Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869

by Terry C. Johnston

  “That’s a piece of country,” trader Wood told O’Neill as he leaned over the bar in his place, lazily watching the big mulatto suck at a warm beer. “Wouldn’t recommend any man riding in there alone. You riding alone, mister?”

  O’Neill nodded, enjoying the caress of the ale on his tongue and the back of his throat, parched as it was.

  “That bunch coming back here when they’re done?”

  “Not if they can help it.” Wood laughed. A few others down the bar laughed with him, then went back to their own drinks. “They’ll head home, likely.”

  “Home,” he said quietly. “Where is that?”

  “McPherson, of course.”

  “Yes, McPherson. The best way I’d get there?”

  “Just stay on the South Platte—all the way,” Wood answered. “You won’t miss it.”

  “They’ll be going back there, you say?”

  Wood smiled genuinely. “Got to now. Colonel and lieutenant colonel of the whole damned regiment showed up there, from what I’ve heard. If nothing else, them boys’ll come in to reoutfit and rotate units.”

  “Their scouts too?”

  “Yeah, I suppose the scouts come back in with the unit,” Wood replied. “You fixing on hiring on?”

  He regarded his beer. “Might do that. Who’s the leader of the bunch?”

  “Chief of scouts is a fella named Cody. Rides a fast horse and likes to wager on it.”

  “Gimme another,” the mulatto said, pushing his chipped mug toward the barkeeper. When Wood brought the mug back and set it in front of O’Neill, Jack asked, “You ever run into a tall, gray-eyed man riding with this Cody’s bunch?”

  Wood stood back and with a smile winked at some of the other patrons. “Run into him? I’ll say. That’s the drinkenest, hell-roaringest Irish sonuvabitch I’ll ever know!”

  “Irish?”

  “And his brogue gets thicker the more he’s in the cups!” Wood cheered.

  “This Irishman have a name, mister?”

  “Surely do, and one I’ll not soon forget. Donegan, it is. Seamus Donegan is that lucky bastard’s name.”

  Chapter 31

  August–September 1869

  “Listen to this, Seamus,” Bill Cody said as he loped up, coming across the Fort McPherson parade, a flimsy paper in one hand, an envelope in the other.

  “You got mail?”

  “It’s from Lulu,” he replied, excited, a vision of her shimmering before him. Cody self-consciously scratched at his bantam tuft of chin whiskers. “She … never really liked my beard, Seamus.”

  Donegan cocked his head this way, then cocked it that. “It looks awful good to me, Bill.”

  “You’d say that—because you got one just like it.” He pressed the letter into the Irishman’s hands. “Tell me what you think of it … smell it, by damn!”

  It was late on the afternoon of 22 August. Major William Royall was reporting to regimental commander Colonel William H. Emory. The companies just in from the field had quickly handed their weary mounts over to the livery sergeant then turned out for mail-call. There was as much excitement as there was relief in the air. The regiment had not been back to their duty station for many weeks.

  Seamus took the small page and envelope between his fingers. It had been a long, long time since feeling such fine paper.

  “I said smell it.”

  Donegan did, drinking in the perfume long and deep. “My, but your Mrs. Cody uses a memorable fragrance, Bill.”

  “That’s enough smelling now,” he said, grabbing for the letter.

  “What’s she say?”

  Cody studied the tall man’s gray eyes a moment. “I … I’m sorry, Seamus. Damn, it was thoughtless of me to do that—showing you this letter, and you didn’t get any mail.”

  “No one really to write to me. Not like you with Louisa and your daughter—”

  “I apologize for making you feel bad,” Cody said, touching the Irishman’s arm.

  Seamus smiled. “Let me share the letter with you. Pretend that she’s writing it to me as well.”

  “She knows of you.”

  “How?”

  “I told her of you last spring when I was east, you addle-brain idjit.”

  “You didn’t tell her everything, did you?”

  “About our beer heist with Hickok? God, no! Louisa is one straight-lace. Comes from quite the stiff-necked family.”

  “And you—Bill Cody, you just like to have fun.”

