“F-for me?” he stammered, aghast as he took the small box in his big right hand, then swallowed. Caught speechless, stunned by the suddenness of this surprise.
For a moment Seamus gazed down at the boy lying across his left arm, looking up at his father.
“Here, let me take him, Seamus,” Sam said, lifting Colin from her husband’s arm.
The baby whimpered as soon as his mother put him to her shoulder. Samantha turned Colin around so that he could watch his father tug at the ends of the yarn bows she had carefully tied around the package. For now the infant seemed content, staring at the tall gray-eyed man about to set off for Indian country once more. Although a stranger to his son in many ways, Seamus nonetheless believed that in some unfathomable measure the boy did know him as his father.
Stuffing the strands of multicolored yarn into the left pocket of his heavy canvas-and-blanket mackinaw, the Irishman yanked the paper off and crumpled it in the pocket too. Then he raised the lid of the small box. Inside lay shreds of hemp packing material, the sort that cushioned rifles and pistols shipped from the eastern states to this far western frontier.
His hands came to a rest and he looked up at her. “What is this you’ve done?”
“You’ve got to find out for yourself, Seamus,” she replied, lightly bouncing Colin in her arms as he fussed.
“Where’d you get—”
“From Collins!” she shrieked with exasperation. “Will you look at your gift, for God’s sake!”
“All right, all right!” he soothed then chuckled as he stroked her cheek with his fingertips. “You’ve caught me flatfooted, you know that—don’t you, woman?”
She dragged a finger beneath a teary eye and said, “See what we’ve given you.”
“We, is it now?” he replied, starting to push aside some of that coarse hemp packing, much of it tumbling out of the small box to the porch planks below. “Colin had a hand in this, you’re saying?”
“Yes, he did,” she replied, then bent her head to plant a kiss on the boy’s short, soft hair tossing in the cold breeze.
“Oh … Sam,” he croaked, unable to shove any more sound from his throat.
“You like it?” she whispered, peering into the box with him. “You really, really like it?”
Seamus snagged his free arm around them both and crushed her against him for a moment. In her ear he said, “I love you so.”
Then he stepped back, winking at the boy who gazed up at his father with wide eyes filled with awe.
Carefully lifting the big pocket watch from its cradle of packing hemp, Seamus found a sixteen-inch silver chain hooked to the watch ring. At the end of the chain hung a small key.
As he inspected the key, she explained in a hurried gush, “It’s to wind the watch. To set it too. Don’t lose that key. You might need to wind it this morning. Wind it now before you go—”
“I’ve never owned a watch before,” he interrupted her quietly, gazing into her eyes. “But … how did you buy it from Collins?”
“Your wife’s set some money back since last summer’s campaign,” Samantha declared proudly. “A few pennies here, a few pennies there—”
“And you’ve never done without?”
“Only without you, Seamus,” and she pressed her cheek against the front of his coat.
He clutched her to him again, looking down at the face of the watch, reading the tiny words: Elgin Nat’l. Watch Co.
“Collins gave me a good price on it.”
“He should have,” Seamus grumbled, “as much as we’ve supported him lately.”
“It’s two years old, he told me,” Sam continued.
“Don’t matter none to me that it’s used.”
“Oh, no—it’s not used,” she explained, wagging her head. “Just that it was made in 1874. It’s brand new. Only come out here recently.”
Suspending the shiny silver watch from a few inches of its chain, Donegan turned it round and round for the boy who reached out to touch its glittering surface.
“You don’t recognize it, do you?” she asked.
“Is it—”
“It’s the one Collins told me you’ve been eyeing ever since you came back from the Yellowstone,” Samantha admitted.
“He told you, did he?” Donegan replied. “Collins shouldn’t have told you. Man don’t really need a watch where I’m going—”
“If my husband wants something special for himself, then I’ll get it for him, by damned!” she shut him up.
“Samantha Donegan!” he chided. “You, cursing, right here in front of our—”
“As if he won’t hear the very same from your lips—and likely worse!”
He bent his head and kissed her long, surprising Sam at first—her mouth going slack before she kissed him back hungrily. Then he planted a kiss on the boy’s cheek and before Colin, pressed his lips against Samantha’s again.
“I’ll think of your beautiful face every time I look at this watch’s face in the days to come,” he told her, feeling the salty sting betray his eyes.
Moving one step closer to press against him, Sam said, “When you put the watch to your ear and listen, Seamus, I want you to think of the beating of my heart. How it sounds when you lay your ear on my breast.”
His vision was getting fuzzy as he croaked, “And all those stars I’ll see up there in the sky each night when I make my camp … I’ll remember how your eyes sparkle at this moment.”
Donegan looked down at that watch again now even though the light had grown so dim he could barely read the narrow hands. It didn’t really matter what time it was. He had been in the saddle before sunup every day and hadn’t made his cold camp until after sunset, for better than two weeks now. Gone from Laramie sixteen days and the aching for the two of them hadn’t lessened.
Down the dark slope below him lay the Tongue.
