“Where the devil’d he get that second copy?” Donegan asked.
The table fell silent. Slowly, man by man, Grouard felt all the eyes turn on him, expecting an answer. “He got it from me,” he groaned.
“From you?” Bourke roared.
“I was so damned angry with him there in Custer City that I handed him that copy of Davenport’s story that son of a bitch Davenport give me back at the Belle Fourche and told him I wasn’t carrying it no more.”
“So when the line was repaired, that’s how Davenport’s dispatch got on the wire before Egan’s courier could reach here,” Wessels said. “And in the meantime, Crawford himself kept on pushing for Laramie. The next key shack was up at Sage Creek, just forty-eight miles beyond Hat Creek, and that’s where Crawford must’ve found out the line was up and working by that time. The operator there told him Davenport’s story was already on the wire ahead of all the others.”
Donegan sat his mug down with a clunk, wagging his head. “Damn the bloody hell of it—so that’s how Davenport’s story got out ahead of Crook’s dispatches to Sheridan.”
“But only part of Davenport’s story,” said Andy Burt.
“What do you mean, only
“When the Hat Creek operator paused in the middle of Davenport’s story for a moment, the operator at Laramie broke in and took over possession of the wire with Crook’s official dispatches,” Burt explained. “Still, with the jump Crawford had there at Hat Creek key station, Davenport’s story got wired east a good five hours ahead of all the rest of those other newspapermen.”
Bourke asked, “What’d Crawford get for his trouble?”
“It sure wasn’t that five hunnert Davenport promised him,” Grouard grumped.
Donegan grumped over his whiskey, “Davenport’s the sort so tight he squeaks when he walks. I’ll wager he gave Captain Jack no more’n a shinplaster or two.”
Wessels explained, “I heard he got only two hundred dollars since he wasn’t the first to Laramie and only part of the story got out before Crook’s report.”
“Where’s Crawford now?” Schuyler asked.
“He laid over here a day,” Burt answered. “Then he doubled back for the Hills.”
“Let’s drink to Frank Grouard!” Bourke cheered, raising his mug of beer.
The half-breed watched a sudden bright twinkle gleam in the lieutenant’s eyes as the officer tapped Donegan on the shoulder and pointed out the window.
“Who’s that?” Seamus asked, squinting through the smoke-smudged windowpanes.
“That?” Andy Burt replied. “That happens to be Lieutenant Capron’s wife, Seamus. The woman who tonight is helping my Elizabeth deliver your child.”
“Ch-child?”
Donegan and the rest suddenly whirled about on their seats in that next instant as Nettie Capron swirled into the room, a blast of autumn cold clinging to her long dress, a shawl clutched tightly about her shoulders. Burt stood immediately, signaling the woman through that smoky atmosphere. The rest of the men stood gallantly as she came to a stop at the table.
“Mr. Donegan?” Nettie Capron said softly.
“Y-yes?” he replied, his face sagging a bit as his knees began to turn to water.
“The captain’s … Elizabeth Burt sent me to fetch you.”
“And?” Andy Burt asked, his voice rising. “Is Seamus a father?”
“No, not yet—but soon,” she answered, then turned to the Irishman once more. “Could you come … now? Your wife is … she’s having a struggle of it. And, sh-she’s asking for you.”
Chapter 1
7 October 1876
If he lived forever, Seamus Donegan was dead certain he would never forget this night.
At first the women fluttering around Samantha had tried to convince him in hushed tones that he should stay no more than a few moments with his wife. Reassure her, console her—then go back to the saloon—just as a man was supposed to do when a woman’s time came.
“S-stay with me,” Sam begged in a harsh whisper as he came to the side of that tiny bed where she lay, her back propped up, the thin grayed sheet draped over her knees like sister mountain peaks covered with dirty snow. She held one hand out for him to grasp as he went to his knee beside the bed.
Almost immediately he watched the rise of another contraction show on her face, and suddenly the others squeezed forward once again: two on the far side of the bed, one at Donegan’s shoulder. All of them muttering instructions to Sam, reminders about breathing, about not pushing.
“Where’s the goddamned surgeon?” he looked up to ask them as Sam fell back against those tiny pillows and folded-up comforter they had braced behind her.
Elizabeth Burt was the one to answer. “We’ll call him if we need him, Mr. Donegan.”
He rose shakily from his knee. It hurt like hell down on that hardwood floor. As quickly he felt a flush of shame for thinking of that when Sam’s hurt must be so much the worse. He squeezed her slick hand between his two rough, callused paws and said as quietly, as politely, as he could, “Looks to me we n-need him.”
“No, no,” Martha Luhn said. “Everything’s going just fine.”
“F-fine?” Donegan stammered, gazing back down at Samantha, who stared up at him, transfixed and steady, licking her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.
“Truth is, that surgeon wouldn’t be a bit of help to us,” Nettie Capron replied. “That man might know how to set a broken bone, or patch up a bullet hole, or what to do if you had an Indian’s arrow sticking out of your back … but he sure as the Psalms doesn’t know near as much about what’s going on with your wife as we do.”
“Get me some water there, Seamus,” Sam pleaded in all but a desert-dry whisper, diverting his attention from the scolding he was getting from the lieutenant’s wife.
Elizabeth Burt leaned over Sam as Seamus turned to find some water, explaining, “You can only have a little, Samantha. Like we’ve been giving you all along. Remember—only a little.”
“I want Seamus to give it to me,” Sam said with a weary nod.
At the side of the bed stood the unsteady washstand where a china cup with its handle broken off sat next to a tinned pitcher. He filled the cup halfway before slipping a hand beneath his wife’s neck and head, gently propping her up as he raised the cup to her lips. Sam took tiny sips with her parched lips and that pink tongue, a half dozen of them before her eyes rolled away from him and she started to pant.
Beside him Nettie Capron pushed Seamus back as Samantha gripped the bedsheet in both hands and started to groan. Her legs trembled beneath that grayed sheet.
He felt so damned helpless as the three women hovered close, attending his wife, while he could do nothing to take the pain, this excruciating travail, from her. In helplessness at her misery, he gasped, “I … I must get the post surgeon—”
“No, you won’t trouble him with this,” Elizabeth Burt corrected more sternly this time. “You best trust
“Get in the way?” he squeaked. “She … Sam asked for me—”
Elizabeth Burt moved down the opposite side of the bed, where she squatted on the edge of the tick, raising the sheet slightly so that she could peer beneath it without exposing Sam’s legs. Donegan thought that most strange—wondering how these women figured he had put Sam with child if he hadn’t seen her legs, indeed every last delicious inch of her! The woman’s eyes came up to look at the others, then rested on his.
“It won’t be long now,” she explained, grim-lipped, as her eyes gazed down at the woman in labor. “Samantha—this child of yours is about ready to make its entrance into the world.”
