“And for their enthusiasm our boys nearly got themselves chewed up by those Cheyenne licking their battle wounds,” Frank declared. “If the snow clouds hadn’t rolled over about that time, our Pawnee and Cosgrove’s Snakes would not be here to tell the story.”
“They have any guess how many Cheyenne they saw?” Seamus asked.
Frank replied, “Could be as many as twelve hundred, maybe more.”
Luther said, “But the good news is—from what our boys could see, the Cheyenne really are badly cut up, all but naked, without moccasins, blankets, or ammunition … dragging all their wounded through the mountains toward the headwaters of the Crazy Woman.”
“They’re headed for the Crazy Horse people,” Seamus replied. “Just like they did after the Reynolds’s debacle in March.”
Frank stated, “That was right about the time the warrior bands started coming together for the spring and summer hunting seasons.”
For the rest of the day rumors ran through the anxious command because of that nearby contact with the fleeing Cheyenne. Fears arose that Morning Star’s warriors would be waiting to ambush the column somewhere along the trail. So frightened were some of the wounded that the colonel ordered his Indian scouts to the head of the command, where they stayed for the rest of the day in the event of a surprise attack. Indian would again be the first to bear the brunt of any ambush by Indian.
Just past sunset Mackenzie ordered a halt for the night on the far side of Willow Creek, which would lead them out of the mountains and back to the plains, where they could rendezvous with Crook and Dodge on the Crazy Woman Fork. The weary, cold cavalry had put twelve miles behind them by the time they kindled their fires and settled in among the snowdrifts for the long winter’s night.
Tom Cosgrove waved the Irishman over to his fire. “Come. Sit. Have yourself a cup of my terrible coffee, you no-good, sonofabitchin’ blue-belly.”
Seamus took the tin from Yancy Eckles at their cheery fire. He asked the two, “You mind if I bunk in with you here?”
“Sure you don’t mind the noise?” the short squaw man Eckles asked, throwing his thumb back to indicate the loud, uproarious scalp dance the Shoshone were holding nearby.
“No,” Donegan said all too quietly. “The noise won’t bother me near as much as the quiet would tonight.”
“Sit yourself down, then,” Cosgrove replied, stretching out his long frame. “My home is your home!”
“Truth be—I don’t want to stay down there with the others where I was,” Donegan replied, then sipped at the scalding coffee.
Eckles inquired, “With Wheeler’s wounded train?”
Wagging his head, Seamus said, “It ain’t the wounded. It’s them dead ones.”
With a snort Cosgrove threw a fist at Donegan’s shoulder. “That’s a pretty one! With all the dead men you’ve seen in all your goddamned wars—now you’ve gone and got yourself funny feelings about a few dead soldiers?”
For a moment Seamus stared into the fire. “They’re frozen.”
“We all are,” Cosgrove replied casually.
“No. I mean really frozen, Tom,” Donegan argued. “They froze near solid on the ride here this afternoon.”
His eyes narrowing, Eckles asked. “Hanging over the backs of them mules?”
Nodding, Donegan said, “And when Wheeler’s men took the bodies off the mules, they just set each dead man up to stand all on his own, bent over in a half hoop, posted on hands and boots.”
Cosgrove trembled involuntarily. “Like they was bowed up?”
As the war cries and songs of the Shoshone reached another crescendo, Donegan only nodded, his cracked, bloody lips warming at the rim of the coffee tin and didn’t say another word.
Finally Cosgrove stated quietly, “Sure, Irishman. We’ll always make room for you here.”
They drank their coffee in silence for some time, each of them listening to the noisy Shoshone celebration, until Eckles spoke.
“You figure Grouard got to Crook already?”
“Yeah,” Seamus replied. “I’ll wager the infantry’re headed this way already.”
“General?”
George Crook sat upright at the sound of the orderly’s voice, rubbing at his gritty eyes. Damn, but it was dark. “Yes! Yes! What is it?”
He could see it was not yet light. Nothing more than the first seep of gray from outside, a gray that streamed through the canvas shelter half he had stretched out from the sidewall of one of Furey’s freight wagons to keep the snow off his bed. Crook shifted on his mattress of blankets and sagebrush, hurriedly grabbing for the first boot in the dark.
“It’s a courier, General.”
His heart rose to his throat. “From Mackenzie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?” he snapped, bursting to his feet and bolting out of the shelter half with one boot on and the other in his hand, both braids of his long red beard flung back over his shoulders.
The orderly fell back two steps, surprised by the general’s sudden appearance. “Th-th-there’s been a f-fight, sir.”
“By Jove! That’s exquisite news!” Then he noticed the courier at the fire, having just filled his cup. “So you’re the one who rode in with this splendid report, Frank?”
The half-breed Grouard nodded, taking his first sip at the coffee sending curls of steam into the frosty light of predawn. “Cold as hell out there, General.”
Dammit, he wanted answers—now. “Mackenzie … he won?”
Nodding, Grouard replied in that easy, slow way of his. “Not like Reynolds last winter. Not like that at all.”
Crook did a quick little stamp with his feet, something on the order of a Phil Sheridan Irish jig, only then realizing he hadn’t put his second boot on as he stomped down on the pounded snow with his thin stocking. “A victory, Frank?”
“Damn right, it’s a victory, General. But the
“Fix this man some breakfast,” Crook ordered the men around the fire, grinning from ear to ear and waving his arms like a man possessed, getting all of his orderlies and dog-robbers moving at once. “And pour me a cup of the strongest coffee you’ve got. Wait right here, Frank—I’m going to grab my coat and hat … then go roust Dodge. When we’re back, you’re going to tell us all about Mackenzie’s fight.”
The commanding general of the Department of the Platte awakened Colonel Richard I. Dodge that cold dawn of the twenty-sixth, literally pulling the infantry commander from his trestle bed.
“Mackenzie sent back for your boys and their guns! He’s got the whole lot of ’em on the run!”
“M-my guns?” Dodge said, shuddering as he pulled on his tall boots, blinking his eyes.
“Damn. Tucked away up there in the rocks, one of those blasted warriors is worth ten of my troopers,” Crook growled, grinding his gloves together thoughtfully. “But your riflemen should more than even the odds for General Mackenzie.”
Dodge stood, buttoning his long caped coat. “When shall we embark?”
“As soon as you’ve drawn two days’ rations and issued every man one hundred rounds of ammunition.”
The infantry commander stabbed his way out from the flaps of his canvas tent. “I’ll return shortly, General— to report to you when we’re ready to depart.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood, General,” Crook said to Dodge, watching the colonel freeze in the middle of his salute. “I am accompanying you on this forced march.”
“Of … of course, General,” Dodge finally replied with studied disappointment, and finished his salute.
It wasn’t until close to noon that Dodge had his men dressed, fed, outfitted, and mustered into columns. By then the sky had lowered and the tops of the nearby Bighorns had once again disappeared among the gray, heavy
