any stragglers not already come to the army’s camp on the Belle Fourche.
But in that Thursday’s march, and the anxious return trip of the fifteenth, none of them saw a single feather, not one hostile horseman, as they hurried south again along their backtrail.
Besides the fourteen pitiful abandoned horses they were able to drive south with them, on the backs of a dozen of Tom Moore’s pack-mules Keyes’s men lashed every last box of ammunition the column had cached during its ordeal. Not one cartridge was lost.
When Seamus led the lieutenant’s patrol back to Crook’s camp, which had been moved in those last two days from the Belle Fourche up Whitewood Creek, John Finerty trotted up in those deformed brogans of his and, before Donegan could even climb out of the saddle, declared, “Upham’s patrol came in without finding a single Injun.”
“Same was it with us: we saw trails, but no warriors,” Seamus replied.
“But that doesn’t mean the Sioux didn’t see Upham’s men,” Finerty said gravely.
“What do you mean?”
“Upham had a private named Milner, Company A— riding out ahead of the rest, maybe no more than a half mile. They said he was following an antelope.”
“And the Sioux jumped him?”
“Right. The rest came on his body five minutes after those red bastards did their craftiest work. Found Milner stripped, his whole scalp gone, throat slit from ear to ear, and his chest slashed with two large X*s. What would such a thing mean, Seamus?”
“Those two mean the Indians found the soldier was a brave man.”
“I should say,” Finerty agreed. “Upham’s men found a lot of cartridge cases around the body. Stone dead— but his flesh still warm as could be.”
“Those h’athens can work fast. Believe me, I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” Donegan said.
“Sergeant Major Humme was damned mad. Still mad enough to chew on nails when he came riding in here not long after the Sioux killed his man that he went storming right up to Crook, frothing at the bit and demanding a chance to even the score by killing one of the captives, that Charging Bear fella, with his own hands. Crook sent him away, with a warning that he’d put Humme under arrest if he caused any more trouble.”
Seamus said, “Things quieted down after that?”
With a nod Finerty replied, “At night they have—but during the day there’s a photographer come up from Dead wood. Rolled in with his wagon yesterday. Ever since, he’s been posing the soldiers for photographs.”
“I’ll bet he’s making the money,” Donegan grumbled.
“Oh, he’s not making cabinet photos for the soldiers to send back to their families,” the newsman corrected. “He heard all about the hardships the men suffered on the march—eating the horse meat, slogging through the mud, and all the rest—that he’s been posing the soldiers in what I’d call little scenes or vignettes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Stanley J. Morrow. Told me he had posed the soldiers fighting over horse meat, posed them pretending they’re cutting steaks from the flanks of a dead horse, had some of the mules and horses with soldiers in their litters and on their travois—saying he was going to let the folks back east know just how cruel this campaign and the Sioux War really was. Morrow’s not a bad fellow, Seamus. He’s doing all this at his own expense.”
“Then God bless ’im: someone needs to record for history what we all went through on Crook’s march.”
“Won’t be long until we’re no longer forced to live off the white scalpers.”
“White scalpers?” Seamus asked.
“Those drummers and merchants who ride out here with their wagons loaded with goods priced four, five times the going rate on the frontier,” the newsman continued.
“Army’s getting provisions sent in here?”
“Damn right they are. Second night after we arrived, a courier came in carrying an envelope filled with six dispatches from Sheridan telling Crook that he should leave his sick and wounded at Custer City, down in the southern end of the Hills—where Sheridan’s sent supplies.”
“More bacon and hard bread,” Donegan said sourly. “Still, there was a time I’d given my left arm for a taste of salt pork, even a mouthful of some moldy tack.”
“From what I can tell, things sounded like Sheridan wasn’t happy when he learned that Crook was heading south toward the Black Hills instead of chasing the Sioux.”
Donegan wagged his head. “I fought for Sheridan in the Shenandoah—so I’d tell that little son of a bitch to his face that he has no room to talk. By God, he wasn’t here on that march with us!”
“From the tone of his messages Sheridan’s angry with Crook. Wants the general to clear out of the Black Hills and get on with establishing a cantonment on the Powder River in Indian country.”
“Sheridan’s right on target there. Forget Fetterman, or those Montana posts. Too far south and north. The army’s got to put a fort right in the heart of the Sioux hunting ground and hold on to it. Not like they gave up Reno, Phil Kearny, and C. F. Smith back to sixty-eight.”
“You won’t believe what news came in the last dispatch the courier brought in for the general,” Finerty announced, “Sheridan’s called Crook back to Laramie!”
That one word had a magical, powerful, potent, and magnetic ring to it:
In stunned disbelief the Irishman stammered, “F-fort Laramie? Great Mither of God—why’d you wait so long to tell me Crook’s heading back to Laramie?”
“I’m going with him, Seamus. General’s moving out in the morning—on the double.”
“There is a God, Johnny boy!” Seamus cheered. “Never should you doubt—there is a God!”
“I might be more of a believer if we had a dram of whiskey to pour in my coffee. Care to go with me to scare up a steaming cup of something warm, Seamus?”
Donegan immediately stuffed the pony’s reins into the newsman’s hand and replied, “Perhaps later. Right now I’ve got to speak to the general!”
He presented himself before General Crook, ready to plead his case, prepared to fall to his knees and beg if he had to. This month was already halfway gone to October. And if Sam’s count was right, then with the last days of October would come her time. While he had no reason to believe a woman could be wrong about so important a thing—mind-boggling mystery that it could be to a man—Seamus nonetheless decided he must not take a chance that Crook’s Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition would mosey back to Fort Laramie so slowly that he would show up late for the birth of his child.
Most of the top officers of every one of the regiments, both foot and horse, encircled that great fire as he approached, each of them gripping a pint tin cup in which the general had splashed some champagne given him by the grateful citizens of the mining towns, some of whom stood here and there among that joyous circle celebrating both the expedition’s success at Slim Buttes and the rescue of the Black Hills settlements.
“Yes, I received the lieutenant general’s orders late this afternoon,” Crook explained.
He stood near the tent half stretched overhead like an awning, boxes of provisions stacked to construct a crude field desk where papers and maps were strewn, held down beneath a pistol, a large brass-cased compass, and his own writing kit composed of an ink bottle wrapped in thick leather and topped with a brass cap to prevent it from breaking in a saddlebag, as well as a series of lead pencils and hefty wooden pens, each one crowned by a metal nib.
One of the Black Hills officials asked, “So you are hurrying back to Fort Laramie, General?”
“I’m to turn the command over to General Merritt in the morning immediately after breakfast. We’ll be disbanding the expedition in a few weeks because Sheridan is coming out from Chicago himself, wanting to meet with me and General Mackenzie to plan a fall and winter campaign.”
Donegan gulped. “Mackenzie? Of the Fourth Cavalry?”
Crook turned at the sound of the Irishman’s voice, his eyes narrowing. “Yes. You know of him?”
“A little, sir. Some. Down in Texas—against Quanah Parker’s Comanche.”
With a sigh the general said, “I see. Texas. You certainly have made the rounds, haven’t you, Irishman? Well —I have an idea I will be using Mackenzie as the lance of our coming campaign—putting him in the field with his veterans as my strike force. While these men with the Second and the Third have served me faithfully since last winter, it’s plain to see that they’re simply worn out. The Fourth Cavalry will not only be eager, but more than ready to strike the hostiles.”
One of the local citizens asked, “Then it is true you’re going to continue the campaign, General?”
