their shot gun policy in practice, took place over a month ago, on Cooper River … The republicans had called a meeting and the democrats of this city chartered a steamboat and took one hundred and fifty well armed men to the meeting … and demanded that they should have the time for their speeches. The republicans did not relish this kind of peaceful political discussion, but the request was backed up by one hundred and fifty Winchester repeating rifles in the hands of men who know how to use them.’”
Walter S. Schuyler broke in, asking, “Had to be them goddamned Johnny Rebs stirring up the trouble—right, Seamus?”
“Those sentiments go back a long time now, Lieutenant,” Donegan replied to General Crook’s aide. “It’s been many a year since I faced reb guns. All in the past now.”
Trader Collins cleared his throat to resnag everyone’s attention and proceeded with his reading of the news story plastered across the front page of Denver’s Rocky Mountain
“… The democrats carried a large force from the city to every meeting, who irritated the republicans by their violent denunciation of their leaders and their party. The meeting at the brick church was called by the republicans … many of them being suspicious of the democrats carried such guns as each man had at his home—muskets—but no militia men went there with state arms and ammunition, as the democrats claim; and the best evidence of that fact is that all the dead were shot with buckshot and not with rifle balls.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Bourke roared. “You mean the democrats and republicans are shooting at each other down there in the South now?”
“Bound to happen,” declared Captain Wirt Davis, a Virginia-born officer who had nonetheless thrown in with the Union in 1861. He wagged his head with grim resignation.
Captain John Lee, another officer in Mackenzie’s Fourth, agreed. “Like my friend Wirt, here—I am a Tennessee man who loathes the sort of coward who hides behind a bedsheet bringing terror and lynching to my native land. But sooner or later this sort of trouble was bound to happen down there somewhere.”
Collins bent over his paper and pressed on with the story.
“When the colored republicans arrived at the place of meeting, their leading men told them that they were violating the agreement by coming armed, and that they must deposit their arms at some place away from the grounds. The colored men complied with the request … and some guns … were placed in an old dilapidated building some fifty yards from the stand … About one hundred and fifty democrats accompanied their speakers from the city, and soon appeared at the meeting. Soon after W. J. McKennely, colored, commenced, a commotion was observed … next to the dilapidated building and McKennely jumped off the stand and said: ‘There are white men in that house; they have the guns, and are going to shoot.’ The colored men raised a shout, ‘The democrats have seized our guns!’ and made a rush for the other guns. The white men who had secretly slipped into the house and seized the guns then fired, and the first shot killed an old colored man about seventy years old.…
“The colored men returned with their guns very soon and attacked the party. They commenced a general fire on the democrats, who were generally armed with pistols…. Six white men were killed and one colored. Several whites were wounded … and it is not known how many negroes were hurt.”
“Begging Captain Lee’s pardon—but it sounds to me like they’re still fighting that war down there,” Schuyler observed.
“Maybe that’s as good a reason as any to be out here,” John Lee replied as he set his steaming cup of coffee down with a clunk upon the table. “Eh, Mr. Donegan?”
With a wag of his head, Seamus replied, “All this hoopla and upset and bloodshed. I’m bloody well beginning to wonder if there really is anyplace safe for a man to raise his family in peace—or if the whole bleeming country’s gone crazy!”
“Irishman!”
Donegan turned toward the doorway as the old sergeant burst in, his caped wool coat a’swirl with some of the snow falling outside. It seemed the soldier brought all of that wilderness cold in with him.
“Sergeant?”
“Cap’n Wirt,” the sergeant said, coming to an abrupt halt and saluting. “Cap’n Lee, sir. Didn’t know you was here.”
Wirt asked, “What is it, Sergeant Forsyth?”
“The general, Cap’n. He sent me to fetch up the Irishman here.”
“We’re heading back to Camp Robinson already?” Lee asked.
“Yes, sir, Cap’n.”
Outside on the parade, a bugle rasped through the wintry notes of “Boots and Saddles.” As its stirring call faded over Fort Laramie, First Sergeant Thomas H. Forsyth leaned close to Donegan and whispered, “Best get a move on and say your good-byes to the missus.”
Rising slowly, Seamus watched the two cavalry captains hurry out the door as he moved toward the frosted windowpane to gaze out at the bustle of activity on the parade ground. “Sheridan and Crook must really be in a hurry to get their hands on those Sioux guns and ponies, eh?”
“Mackenzie said to tell you you’ve got a quarter of an hour,” the bearded veteran replied with a wink as he turned away, a knowing smile gleaming above his faded chevrons. “Use every minute wisely.”
THE INDIANS
Movements on the Missouri
St. PAUL, October 20.—A
* * *
Just past dawn on 21 October, William Jackson moved out of the Fifth Infantry’s bivouac with Luther Kelly and most of the other scouts, ordered to probe north along Cedar Creek, throwing outriders along both flanks as the soldiers formed up and began their march that chilly Saturday. At the rear, D Company was assigned to escort the regiment’s supply train.
Miles intended to have his men out in front of the hostiles, blocking their way if Sitting Bull decided to make a sudden dash for the Canadian border.
It was nearing midmorning beneath a cold autumn sun when Jackson and Kelly cautiously reached the crest of a hill on their bellies in advance of the soldiers, scanning the distance for sign of the Sioux.
“They’re making a run for it,” Kelly said with some grim resignation.
“Just like Miles figured they would,” Jackson replied as they both watched the distant village dismantling and setting out—the first of the laden travois and their vast pony herd protectively encircled by a great ring of hundreds of warriors. Horsemen milled about through the bare tripods as throngs of people went about their work like it was a fevered anthill.
Then Jackson added, “But, look. Instead of heading north—I’ll be damned if they’re going south by east.”
“What strikes me is that the village is a lot bigger than we thought at first,” Yellowstone Kelly observed.
“What do you make it? Three, maybe four thousand of em?
The white chief of scouts nodded behind his field glasses. “Could be as many as a thousand warriors.”
“Want me to go tell Miles?” William asked.
Luther Kelly pulled the field glasses from his face as he twisted around to look over his shoulder. “Yeah, you head out. I’ll be along straightaway.”
Jackson started to slide backward on his belly when Kelly put out his arm and stopped him there in that tail, dead, brittle grass rising out of the cold, cold ground as a nervous wind came up.
“See that ground, yonder there?” Kelly declared, pointing. “Tell the general they’re headed into the next