  He smiled back at Seamus. “Damn right.” Some of the smile disappeared. “Glory, but I don’t know how to feel: wanting her to be out here to share this place with me. The other part of me not wanting her to come out here with her disapproving gaze and the way she punishes me for misbehaving.”

  “Sounds like Louisa knows you well enough, Cody.”

  He finally snorted a chuckle. “Yeah, Lulu knows me. Damn, but I do miss her—trouble or no trouble that she causes me.”

  “When she coming out?”

  “She wrote this more than two weeks back. Today being the twenty-second … means she and Arta are already on their way.”

  “Coming here? To McPherson?”

  “Yes!”

  “Where is she going to stay?”

  His brow knitted up, his eyes darting like hummingbirds looking for a roost. “The cabin Emory’s building for me isn’t ready yet, Seamus.” He was suddenly frantic. “What am I going to do?”

  “Wait, hold on—we’ll think of something.”

  “I can’t have her sleeping on the goddamned ground, Seamus—she’s … she’s not made like that.”

  “Hold it—what about your friend, the sutler?”

  “Bill McDonald?”

  “Yes—doesn’t he have a room he can let you use for a few weeks.”

  “Yes! Until the cabin’s finished for us. They’ve started putting it up nearby McDonald’s place … just past the last of the post buildings, down by his store. Splendid idea, Irishman!”

  “Now that you have your mail—suppose we see about getting Donegan his whiskey. At least some ale, what say?”

  Cody quickly stuffed the letter in the envelope, and it inside his shirt, nodding. “Yes, by God. We have much to celebrate.”

  “Home station at last, Cody. Where we won’t have to worry about any bleeming Injins lifting our hair.”

  * * *

  “You know any of ’em, Seamus?”

  “It’s been four years—the whole outfit’s changed,” Donegan answered as two companies of the Second Cavalry on detached service filed into parade formation. “Even Duncan’s changed outfits. He was breveted brigadier general of the Second at the end of the war—and now in the Indian-fighting army, he’s lieutenant colonel of the Fifth.”

  “Everything’s different these days,” Cody said, scratching his beard.

  “I learned that lesson the hard way during the war,” Seamus said. “You don’t count too hard on anything or anybody—you won’t get let down.”

  “C’mon, now—you sound like a sour apple, Irishman.”

  “You got room to talk, Cody.” He looked over at Louisa and Arta standing across the parade, waving their handkerchiefs in farewell at Bill. “There’s people who are here to see you go—folks who can’t wait for you to get back.”

  “The leaving’s hard enough, Seamus. Nothing or nobody can make it easy,” he said.

  In shutting off all further discussion on the subject, Cody signaled his handful of civilian scouts to fall in behind Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Duncan’s four companies of the Fifth and three companies of the Second. Major Frank North’s Pawnee trackers would bring up the rear of this march moving out of Fort McPherson, 15 September. Like old times, brother Luther rode along as well. Frank had talked young Lute into signing another commission with the battalion for this foray against the Sioux. With the Cheyenne all but driven from the central plains by their defeat at Summit Springs, Phil Sheridan’s army had turned its attention on the Lakota bands still roaming
south of the Black Hills of Dakota.

  The first morning out from McPherson, Duncan strolled up to the civilians with his adjutant and orderly in tow. He saluted smartly and came to a halt, presenting his hand.

  “I don’t recall if we’ve been properly introduced or not, Mr. Cody.”

  “We haven’t, General. This tall fella look familiar to you?” Bill asked, seeing Donegan’s eyes suddenly narrow.

  Duncan looked the Irishman over carefully but quickly. “Don’t recall—”

  “He served with you in the war, General.”

  Duncan regarded Donegan even more closely. Which made Seamus feel like apologizing for Cody’s bluntness.

  “Lots of fellas rode with General Duncan, Bill,” Seamus said quietly.

  “What outfit, mister?”

  He held out his hand and they shook. “Donegan. Seamus Donegan. Rode with the Second Cavalry.”

  Duncan smiled. “Ah, now there were some riding sonsabitches from Hell.”

  Cody glanced at Seamus, finding him smiling just as big as Duncan.