He figured if the horses could find their footing, he’d ride on into the night as long as they had the strength. Then he’d find a place to lay out the day when the horizon started to gray. He hadn’t seen much sign of the warrior bands. No fresh trails, no columns of smoke, no restless or stampeding buffalo herds … but this was Indian country after all. Had been Indian country ever since he crossed the Powder.
He was plunging into the bloody maw once more.
Seamus kissed the face of the watch, closing his eyes and conjuring up her face. He squeezed the watch fiercely, then stuffed it back into that pocket sewn inside his mackinaw as the breeze stiffened with twilight’s approach. He would hold onto as many pieces of her and the boy as he could through every day of this journey—what he prayed would be the last of this terrible war against the Lakota and Cheyenne.
Praying the eternal God would once again sustain this lonely, simple man and see him back to the bosom of his family.
Sustain him long enough to see this bloody war through one last fight.
BY TELEGRAPH
Dull Knife and His Band Surrender to Crook.
THE INDIANS.
Dull Knife’s Band Surrenders.
CAMP ROBINSON, Nebraska, April 21.—Eighty lodges of Cheyennes under Dull Knife and Standing Elk, surrendered to General Crook at 11 a.m. to-day. The village comprises about five hundred and fifty persons, eighty-five of whom are fighting men. They turned in six hundred ponies, sixty guns and about thirty pistols. They are completely destitute of all the necessaries of life, having lost everything when their village was destroyed in November last. They have no lodges, but simple shelters of old canvas and skins, very few blankets or robes and no cooking utensils. Many are still suffering from frozen limbs. It is surprising that they have been able to hold out so long under these circumstances, and their doing so proves the fortitude of the American Indian under privation and hardship. This makes about 780 Cheyennes who have surrendered here since the first of January. The latest advices represent Crazy Horse as still en-route for this agency.
As things turned out, it was a good thing that the half-breed hu
rried along after White Bull.
When the holy man leaped atop his pony and scampered away for that herd of the white man’s spotted buffalo, the soldiers standing guard on those animals couldn’t understand a word White Bull tried to say in his pidgin-English, and didn’t even comprehend any of the sign he made for them in his utter excitement to be off with those eighteen head.
Why, didn’t he wear the same uniform as those ve-ho-e soldiers!
Didn’t he say the white man’s words—Bear Coat—well enough in his imitation of the soldier’s tongue?
But the herd guards were growing visibly exasperated by the time Big Leggings rode up. The half-breed evidently explained everything well enough to the soldiers by the time he turned to White Bull and said, “Take your eighteen, holy man. And be sure to remind your people they are a gift from the soldier chief who will greet them tomorrow when they reach the fort.”
“Thank you, Big Leggings!” he roared, then urged his pony away toward the spotted buffalo.
In his enthusiasm and eagerness to be under way, it didn’t take White Bull long to cut eighteen of the animals from the rest and get them lumbering south toward the low hills. These creatures were dull-witted, he thought. Docile, easily herded. Not at all like the buffalo—a cantankerous, mercurial beast.
He wasn’t but four or five arrow-shots from the soldier camp when he heard horses coming up behind him. He was concerned the soldiers had come to reclaim their animals. Both the ve-ho-e who approached on his back-trail wore three chevron stripes across the sleeves of their blue jackets. White Bull thought those gold slashes were pretty, and wondered if the Bear Coat might give him some for his own uniform.
As the soldiers drew closer they slowed to match the plodding pace of the cattle, one reining off to the left, and the other flanking to the right. Both began shouting, whistling shrilly, slapping coils of rope against their legs, making as much noise as they could as they urged the animals along the trail. And Big Leggings wasn’t far behind them, coming up at a lope. He and these two soldiers ended up staying with White Bull for the rest of the afternoon, all three hollering at the creatures as if it were the most fun in the world. White Bull enjoyed yelling at the dumb animals too. Great fun—this white man way of yelling at stupid beasts.
Only when the first headmen leading the village procession came into view off in the distance did Big Leggings and the two soldiers leave their posts at the side of the herd and ride up to White Bull, all three shaking the holy man’s hand in turn.
“These ve-ho-e sure do put a lot of value on this matter of shaking hands,” he told Big Leggings when the half-breed held out his own to him.
“It is because you are a soldier like them now,” Big Leggings replied. “We see your people up the trail now. So we go back to the fort for the night.”
As soon as they had touched their soldier caps, the pair turned about and disappeared beyond the trees with the half-breed, all three riding for the fort.
White Bull didn’t think he would have any trouble getting these animals the rest of the way by himself.
“Nephew!” cried Black Moccasin from among those in the lead.
“Is that truly you, Uncle?” he called to the old man.
“Are you truly White Bull?” he yelled back. “I see a soldier, dressed in a soldier uniform!”
As he halted his pony beside that of Black Moccasin, White Bull said, “I am a soldier scout now. Didn’t the others tell you?”
“Yes,” he told his nephew as the spotted buffalo milled on either side of them. “I am very proud of you. But what are these creatures you are following?”
“These are gifts from the Bear Coat! Call up the young men,” White Bull turned aside to tell Crazy Head. “Get the hunters to take out their bows. They should kill these animals just the way our people kill buffalo!”
