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

Some time after supper that evening, Donegan made his way to the leadership fire. In that ring of cheery light he recognized a few familiar faces, then carefully measured the back of a tall officer who was talking and laughing with Captain Randall.

Seamus stepped up and said, “General Mackenzie?”

The handsome soldier turned. “Yes?”

Holding out his hand, Donegan pressed on. “You probably don’t remember me, but—”

“Irishman!” Mackenzie bellowed, grabbing Donegan’s hand and pumping it vigorously with his own right hand that was missing some fingers. “By glory—I sure as hell do remember you!”

Proud and startled at the same time, Seamus said, “I wasn’t sure you would, General.”

The colonel put his hand to his cheek. “You don’t look quite the same as you did.”

Touching his own cheek, Seamus said, “Oh, this? With winter coming it won’t be long and I’ll have that full beard back what I wore that campaign down on the Staked Plain.”

“You might look a bit older—but we all do! I can’t believe you’d think for one minute I wouldn’t remember you and that time we pitched down the sheer cliff into the Palo Duro to catch the Kwahadi napping.”*

Crook got to his feet and came to stand at the taller Mackenzie’s shoulder. “You mean this reprobate really was with you when you flushed Quanah Parker’s Comanche into that miserable winter?”

“When we butchered more than fourteen hundred of their ponies,” the colonel replied.

“Settlers down that way in the Panhandle talked about that for a long time after,” Donegan said as the four correspondents crowded up to listen in.

Mackenzie asked, “So what are you doing here? When did you show up?”

“This evening, with General Crook, sir.”

Mackenzie glanced at his superior. “Do you have Donegan serving you as a scout?”

With a nod the general answered, “From time to time he’s made himself quite valuable. Quite valuable—all the way back to the mess Reynolds made of things on the Powder River last March. Yes, this Irishman’s served me admirably.”

“I should say, General,” Mackenzie replied, gazing at the Irishman. “You sure have covered some ground, Donegan.”

“I have at that, and haven’t seen my wife since May.”

“A wife, is it?” Mackenzie roared. “Well, now—when did you decide to settle down?”

“Not long after you convinced Parker to come in, General,” Seamus answered. “In many ways, though, it seems like it’s been ages. Feels even longer since I’ve seen her.”

Mackenzie said, “And where is she while you’re out scouting for General Crook here?”

“Waiting for me at Laramie.”

“By glory! You’re no more than a good day’s ride from her now, Irishman. I envy you, I do. Getting to see her by tomorrow.”

Donegan nodded eagerly. “I can’t wait to see how she’s … well, how big she’s grown. She’s carrying … er, we’re expecting our first child, General.”

“What, ho! Not only do I learn that you’ve married and settled down—but you’re going to be a family man now!” Mackenzie turned to one of his staff officers. “Lieutenant Otis! Bring me that flask of mine. This truly is a cause for celebration and at least one stout toast all around to this father-to-be!”

Then Ranald Mackenzie turned back to slap a hand on Donegan’s shoulder in that frosty air beside a merry fire. “Who would have thought—Irishman! That I’d go and find one of the finest white scouts ever there was who led my Fourth into battle.”

H. G. Otis came back and handed the colonel his flask of German silver. Taking loose the cap, Mackenzie promptly began to pour a dribble into every one of those cups that suddenly made their clattering appearance out of nowhere.

“Hear, hear, gentlemen!” Mackenzie roared. “To Seamus Donegan! Let’s drink to the Irishman! By Neptune’s beard, let’s all drink to one of the finest scouts it’s been my pleasure to follow into battle!”

Samantha saw Martha Luhn dashing across the parade with a bundle of newspapers under her arm, waving one of them as she shouted, disturbing the peaceful quiet of that Sunday morning right as most of the officers’ wives were gathering on the front porch of Old Bedlam. It was warm and sunny there, a pretty place to wait until the time came when they all walked over for church together.

In an instant women pressed against the whitewashed porch banister, crowded on the steps, every one of them listening as Lieutenant Gerhard Luhn’s wife hurried their way chattering nonstop, her skirts and petticoats billowing about her ankles like a rush of foam.

“It’s true! It’s true!” she shouted as she burst past the flagpole.

Now Samantha could make out Mrs. Luhn’s words.

“They did capture a village!”

“I told you,” Elizabeth Burt declared self-assuredly, moving down to the first step. “When that rumor first got here to us—I told you there was truth to it!”