Although he knew not how God ever allowed one man to set himself against another.
It warmed him this morning, as he and Rowland caught up to the head of the column, to think on his mother again, now especially because he was a parent. Not really having known his father, knowing instead his uncles, who stepped into the breach to try helping raise their sister’s boys. Would Seamus’s own son come to know the feel of his father’s hand at his back when something frightened the youngster, that reassuring touch to let the child know his father was there? Would the boy come to love stroking, pulling, yanking on his father’s beard in loving play? Oh, how he prayed he would have many, many more hours of holding that soft-skinned, sweet-breathed infant against his shoulder, singing the child to sleep with the low, vibrant words of ancient Gaelic melodies and the lowing rhythm of his heartbeat. How he wanted his son to know these things, and pass them on to his own children.
From a huge patch pocket in the mackinaw, Seamus pulled the small amber jar Ben Clark had given him last winter. With his teeth Donegan dragged off his thick mitten and stuffed it under an arm before putting the cork stopper between his teeth and taking it from the jar. Inside he always kept a good supply of bacon tallow. Dipping some on a finger, he lathered it all around his cracked, oozing lips and the inside of his cracked and inflamed nostrils. How it stung! His flesh cried out as he laid on a thick coating of the sticky fat, then licked the fingertip clean, put the jar away in that big pocket, and quickly pulled on his wool mitten.
All the while wondering if any man knew where his grave was going to be. Deciding the not knowing didn’t matter when a man’s time finally arrived.
After an hour on the trail north from the Powder the order came, “Dismount!”
They were going to save what they could of the horses’ strength—especially now that Crook had some idea of where a village was and Mackenzie’s cavalry must be ready.
The soldiers in those eleven troops made no attempt to come out of the saddle as one. This was not parade drill, nor retiring the colors. A few hundred cold, bone-weary men who were anxious for action, ordered to walk beside their mounts for the next half hour until they would be ordered back into the saddle. Such walking by the troopers saved some reservoir of strength in the animals, besides helping the men stay warmer with the exertion as they trudged through the ankle-deep snow beneath the scummy clouds that lowered off the Big Horns.
Away to the northeast herds of buffalo dotted the prairie in black patches against the bleak white landscape, grazing in sight for the rest of the afternoon. Up and down throughout the remainder of the march they cut a swath through the stretch of monochrome and desolate country that took them ever nearer the foot of the Big Horn Mountains. That bitterly cold twenty-second day of November Crook had them cover all of twenty-eight miles of tortuous, bleak prairie travel before making camp on the banks of the Crazy Woman Fork. Common legend held that the creek earned its name from a crazed woman who had lived by herself on its banks for many years before dying about 1850. However, the English equivalent of “crazy” never had translated to mean true madness as much as it signified sexual promiscuity. It was likely the woman had been cast out of her village for her lascivious activity—a theory much more fitting the Cheyenne belief in the value of a woman’s virtue.
Cloud Peak rose in the distance, just under a hundred miles off, its helmet at times peeking from the top of the wispy white clouds that brushed across the painfully blue sky … before it began to snow again.
Through sandy ravines and across cactus-covered hillsides the expedition plodded on until late afternoon. As the last of Wagon Master John B. Sharpe’s teamsters were jangling in, the pickets to the northwest spotted a solitary rider appear atop a knoll carrying a white flag. Crook sent out a party to bring in the horseman.
Seamus joined the small crowd who gathered to listen as Frank Grouard interpreted.
“Says his name is Sitting Bear. From what I can tell, he’s come up from the Red Cloud Agency—sent by the soldier chief down there to talk the warrior bands into surrendering and coming back to the reservation,” Frank explained. “Not far north of here he says he ran into those five lodges the Cheyenne boy come from.”
“Are they running?” Crook asked.
“Going north, just like that Cheyenne boy figured they would.”
Crook mumbled his great disappointment under his breath.
Grouard continued. “Sitting Bear talked to ’em but they wasn’t about to turn around and head into the agency now. They’re scared—and hightailing it for Crazy Horse’s bunch.”
“To warn them?” Crook squeaked.
“You can count on it,” Frank replied. “That pretty much ruins your surprise on Crazy Horse, don’t it?”
Crook’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the broad smile on Grouard’s face. “What the hell’s so funny to you, half-breed? I thought you wanted Crazy Horse as much as me.”
“Oh, I guess I do, General,” Grouard said. “But there ain’t a chance of us catching him now, is there?”
“Not if those Cheyenne are going to warn his Oglalla.” Crook stood pulling at one end of his beard, then another.
“How’d you like some good news from this here Sitting Bear fella?” Frank spilled it.
The general cracked a smile. “Why, you devious bastard! That’s why you’re smiling. But—if Crazy Horse is going to slip away before I can get there, what good news could you possibly have for me?”
“How about a village of Cheyenne dropping in your lap?”
“Cheyenne, you say?” Crook asked, taking a step closer.
“The biggest damned village the Cheyenne had together in a long, long time,” Frank exclaimed. “Sitting Bear’s been there—claims that village got more Cheyenne in it than they had when they camped alongside the Lakota and Custer marched down on ’em all at the Greasy Grass.”
Crook whirled about, pounding a clenched fist into his open left palm, a fire igniting his eyes. “Bourke! Goddammit, Bourke—move! Get me Mackenzie! Get Mackenzie here on the double!”
Just before sunrise Crook sent out a large party of his Indian allies—each man selected for his expert knowledge of the surrounding countryside—to follow the Crazy Woman upstream into the mountains, searching for any sign of the enemy village estimated to be no more than forty-five miles away. With the scouts went a small command of soldiers under First Lieutenant Henry W. Lawton, Quartermaster of Mackenzie’s Fourth, charged with preparing the stream and ravine crossings for the attack march.
As soon as there was enough light to work that morning of the twenty-third, the packers and the cavalry set about the task of unloading Sharpe’s wagons and packing all the rations and ammunition that would soon be hoisted onto the backs of Tom Moore’s mules. While Mackenzie’s cavalry would soon strike out to follow the trail the scouts had taken into the mountains that morning, Crook himself had decided to remain behind with Teddy Egan’s K Troop of the Second Cavalry which would be engaged as provost guard at headquarters and employed as couriers, along with Dodge’s infantry and artillery and any men on sick call, all of them charged with protecting Captain Furey’s wagon train, which would remain corralled right where it was until such time as Mackenzie called them up for support.
That morning Mackenzie grew bitterly disgusted with the glee shown by those soldiers who were to be left behind at the Crazy Woman.
At the same time, he was clearly worried. Like the general, Ranald Mackenzie feared most that the enemy would surrender without a fight. As John Bourke had put it during last night’s officers’ meeting, “A fight is desirable to atone and compensate for our trials, hardships, and dangers for more than eight months.”