Trumpet on the Land (79 page)

“Army's getting provisions sent in here?”

“Damn right they are. Second night after we arrived, a courier came in carrying an envelope filled with six dispatches from Sheridan telling Crook that he should leave his sick and wounded at Custer City, down in the southern end of the Hills—where Sheridan's sent supplies.”

“More bacon and hard bread,” Donegan said sourly. “Still, there was a time I'd given my left arm for a taste of salt pork, even a mouthful of some moldy tack.”

“From what I can tell, things sounded like Sheridan wasn't happy when he learned that Crook was heading south toward the Black Hills instead of chasing the Sioux.”

Donegan wagged his head. “I fought for Sheridan in the Shenandoah—so I'd tell that little son of a bitch to his face that he has no room to talk. By God, he wasn't here on that march with us!”

“From the tone of his messages Sheridan's angry with Crook. Wants the general to clear out of the Black Hills and get on with establishing a cantonment on the Powder River in Indian country.”

“Sheridan's right on target there. Forget Fetterman, or those Montana posts. Too far south and north. The army's got to put a fort right in the heart of the Sioux hunting ground and hold on to it. Not like they gave up Reno, Phil Kearny, and C. F. Smith back to sixty-eight.”

“You won't believe what news came in the last dispatch the courier brought in for the general,” Finerty announced, “Sheridan's called Crook back to Laramie!”

That one word had a magical, powerful, potent, and magnetic ring to it:
Laramie.

In stunned disbelief the Irishman stammered, “F-fort Laramie? Great Mither of God—why'd you wait so long to tell me Crook's heading back to Laramie?”

“I'm going with him, Seamus. General's moving out in the morning—on the double.”

“There is a God, Johnny boy!” Seamus cheered. “Never should you doubt—there is a God!”

“I might be more of a believer if we had a dram of whiskey to pour in my coffee. Care to go with me to scare up a steaming cup of something warm, Seamus?”

Donegan immediately stuffed the pony's reins into the newsman's hand and replied, “Perhaps later. Right now I've got to speak to the general!”

He presented himself before General Crook, ready to plead his case, prepared to fall to his knees and beg if he had to. This month was already halfway gone to October. And if Sam's count was right, then with the last days of October would come her time. While he had no reason to believe a woman could be wrong about so important a thing—mind-boggling mystery that it could be to a man—
Seamus nonetheless decided he must not take a chance that Crook's Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition would mosey back to Fort Laramie so slowly that he would show up late for the birth of his child.

Most of the top officers of every one of the regiments, both foot and horse, encircled that great fire as he approached, each of them gripping a pint tin cup in which the general had splashed some champagne given him by the grateful citizens of the mining towns, some of whom stood here and there among that joyous circle celebrating both the expedition's success at Slim Buttes and the rescue of the Black Hills settlements.

“Yes, I received the lieutenant general's orders late this afternoon,” Crook explained.

He stood near the tent half stretched overhead like an awning, boxes of provisions stacked to construct a crude field desk where papers and maps were strewn, held down beneath a pistol, a large brass-cased compass, and his own writing kit composed of an ink bottle wrapped in thick leather and topped with a brass cap to prevent it from breaking in a saddlebag, as well as a series of lead pencils and hefty wooden pens, each one crowned by a metal nib.

One of the Black Hills officials asked, “So you are hurrying back to Fort Laramie, General?”

“I'm to turn the command over to General Merritt in the morning immediately after breakfast. We'll be disbanding the expedition in a few weeks because Sheridan is coming out from Chicago himself, wanting to meet with me and General Mackenzie to plan a fall and winter campaign.”

Donegan gulped. “Mackenzie? Of the Fourth Cavalry?”

Crook turned at the sound of the Irishman's voice, his eyes narrowing. “Yes. You know of him?”

“A little, sir. Some. Down in Texas—against Quanah Parker's Comanche.”

With a sigh the general said, “I see. Texas. You certainly have made the rounds, haven't you, Irishman? Well
—I have an idea I will be using Mackenzie as the lance of our coming campaign—putting him in the field with his veterans as my strike force. While these men with the Second and the Third have served me faithfully since last winter, it's plain to see that they're simply worn out. The Fourth Cavalry will not only be eager, but more than ready to strike the hostiles.”

One of the local citizens asked, “Then it is true you're going to continue the campaign, General?”

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

T
hey 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
forty-rod?”
the newsman asked, wheezing and wiping his watery eyes.

“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.