“I told that liveryman to lemme have the best horse he had—but he said his best horse went with Crawford. So I grabbed up that bastard by the front of his coat and told him he better bring up the next-best horse or he’d be bleeding out of more holes than he figured possible.”
“You get yourself a good horse?” Burt asked.
“Yep. I ended up riding that horse into the ground too,” Frank replied. “But before I left, I told the stable man to get that animal bellied up on oats and saddled. I’d be back, just as soon as I had a local fella, Mart Gibbens, take me over to the bank and fetch me five hunnert dollars on the general’s authorization order.” He patted his breast pocket, then leaned back in his chair as he took another swig on his beer.
Wessels asked, “You got your money, right?”
With a nod Grouard continued. “Climbed into the saddle, tugged my hat down tight, and asked Gibbens what time it was. He told me it was ten-thirty. I didn’t say another word. Instead I leaned down low against that horse’s ear, whispering to him that I wanted all the bottom he had—then whipped that son of a big buck right down Deadwood’s main street to beat the band that bright morning. Figuring then and there it was going to be one ugly ride to reach the telegraph at Fort Laramie—two hunnert miles off as the crow flies.”
Grouard went on to enthrall his listeners as he worked into his story as a man would work up a thick, soapy lather conditioning his saddle or bridle. Explaining that Crawford already had a good jump on him—what with leaving Crook City that evening of 12 September while Grouard slept—Frank said he soon realized there should be soldiers at two places on the Black Hills Road between Deadwood and Laramie. One place or the other he figured he might convince an officer to send a fresh courier on with Crook’s messages.
“So how far that first horse get you?” Donegan asked.
“Figure it was something on the order of twenty-five miles,” Frank said as Bourke gathered up the empty mugs with a clatter after setting down some full ones. “Damn if he didn’t give out about five hunnert yards from a road ranch. Packed my saddle and all in by foot from there.”
“So did you buy a horse from the ranchkeeper?” Bourke inquired.
With a shrug of no little importance, Grouard replied, “There was three horses out front, all tied up when I walked in there. Looked ’em all over before I decided on the likeliest one. Was starting to throw my saddle on him when the ranch man comes out hollering, asking me what the hell I thought I was doing.”
“He have a gun pulled on you?”
“No, didn’t have a gun on him what I could see—but I figured there had to be at least one gun inside pointed my way. Tried to tell the fella I was riding dispatches for General Crook, even pulled out my orders to show him—then tightened the cinch on the horse, asking him how much he wanted for the gelding. Man said he wouldn’t sell it, but he did want to do what he could for Crook and his soldiers—so he told me to give him fifteen dollars for the use, then see that the horse got back to him.”
Burt asked, “Did you get that horse back to the man?”
After another swig of the warm beer, Frank said, “That’un dropped dead under me too. By the time I reached the next road ranch.”
“Sweet Mither of God! How many horses you kill on that race?” Donegan asked, his eyes bouncing back to the doorway.
“Killed three of ’em. And the other three I used up so bad, they ain’t worth a damn no more,” Frank grumbled sourly. “Damn shameful thing to do to good horseflesh too. Goddamn that Crawford anyway.”
“What was he doing at this time?” Bourke asked.
“S’pose he was staying just ahead of me … leastwise through those first four horses I gone and run into the ground.”
“When did you finally catch up to him?” Wessels asked.
“First I had to knock a big German off his horse,” Frank boasted.
Walter Schuyler clapped with excitement. “By damn! Tell us about that part!”
“Seems that next-to-last horse I rode was all but done in. For as far as I could see ahead of me, wasn’t a ranch in that piece of country. Horse under me was in a bad way, about to give out when I spotted a rider coming around the hill toward me on the road. I got down right there while he was coming up on me, pulled my saddle off, and let my horse go just before the rider reached me. I grabbed hold of his bridle and told him I wanted his horse. He was a big-boned German, that one was, likely could come close to making two of me—but he didn’t have a gun on him that I could see.”
“Did he make trouble for you?”
Frank nodded with a dour chuckle. “I reached right up under his leg, loosing the cinch as he goes to squalling—telling me I can’t have his goddamned horse and cussing me two ways of Sunday. Told him I had to have it, and why. ‘Bout then I needed him off the horse so I could set my saddle on—so I pulled him right off into the road. He started for me, so I finally had to pull my belt gun and hold it on him. All the time I was putting my saddle on, I was telling him I’d pay him for the animal. But he kept on telling me he wasn’t going to sell him. Over and over he said I’d hang for horse stealing. So I told him I’d hire the goddamned horse out. How much did he want—but he’d none of that neither.”
Andy Burt asked, “You end up just riding off?”
“Was near to it when he saw that I was about to,” Frank replied. “Told him one last time he had that last chance to get his money before I was gone. Guess he figured that was that, so he said he’d sell for eighty dollars. I throwed him his money right there in the middle of that Laramie Road and kicked that horse in the ribs. It took off something smart.”
“Eighty dollars for a horse?” Burt exclaimed.
“So did you end up with a eighty-dollar horse?” Seamus inquired.
Frank smiled. “That was no eighty-dollar horse. Irishman. Worth much more’n that. I’ll tell you, boys: that was the best bargain I ever made for a horse. Son of a bitch had more bottom in him than any horse I can remember,” he said with undisguised admiration.
“So when did you catch up with Crawford?” Wessels asked.
“Less’n five miles after I got on top of that German’s horse,” Grouard answered. “Come up on Captain Jack pretty quick then. His horse was all but winded.”
“What’d you say to him?” Bourke asked.
“First thing: I asked him if he remembered his orders to stay with Lieutenant Bubb. He looked sheepish at that, but all he said was he had dispatches to get through for the New York Herald.”
“That when you left him behind?” Donegan asked.
“Yep, but not before I told him he was no longer a army scout—from the moment he abandoned the column and disobeyed orders. I kept on with that German’s horse, reaching Custer City twenty minutes before three o’clock that day.”
Donegan whistled, looking around the table. “How far is that? Anyone know?”
Bourke shook his head and shrugged like the rest, while Wessels answered, “Just over a hundred miles.”
“In four hours and ten minutes?” Bourke exclaimed, his voice rising in surprise. “You bloody well did ride those horses into the ground, Grouard!”
“Damn near did my own self in too,” Frank added. “Had to be taken off that last horse when I reached Custer City. Couldn’t get off on my own.”
Burt asked, “What become of Crawford after you left him behind?”
“He limped on in on that crippled-up horse,” Frank said. “Found me having my supper that evening. We come to an understanding that we’d start the race again the next morning.”
“You figured you could trust him?” Bourke asked. “What with Davenport wagging all that money out in front of his nose?”