why won’t you take it?” the governor asked.

      “I did my time in the military, Governor,” Falcon MacCallister replied. He smiled. “And, seeing as you served as a captain in the Illinois infantry, I suppose that, from your point of view, I was on the wrong side.”

      The governor waved his hand, dismissing Falcon’s response. “That’s all ancient history,” he said. “We are one country now, and from what I know of you, there is no more loyal or dedicated man in the entire territory.”

      “I’m not the military type,” Falcon replied.

      “Falcon, please, just hear me out,” Governor Routt said. “You know what Chivington did to the peaceful Cheyenne at Sand Creek, don’t you?”

      “Yes, I know what happened,” Falcon said. “Chivington’s men fired rifles, pistols, and cannon loaded with canister. White Antelope held up a white flag, calling out in English that they were peaceful, but it made no difference. Several women took refuge in a cave, and sent out a six-year-old girl with a white flag. She was killed on the spot. Then the women were dragged out of the cave, killed, and scalped. Babies had their brains bashed out against rocks, a pregnant woman was killed, and her unborn baby cut from her womb.” Falcon was quiet for a moment.

      “That pregnant woman was my sister-in-law, Governor. So, yes, I do know what happened at Sand Creek.”

      The pregnant woman Falcon spoke of had been the sister of Falcon’s wife, Marie Gentle Breeze. Like her sister, Marie was now dead as well, killed, not by white men, but by renegade Cheyenne.

      “I have always considered Sand Creek a great tragedy,” Governor Routt said. “And now, knowing your connection to it, it is even more so. But that makes it all the more imperative that we have someone of your standing serve in such a position. This year, Colorado will become a state. That is the fulfillment of the dreams and hopes of everyone in Colorado. Our territorial Home Guard will become a state militia, recognized as such by the United States Department of War. I do not want to take a chance on another Chivington. That’s why I’m asking you to take command.”

      “Why don’t you ask one of my brothers?” Falcon asked.

      Governor Routt chuckled self-consciously. “Well, now you force me to confess that I did ask your brother first.”

      “Wise choice,” Falcon said. “I take it he turned you down.”

      “He suggested that I ask you.”

      “He suggested that, did he?”

      “Yes. He said he thought you would make a fine commandant, and I agree with him. Falcon, I’m appealing, not to your vanity, but to your honor and sense of duty. It is only until the first of August. On that date, Colorado will be admitted to the union as the thirty-eighth state. Then, if you wish, you can resign. I cannot force you to serve as commandant of the Colorado Home Guard, I can only ask, but that I do, with all sincerity.”

      Falcon was silent for a moment; then he smiled. “John, has anyone ever suggested that you should be in politics? You can be quite persuasive.”

      The governor laughed out loud. “You think so? Hmm, maybe I should try it.” The governor got serious. “Is that a yes, Falcon?”

      Falcon nodded. “It is a yes.”

      “I thank you, Colonel,” the governor said. “In fact, all of Colorado thanks you.”

      April 7, 1876

      On the Big Knife in Dakota Territory

      Clete Harris and Jim Garon waited alongside the river. Their horses and five pack mules were tied to low limbs from a cottonwood tree.

      Harris was chewing on the end of a twig, and Garon was tossing rocks into the water.

      “How long we goin’ to wait?” Garon asked.

      “As long as it takes,” Harris answered.

      “Yeah, well, I don’t particular want to be out here after it gets dark.”

      Harris chuckled. “Scared, are you?”

      “I ain’t scared now—but would be, if we was still out here after dark. And you would be, too, if you had any sense.”

      “Injuns don’t attack at night. Ain’t you ever heard that?”

      “I’ve heard it,” Garon replied. “I don’t know as I’m willin’ to put that much faith in it. Especially if it’s my hide.”

      “Yeah, well, don’t worry. I don’t reckon we’re goin’ to have to wait much longer.”

      “How do you know?”

      Harris pointed. “They’s some dust comin’ up out there, and I figure that, more’n likely, it’s Cut Nose and his boys, comin’ to trade.”

      At that moment one of the pack mules pulled away from its ground hobble and moved down to the edge of the water.

      “Keep an eye on that mule,” Harris ordered. “Don’t let him go wandering off. He’s carryin’