Gazing up into the Irishman’s eyes, Crook answered, “This war with the Sioux is far from over, I’m compelled to admit. No matter what the eastern press might say about us, we’ve accomplished too much to stop now simply because of the onset of winter.”
Taking one step closer to Crook, Seamus inquired, “So, General—would you be good enough to consider me riding back with your escort when you leave in the morning?”
Crook smiled genuinely and nodded. “I’ll see that Major Stanton gets you paid off with a voucher you can use to draw on when you reach Laramie with us.”
“W-with you, General? With yow?”
Crook held out his hand to Donegan. “Why, certainly you can ride along with my party. I see no reason for you to lollygag around here with the expedition as the men rest and recruit themselves. Now, tell me: what’s this news I hear from John Bourke that your wife is due to have a child?”
Chapter 50
16-20 September 1876
They might not even call such a collection of crude clapboard buildings and canvas- topped shanties a “town,” but to the eyes and ears and nose of John Finerty, Deadwood exuded the sweet sensation of civilization!
With Crook’s announcement that the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition was soon to be disbanded and that Sheridan had called him to Fort Laramie, all four of the correspondents applied to the general for permission to accompany his party south via Camp Robinson. The likable Joe Wasson, the much-despised Reuben Davenport, as well as the affable and eminently sociable Robert Strahorn all joined Finerty in saddling up that Saturday morning before reporting to the general’s headquarters promptly after breakfast. Besides the Irishman Donegan, Captain Andrew S. Burt had requested and secured leave, heading back to rejoin wife Elizabeth and children at Laramie.
Crook had also given permission to several officers to accompany him: his aide-de-camp, John Bourke; Major Alexander Chambers; Captain William H. Powell; and Captain Thaddeus Stanton, the Omaha paymaster; along with adjutant Schuyler, Captain George M. “Black Jack” Randall, and Assistant Surgeon Albert Hartsuff, all had asked to go on that dash south from the Black Hills. In addition, Lieutenant Frederick Sibley led an escort of twenty troopers from the Second Cavalry, along with a complement of a half-dozen mules to carry some medical supplies, ammunition, and an abundant supply of Bubb’s food.
All the way south to the settlements along the road that snaked beside Whitewood Creek they passed civilians in wagons, civilians leading pack-animals behind them, civilians alone on horseback—all headed north to that army camp with everything they hoped to sell to the soldiers: canned goods and candles, onions and cabbages, turnips and potatoes, and all manner of vegetables grown locally in the Hills. Here and there the party rode past small herds of cattle grazing on the grassy hillsides, each one of those highly valued herds guarded by a well-armed band of wranglers.
After a short ride of sixteen miles they reached the wooded ravine on the northern outskirts of Crook City, finding it a thriving, smoky community of more than 250 structures erected on either side of the steep slopes rising up from the Whitewood. No sooner had the general’s escort appeared at the edge of town than a loud explosion rocked the narrow valley. Finerty pulled his head into his shoulders like a turtle.
“Cannon fire,” Donegan explained.
“Cannon?”
“I suppose it’s to welcome the town’s namesake, General Crook himself.”
Indeed, the citizens of the Black Hills settlement were firing off cannons, plus blowing all manner of steam whistles, in addition to loading their anvils with gunpowder to send them cartwheeling into the air with a deafening concussion.
Hundreds of men and some two dozen of the ugliest, most hard-featured, dog-faced women Finerty could ever admit to seeing, every one of them in some state of un dress, appeared on the streets, crowded the boardwalks, or leaned from open windows on the second stories of those greater buildings in town. In less than two hundred yards, the street was all but blocked as men fired their revolvers in the air, shouted out their oaths and vows to scalp Crazy Horse themselves, and strained through the throng to shake the hands of those soldiers slowly threading through their midst.
“General! You must come have dinner with us!” roared one local dignitary, gesturing toward his two-story saloon and pleasure palace.
Glancing a moment at the sun, Crook replied, “I suppose we could stop briefly for a meal.”
“Very good! Very good!” the entrepreneur said, clapping his hands ecstatically. “We’ll see that your horses are grained while we dine.”
In moments the entire group was seated at tables, which big-breasted chippies and gap-toothed soiled doves wiped clean, smiling winsomely at each of the celebrated guests. Bottles and glasses and cigars all appeared as if by magic.
“It’s our very best, General Crook,” the businessman swore. “Nothing but the best for you and your men.”
What was in those bottles proved to be some of the strongest whiskey Finerty had ever tasted, even stronger than what had made him sputter when he had first come to Wyoming Territory and Kid Slaymaker’s saloon near Fort Fetterman.
“Good God! Is this what they call
“Indeed it is,” Donegan said, pouring Finerty another drink. “If Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse knew how to make this stuff and sell it to the white man, why—the Sioux could whip the whole frontier army in less than a week!”
Once the party emerged from the saloon back onto the street to find their horses watered and well fed, the wild cheering erupted again. But when they left Crook City behind, they could plainly see the town had already enjoyed its short-lived glory. Founded in May, it was already suffering a long downhill slide as the richest gulch had quickly played out and every day more and more miners headed for other nearby strikes or to build their sluices farther upstream.
Quartz and timber were both in abundance—that much was apparent from their ride up the graded wagon road that would take them another ten miles to Deadwood. Every mile saw more teamsters and packers, as well as assorted horsemen, each one of them sporting a pair of spurs with rowels as big as tea saucers, jingling like hawk’s bells as they bounced along. A few miles out from Deadwood they came upon a handful of riders who wore the finest in bowlers and claw-hammer coats, brocade vests and fine silk ties—the sort of haberdashery that made Crook’s seedy, tattered, unkempt bunch look all the more like a wandering band of Nordic raiders.
“General Crook, I presume?” one of the citizens asked, removing his hat.
“I am George Crook, yes.”
“Good day, sir!” The speaker smiled, as well as all those with him. “My name’s E. B. Farnum, Deadwood’s first mayor. Welcome, may I say. Welcome, indeed, to a grateful town!”
After shaking hands all round with the mayor’s aldermen, Farnum reined about and led the party on through Montana City, Elizabeth Town, China Town, then Lower Deadwood, and finally in to Deadwood itself, where the whole town had turned out, waiting expectantly for the general’s arrival. No sooner had Crook reached the edge of what was then the business district than thirteen small field pieces erupted in a grand martial salute. Smoke hung lazily over the street as a wonderful breeze teased the red, white, and blue bunting strung from awnings and porches and second-story balconies in a festive salute to the man the town regarded as their savior. Cheering, dancing, shooting handguns—the noise was deafening.
Finerty smiled, watching the general tip his ragged,weather-beaten chapeau, bowing left, then right, then left again, shaking hands as they inched slowly along, waving to those on porches and balconies, throwing a kiss here
