Trumpet on the Land: The Aftermath of Custer's Massacre, 1876

watching how his words brought the newsman up short.

“What—”

“Things aren’t good right now: Washakie just told Crook that he’s leaving.”

“All of them?” Finerty turned this way and that, saying, “The Shoshone? They’re leaving?”

“Back to their reservation at Wind River.”

“Whatever for?”

John shrugged. “Shit, my only guess is they really don’t want to fight the Sioux as bad as Crook does.”

“No, John. There’s something more to it than that,” Finerty pressed, grabbing hold of Bourke’s arm. “Tell me what Washakie said to the general when he broke the news.”

Bourke didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want any newsman to know, really. But with the way the general was going to be butchered by Davenport when the correspondent reported this setback, John felt there should be at least one other newsman who could put enough slant on things to counterbalance Davenport’s nasty, anti-Crook point of view. It could only be Finerty.

John sighed and looked at the correspondent. “The Shoshone don’t think we’re going to catch the Sioux.”

“Hell! Truth is, I don’t think we’re going to, either! So what else did he tell Crook?”

“They didn’t like Tom Moore’s slow-moving mule train.”

“Those can’t be the only reasons. Why, most of Washakie’s warriors rode with that ‘slow-moving mule train’ all the way to the Rosebud earlier this summer!”

“All I can say is they don’t like it now, Finerty. Besides, like Crook says—there just seems to be no stopping them because it’s getting close to annuity time.”

“Annuity?”

Bourke answered, “The provisions they get from the government agent there at Wind River. Washakie wants to be there when his people come in to receive their goods.”

“Well, we’ve still got Cody and Grouard and the rest.”

The lieutenant shook his head. “That’s some more bad news: Cody resigned this morning. I just heard about it myself. I haven’t even told the general yet because he’s been in a dither about the Snakes … and now Cody’s calling it quits.”

“Cody? Why, in God’s name?”

“He told General Terry about the same thing Washakie did: that it appeared the soldiers did not want to fight, that he had worn himself out chasing Indians who had cleared out of the country a long time ago. He really let Terry have it, telling the general all about his scouting ability, how he took that Cheyenne’s scalp at the Warbonnet— but that Crook and Terry didn’t want to listen to him when he pointed out fresh trails that needed to be followed.”

Finerty shook his head with confusion and asked, “W-wait. You said Cody found some fresh trails?”

Bourke sought to wave it off. “That’s just what I’ve heard—he probably didn’t. But he complained that the generals were relying too much on their Indian scouts and not enough on fellas like him and Grouard, Donegan, and Buffalo Chips.”

“So he’s leaving for sure? No one able to talk him into staying on?”

“Yeah, the Irishman is down in Terry’s camp right now, trying to convince Cody to stay on for a few more weeks at least. But Cody says he’s convinced the army doesn’t want to find any Indians.”

“John,” Finerty replied, “you know, Cody might just be right. I myself thought of joining some of the fellows cashing it in.”

“You, John? Why—you’ve been with us since the winter campaign!”

“And you don’t think a man gets tired of all this Injun hunting?”

“But you’re a veteran campaigner now,” Bourke protested.

“Frankly, I see little prospect for catching the enemy now. Nothing to be gained by my remaining out here but more mud, more misery, and a lot more miles crawling through rough country.”

“One good battle, that’s all Crook needs—”

Finerty interrupted. “One good battle and things would suit me, John. But I fear the last shot of the campaign has already been fired.”

“We’re going to take on supplies and resume the march—”

“No,” Finerty interrupted again, shaking his head. “Supplies aren’t what we need. We need to leave the green infantry behind so they won’t slow us up. Just the hardened foot soldiers who can keep up with the cavalry. Beyond that, what we need most from the army is horses for the cavalry that aren’t ready for the glue factory!”

Bourke bristled visibly as he said, “The mark of a good soldier is always doing the best he can do with what he’s been given.”

Finerty tried out a weak grin. “Listen, John—don’t take my criticism personally. I just think the circumstances have turned this expedition into nothing but a theatrical campaign.”

“Theatrical?”

“Exactly—just like a Chinese stage battle I once saw in Chicago: the combatants constantly rushing about in an excited manner, chasing after unseen enemies they can’t ever catch. What was amusing, though—the enemies seem to find and harass their pursuers.”

“Chinese stage play, eh?” Bourke grumbled. “That’s what you think of Crook’s summer campaign?”

“Perhaps—”

“Sounds as if you’ve been listening to the likes of Reuben Davenport and his cowards’ school of back stabbing!”

“Back stabbing? Who?”

“You, and that Davenport. Why, we even found out Davenport offered a hundred dollars to a courier Crook hired to carry his dispatches, if the courier would deliver Davenport’s stories first and delay Crook’s dispatches by at least twelve hours!”

“I’d never do a thing like that, John!”

“Nonetheless, it sure sounds like you have worn out your welcome, John Finerty,” Bourke snapped with a flourish of indignation. “Perhaps you’ll be better served by returning to Chicago. Good day!”

He whirled away from the newsman without allowing Finerty another word to his face.

“John! Come back!”

Bourke kept on walking, shouting back at the reporter, “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in one of the cushy bunks on the steamboat—or eating in the dining room of some hotel back in Chicago rather than sleeping in the cold mud and eating raw bacon with the rest of us!”

“I’m not leaving!” Finerty yelled at the lieutenant’s back. “Don’t think you’re going to get rid of me this easily, John Bourke. Anything you soldiers can take—John Finerty can take!”

Indian Rumors of an Engagement— Terry Victorious.

CHICAGO, August 10—The Times Fort D. Sully special says: Indians from hostile camp have arrived with the report that Terry’s command had encountered the hostiles, and the latter had been flanked by Gen. Gibbon and badly beaten. The Indians acknowledged one hundred wounded, and said that Sitting Bull had been shot through both thighs. They are quiet on the subject of the number killed. An Indian can travel by a direct route from Sitting Bull to the agencies sooner by several days than a courier could reach Bismarck from Terry. The report is generally believed here.

“You promise me you’ll write. Tell me when the baby comes,” Bill Cody asked in dawn’s chill light as a mist hung over the mouth of the Powder River.

After a dry Sunday and Monday, during which time Lieutenant Colonel Carr drilled his cavalry, Tuesday saw a renewal of wind-driven rain. And there had been no letup on Wednesday. But this morning the wind refused to put in an appearance as the skies continued to drizzle morosely.

“Promise me,” Cody repeated, squeezing harder.

Seamus felt Bill’s hand tighten on his, refusing to let go for the longest time. “Yes.”

“You have the address in Rochester I gave you?”

The Irishman could only nod. All he thought of was that farewell he had bid Cody back in November of sixtynine—after Bill had saved his life, shooting the huge mulatto who was about to slit open Donegan’s throat.^*

“No matter where the troupe is appearing, I’1l always get your letters through Lulu. Just be sure you write—