  The lieutenant colonel stepped closer. “Have you joined the Grand Army yet?”

  “Beg pardon, General?”

  “The G.A.R.—Grand Army of the Republic. Chapters are being chartered everywhere among Union veterans. Surely you’ll join our group when we return to McPherson, Mr. Donegan.”

  He nodded. “I’ll give it some thought, General. Don’t know—”

  “It’ll give us a chance to talk about those campaigns against the butternut boys, Irishman.” His eyes went lidded suddenly. “Why are you in this attire as a civilian? Haven’t you joined regular army in all this time?”

  “No, sir. I haven’t—”

  “Seamus here fought up the Bozeman at Fort Phil Kearny* and the next summer at C. F. Smith in the hayfield.† A year ago he was riding with Forsyth’s rangers.”

  Duncan’s scowl disappeared, replaced by a cheerful countenance. He landed a chubby hand on the Irishman’s shoulder. “Seems you’ve still got the knack, Donegan.”

  “Knack, sir?”

  “Just like us in the Shenandoah—remember? Always where the action was the hottest. And you, despite these worn and patched rags you wear instead of army blue—still have the knack for being in the right place at just the right time.”

  “Seamus might disagree with you about that, General.”

  “What say we get to know one another better before we put this unit on the march, gentlemen. I came over here this morning with the idea of challenging the great Buffalo Bill Cody to a shooting match.”

  “A shooting match?” Cody asked.

  “And not only do I have the renowned Buffalo Bill, but I’ve got this veteran of my old outfit here to shoot against as well. What say you, Irishman?”

  Seamus glanced at Bill. “I’m game. You’ll shoot too, Bill?”

  Cody hemmed and hawed a moment, clearing his throat. “Truth is, General—I’m embarrassed for leaving my rifle behind.”

  “You left it behind?” Donegan asked laughing.

  “All that in leaving Lulu behind … I … it’s hard enough to explain.”

  “Do you remember where you left it?”

  “Yes, General—as near as I can recollect. Night before we pulled out, I was in McDonald’s store with Major Brown.”

  Duncan turned to the officer. “Major Brown—evidently you had something to do with Cody here leaving his rifle behind at McDonald’s store. Dispatch two riders to return to the fort and retrieve Mr. Cody’s hunting weapon.”

  “Yes, sir, General,” Brown replied, beginning to go.

  “And, Major—since you’re responsible for our scout’s lapse of memory while you were both in the cups—I want you to loan Mr. Cody your rifle for our shooting match.”

  The marks were set at fifty, seventy-five and a hundred yards out against the side of a low sand-hill. Seamus used the Henry at the first two marks, but dragged the Spencer out of his saddle boot for the last mark. After the first try at the hundred-yard marks, there were only four competitors left among Duncan’s staff and the three civilians. One miss and a man was out. Duncan, Cody, Donegan and a white scout by the name of John Y. Nelson waited a few moments while the morning breeze died before resuming their match.

  “He’s either damned good,” Cody whispered in Donegan’s ear while Duncan toed the line. “Or he’s damned lucky.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You might once consider losing to make the man happy,” Seamus replied.

  “You want me to throw the match?”

  “What sweat is it off your balls, Cody? You can always say the reason you lost was you weren’t shooting with your own gun.”

  “Yeah,” he said quietly, the thought congealing in his troubled mind.

  “And besides—you’ll make Duncan one happy officer.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Cody!” Duncan hollered a few yards off. “Your shot. Seems I just nicked the mark. You hit it square … well then, you’re the better shot.”

  Cody stepped to the line Duncan had boot-heeled across the sand, licked a thumb and rubbed it over the front blade before shouldering Brown’s Spencer carbine. He took a breath, let half of it out when he heard Donegan clearing his throat behind him. The Irishman coughed again, louder.

  “You fighting a bit of a frog this morning, Mr. Donegan?” asked Duncan.

  The Irishman bowed his head sheepishly. “No, sir. Nothing like that at all.”

  Cody pulled the trigger and missed.

