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

“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?”