“This is a good place to camp,” Old Wolf declared. He waved his arm at Fast Whirlwind. “Tell our people to make camp here. Our hunters will kill these strange animals, and our women will butcher them as soon as the shelters are up.”
That evening White Bull sat with his relations near the center of that noisy camp beside the Buffalo Tongue River. It had been a long, long time since he had seen this much happiness in an Ohmeseheso village. Not since they had defeated the soldiers on the Little Sheep River. Even though some young warriors like his own son had been killed in that fight, there eventually was an unheralded celebration.
So when had the tribe’s unhappiness begun?
Not until the morning Three Finger Kenzie destroyed nearly everything the Shahiyela owned. Since that day, nearly five moons now, White Bull’s people had teetered on the brink of disaster, starvation, freezing to death. Five moons of growing despair: watching family and friends slowly die. With little game and no time to cure the hides, everyone dressed poorly. On and on they had limped through the winter in their tattered shreds of clothing. Their bellies pinched in hunger, their limbs blackened with frostbite, their wounds festering.
But for the first night in a long, long time, White Bull heard laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. There was drumming and singing that night, but it was the laughter that made the wings of his heart unfurl and take flight.
This was a good thing, he reminded himself. No more war now. Tomorrow they would surrender to the Bear Coat. These people would have enough to eat, enough blankets and tents and shelters. And the Ohmeseheso would have their own agency here in their own country. Not simply adopted orphans taken in on the Oglallas’ White River Agency.
This was the last night of true freedom—with the war behind them, with surrender yet to come. This was the last night of greatness for the Ohmeseheso.
“The sad days are behind us, Nephew,” Black Moccasin said as White Bull settled beside him at a fire in front of the Old Man Chief’s lodge. “Are you happy to again sleep among your own people tonight?”
“Yes,” he sighed, content in this one last moment for his people. “After so many, many nights, I am among my own again.”
“With the ve-ho-es’ meat, White Bull, you have brought these people happiness.”
“Look around you, Uncle,” he choked with sentiment. “Look at their faces. Not only are their bellies full tonight, but I think their hearts are full again too.”
Chapter 25
25 April 1877
“Tell them to raise their right hands,” Nelson Miles instructed Johnny Bruguier. “Have White Bull tell them they will swear on their honor just as he did weeks ago.”
He waited while the translations were made in that stuffy room with the door flung open wide to admit as much of the spring breeze as possible. His headquarters staff and a gaggle of Fifth and Twenty-second infantry officers stood with their backs pressed to the wall in that crowded office. More curious soldiers stood staring in at the open door, along with at least a half-dozen faces gathered at that solitary window.
Waving his arm at the eight others who had stayed behind at the post with White Bull to become scouts, Miles said, “All of them have already given their oath, Bruguier. Tell the warriors just in that, like these eight, they too will get their uniforms, weapons, and supplies when they have been properly sworn in.”
Again there were translations given, both in Cheyenne and in Lakota because Hump, his brother Horse Road, and a few of their relations were now standing among more than a dozen of Black Moccasin’s men, all of them volunteering to become the Bear Coat’s scouts.
Once the arms were all in the air, Miles snapped the crisp page of foolscap before him and cleared his throat. This was a truly momentous occasion. Weeks before he had sworn in White Bull and eight others as scouts. And here this afternoon, three days after they had formally surrendered to the army, thirty more had requested to be enlisted into the army.
“Rowland, Bruguier—tell them to repeat their names for me,” Miles instructed.
That took a few minutes in itself, but he waited patiently until the room fell quiet again.
“I do hereby acknowledge to have volunteered this twenty-fifth day of April 1877 at Tongue River Cantonment, Territory of Montana, to serve as auxiliary scout in the Army of the United States of America—” Miles wondered how in hell the half-breed and the squawman were going to translate auxiliary for the Sioux and Cheyenne, when neither man likely understand the term.
“Better you tell them this,” he explained when both interpreters’ brows knitted; it was plain enough now that they were having trouble with that word. “Just say: to serve as warrior scout in the Army of United States of America.”
And he waited while the two nodded, turned away, and continued their translations.
“For a period not to exceed six months,” he said, and then thought better of it. “Instead, tell them, for no longer than six moons, unless sooner discharged by proper authority. That will be me, fellas. Unless sooner discharged by me.”
After waiting until the translations were done, Miles continued. “I do also agree to accept such bounty, pay, rations, and clothing as are, or may be, established by law for volunteers … er, for such warrior scouts.”
He went on reading from the page he held before him in the afternoon light, “And I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America, and that I will serve honestly and faithfully against all her enemies or opposers whomsoever; and that I will observe and obey the orders of the President of the United States, and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the Rules and Articles of War.”
Phrase by phrase, line by line, sentence by sentence—they had gotten through it again. He, Bruguier, and Rowland, along with these thirty Cheyenne and Sioux warriors.
Chances were good that among these volunteers were fighting men who had stymied Crook at the Rosebud. Warriors who had crushed Custer’s command. Among these thirty were enemies he himself had fought at Battle Butte while a blizzard descended upon them all.
Ashes of Heaven (The Plainsmen Series) Page 23