  “Damn luck of it all,” Duncan said happily, stomping up in that jolly, blustering way of his, pounding the scout on the back. “What with rest of these others out of the way—it came down just the way I wanted it when I came ’round this morning: you and me, Cody. Duncan and the great Buffalo Bill—and I beat you, by grace.”

  “Yes, sir—fair and square too.”

  Duncan grinned, squinting slightly in the growing light at the tall, blond scout. “Yes, perhaps. I’d like to think I did, Mr. Cody.”

  “Call me Bill.”

  “Bill, yes. I’d like more than anything to tell my grandchildren that of a time I outshot the great Buffalo Bill Cody.”

  * * *

  “You just missed ’em, mister.”

  Jack O’Neill stood there in McDonald’s store, staring at the civilian behind the bar. “They’re not here? When’d they pull out?”

  “Yesterday. Can’t be that hard to catch up with ’em—you want to bad enough.”

  The mulatto’s mind was awash with disappointment and yearning, after all these miles and all the days of sensing he was drawing closer and closer to his prey. He swiped at his nose then pulled out his last ten-dollar gold piece.

  “Single eagle,” commented William Reed, McDonald’s clerk from behind the bar. “What can I do for that ten dollars?”

  “Start by getting me something hot to eat and plenty of it. And bring me a bottle of something cheap and strong.”

  “Decided not to follow Duncan’s column, eh?”

  “They’ll be back here, won’t they?”

  “All in good time, mister.”

  O’Neill smiled. “I’ll wait. Maybe head over to North Platte. Find me something to do until that bunch gets back.”

  Reed nodded, turning back to the bar with a tin bowl full of steaming beans and a side of pork-fat. He cleaved off a healthy chunk of brown bread and laid it in the thick juice that raised a fragrant aroma to O’Neill’s nose.

  “Here you go.”

  “And the whiskey?” O’Neill asked, heading for a small table off in the corner by itself.

  Reed brought over a bottle and glass. “Big fella like you won’t have a problem finding work in North Platte. If you’re of a mind to make some money while you’re waiting for Duncan to come back in.”

  O’Neill smiled, stuffing beans into his mouth and tearing off a hunk of bread between his teeth. “Yeah, I’ll just do that. Something to tide me over while I’m waiting for ’em come ri
ding back home.”

  Chapter 32

  September 26, 1869

  Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Duncan marched his cavalry south to Medicine Lake Creek, then followed the stream down to the Republican River. It was there he established a base camp and sent out the first of the scouting parties he ordered to scour the countryside, both upstream and down.

  While hunting parties from the main camp hunted among the buffalo herds to augment their daily rations, Pawnee and civilian scouts explored the territory as far south and east as the Solomon, west all the way to Fort Wallace country—intent on finding some sign of the Sioux following Pawnee Killer and Whistler.

  Bill Cody sighed deeply, drinking in the chill air of a morning found on the plains in early autumn. At times such as these, that air proved every bit like an elixir. A tonic for anything that could possibly ail a man.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Major Frank North said as he came to a halt on the crest of the hill beside Cody.

  “I remember some younger days spent down there along the Prairie Dog,” Cody said wistfully. “Spent a long winter and early spring running a trap line along that creek with a fella named Dave Harrington.”

  “I knew you rode mail express across these plains,” North replied. “But I never knew you trapped out here. You’re a man of many facets, Bill Cody.”

  He smiled. “Man does what a man has to—so he can survive, running out his days.”

  “Seems you’ve always done what you wanted to, though.”

  “Agree with you there, Major. No sense in a man wasting his time being unhappy with what he’s doing. Time’s too damned short to carry a chip on my shoulder the way your brother does.”

  North sighed, staring into the distance. “I figure that’s a big part of what has made Lute carry that grudge for you—he’s never been truly happy standing in my shadow.”

  “Why doesn’t he go off and do something all his own?”

  North wagged his head. “Don’t figure it, Bill. In his own way, Lute’s always been his own man. But he doesn’t see things like you and me.”

  “I’ve done my best to stay out of his way.”

  “He won’t ever do you physical harm, Bill. Lute isn’t made that way. He’s just one to nurse a grudge till it’s real sore—and he’ll nurse it all his life.”