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

Then the first one of them bellowed out a cheer. And suddenly from both sides of the street the civilians pressed in, tearing their hats from their heads, throwing them into the air, shouting, screaming, whistling, and hooting in sheer joy. The Indian ponies fought their bits, and some attempted to rear, but the crowds latched on to them and held them in the center of that muddy, rutted street while everyone shook hands and laughed, and many of the soldiers couldn’t help but cry.

Finally Seamus thought to ask those who stood as close to him as ticks on a buffalo’s hide, “Does any man here know where I might get myself a good beefsteak? And a baked potato? And a bottle of whiskey what won’t soap my tonsils when I pour it down?”

The Irishman was finishing his fifth cup of steaming coffee and was just about ready to pour his first double shot of whiskey when Anson Mills came up and settled in the rickety chair at Donegan’s table in a saloon still fragrant with freshly-sawed lumber. The captain put his hand over the top of the shot glass.

“I’ll leave you to have off at one drink, Irishman.”

“Why, Colonel—I’ve waited a long time to drink my fill. Ever since Fetterman, it’s been.”

“I know you have. But you’ve filled your belly with just what it should have for the work at hand: warm food, good food, and strong, rich coffee too. So, now, before you drink any more than that one glass I’ll leave you have—I want you to remember I’ve still got men out there. Soldiers in that wilderness.”

“Lieutenant Chase,” Donegan replied, suddenly realizing as he stared at the whiskey in the glass held underneath the captain’s open palm.

“I fear they might have been chewed up by some war party, Irishman.”

Donegan nodded, then licked his lips and let his eyes climb up to the officer’s face. “My one drink of this blessed piss-hole whiskey, Captain?”

Reluctantly, Mills removed his hand, gently pushing the glass toward the scout. “Surely. If that’s what you choose to do is drink the rest of the night while I and Lieutenant Bubb procure Crook’s supplies—I can’t stop you. We’ve all been under extreme privation … so I will try to understand.”

Sweeping the two sides of his unkempt, bushy mustache aside with a grimy finger, Donegan licked his lips, staring at the delicate amber color in the smoky glass. Then as he closed his eyes, he gently poured the whiskey on his tongue and slowly tilted his head back, savoring the sweet sting it brought to his throat as the whiskey coursed its warm track all the way down his gullet.

Then he lowered his chin and opened his eyes, licking the last drops of whiskey from his lips and mustache. Rising from the table, he swept his shapeless sombrero from the empty chair beside him and planted it on his head, snugging up the wind-string below his beard.

Gazing down at the captain, Seamus pulled on his heavy coat, still damp. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigar, would you, Colonel?”

“Why … no, I wouldn’t.”

“Here, mister,” said a civilian who rushed forward with a half dozen clutched in his hand. “Take what you want and I’ll put it on your tab.”

Seizing the long, fragrant, rum-soaked cheroots, each one as thick as his own thumb, Donegan replied, “Thank you, sir. You do that.”

Gently inserting the precious smokes within the security of an inside pocket, Donegan dragged his leather gloves from the coat’s pockets and turned back to Mills, saying, “If you’ll be good enough to pay the six bits I owe the proprietor here, Colonel—and whatever else he’s gonna charge for these cigars, I’d be grateful, I.surely would. You see”—he leaned forward and whispered then—“I’m a little short for the moment.”

“S-short?”

Grinning, he pulled on his gloves and said, “It’s been some months since the army’s paid me, which means I ain’t had me any army scrip in my pocket for quite some time. So, Colonel—I’ll let you pay for the meal, my cigars, and that one drink of whiskey. It appears I’ve still got some more scouting to do for you tonight.”

Long after Robert Strahorn left with Mills that morning, the fog remained so thick the captain repeatedly put his compass to use, keeping Grouard leading them a little west of south.

Near late morning they stumbled across a trail of lodgepoles and pony tracks in the mud so fresh that Donegan and the half-breed found horse droppings still steaming in the frosty air. At once Mills grew alarmed.

“Lieutenant Chase,” the captain called. “You’re to divide off half the men.”

“Separate, sir?”

“Yes,” Mills replied, looking off into the murky distance where the enemy’s muddy trail led. “I want to be sure some of us reach the mining towns—someone brings supplies back to the column.”

Chase straightened in the saddle. “Where do you want me to go, Colonel?”

“You’re going to be my ace in the hole, Mr. Chase. I want you to take half of the men with you and ride south by east, ready to keep on moving around the foot of the Black Hills if I’m attacked and can’t complete my mission.”

“East of the Black Hills,” Chase repeated. “And then where?”