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

Chapter 50

16-20 September 1876

They might not even call such a collection of crude clapboard buildings and canvas-topped shanties a “town,” but to the eyes and ears and nose of John Finerty, Deadwood exuded the sweet sensation of civilization!

With Crook’s announcement that the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition was soon to be disbanded and that Sheridan had called him to Fort Laramie, all four of the correspondents applied to the general for permission to accompany his party south via Camp Robinson. The likable Joe Wasson, the much-despised Reuben Davenport, as well as the affable and eminently sociable Robert Strahorn all joined Finerty in saddling up that Saturday morning before reporting to the general’s headquarters promptly after breakfast. Besides the Irishman Donegan, Captain Andrew S. Burt had requested and secured leave, heading back to rejoin wife Elizabeth and children at Laramie.

Crook had also given permission to several officers to accompany him: his aide-de-camp, John Bourke; Major Alexander Chambers; Captain William H. Powell; and Captain Thaddeus Stanton, the Omaha paymaster; along with adjutant Schuyler, Captain George M. “Black Jack” Randall, and Assistant Surgeon Albert Hartsuff, all had asked to go on that dash south from the Black Hills. In addition, Lieutenant Frederick Sibley led an escort of twenty troopers from the Second Cavalry, along with a complement of a half-dozen mules to carry some medical supplies, ammunition, and an abundant supply of Bubb’s food.

All the way south to the settlements along the road that snaked beside Whitewood Creek they passed civilians in wagons, civilians leading pack-animals behind them, civilians alone on horseback—all headed north to that army camp with everything they hoped to sell to the soldiers: canned goods and candles, onions and cabbages, turnips and potatoes, and all manner of vegetables grown locally in the Hills. Here and there the party rode past small herds of cattle grazing on the grassy hillsides, each one of those highly valued herds guarded by a well-armed band of wranglers.

After a short ride of sixteen miles they reached the wooded ravine on the northern outskirts of Crook City, finding it a thriving, smoky community of more than 250 structures erected on either side of the steep slopes rising up from the Whitewood. No sooner had the general’s escort appeared at the edge of town than a loud explosion rocked the narrow valley. Finerty pulled his head into his shoulders like a turtle.

“Cannon fire,” Donegan explained.

“Cannon?”

“I suppose it’s to welcome the town’s namesake, General Crook himself.”

Indeed, the citizens of the Black Hills settlement were firing off cannons, plus blowing all manner of steam whistles, in addition to loading their anvils with gunpowder to send them cartwheeling into the air with a deafening concussion.

Hundreds of men and some two dozen of the ugliest, most hard-featured, dog-faced women Finerty could ever admit to seeing, every one of them in some state of un dress, appeared on the streets, crowded the boardwalks, or leaned from open windows on the second stories of those greater buildings in town. In less than two hundred yards, the street was all but blocked as men fired their revolvers in the air, shouted out their oaths and vows to scalp Crazy Horse themselves, and strained through the throng to shake the hands of those soldiers slowly threading through their midst.

“General! You must come have dinner with us!” roared one local dignitary, gesturing toward his two-story saloon and pleasure palace.

Glancing a moment at the sun, Crook replied, “I suppose we could stop briefly for a meal.”

“Very good! Very good!” the entrepreneur said, clapping his hands ecstatically. “We’ll see that your horses are grained while we dine.”

In moments the entire group was seated at tables, which big-breasted chippies and gap-toothed soiled doves wiped clean, smiling winsomely at each of the celebrated guests. Bottles and glasses and cigars all appeared as if by magic.

“It’s our very best, General Crook,” the businessman swore. “Nothing but the best for you and your men.”

What was in those bottles proved to be some of the strongest whiskey Finerty had ever tasted, even stronger than what had made him sputter when he had first come to Wyoming Territory and Kid Slaymaker’s saloon near Fort Fetterman.

“Good God! Is this what they call forty-rod?” the newsman asked, wheezing and wiping his watery eyes.

“Indeed it is,” Donegan said, pouring Finerty another drink. “If Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse knew how to make this stuff and sell it to the white man, why—the Sioux could whip the whole frontier army in less than a week!”

Once the party emerged from the saloon back onto the street to find their horses watered and well fed, the wild cheering erupted again. But when they left Crook City behind, they could plainly see the town had already enjoyed its short-lived glory. Founded in May, it was already suffering a long downhill slide as the richest gulch had quickly played out and every day more and more miners headed for other nearby strikes or to build their sluices farther upstream.

Quartz and timber were both in abundance—that much was apparent from their ride up the graded wagon road that would take them another ten miles to Deadwood. Every mile saw more teamsters and packers, as well as assorted horsemen, each one of them sporting a pair of spurs with rowels as big as tea saucers, jingling like hawk’s bells as they bounced along. A few miles out from Deadwood they came upon a handful of riders who wore the finest in bowlers and claw-hammer coats, brocade vests and fine silk ties—the sort of haberdashery that made Crook’s seedy, tattered, unkempt bunch look all the more like a wandering band of Nordic raiders.

“General Crook, I presume?” one of the citizens asked, removing his hat.

“I am George Crook, yes.”

“Good day, sir!” The speaker smiled, as well as all those with him. “My name’s E. B. Farnum, Deadwood’s first mayor. Welcome, may I say. Welcome, indeed, to a grateful town!”

After shaking hands all round with the mayor’s aldermen, Farnum reined about and led the party on through Montana City, Elizabeth Town, China Town, then Lower Deadwood, and finally in to Deadwood itself, where the whole town had turned out, waiting expectantly for the general’s arrival. No sooner had Crook reached the edge of what was then the business district than thirteen small field pieces erupted in a grand martial salute. Smoke hung lazily over the street as a wonderful breeze teased the red, white, and blue bunting strung from awnings and porches and second-story balconies in a festive salute to the man the town regarded as their savior. Cheering, dancing, shooting handguns—the noise was deafening.

Finerty smiled, watching the general tip his ragged,weather-beaten chapeau, bowing left, then right, then left again, shaking hands as they inched slowly along, waving to those on porches and balconies, throwing a kiss here and there to the second-story working girls of that mining town—all in the manner of a man running for political office.

“Crook could be elected mayor of Deadwood if he wanted,” Finerty had to yell above the pandemonium to the Irishman riding beside him.

Donegan nodded, saying, “Hell—he could damn well be elected governor of the whole bleeming Dakota Territory!”

Drawing up in front of the Grand Central Hotel and gesturing across the street, Mayor Farnum politely offered, “General, should your men wish to make use of our public bathhouse over there, you will find it at your disposal—free of cost.”

It had been the first hot water Finerty sank into since that tiny galvanized tub in a whore’s crib at Kid Slay-maker’s clear back in May. Going four months between good soakings had become too onerous a habit. After he was done, Donegan stood naked and anxiously ready while the bath attendants dumped Finerty’s water.

“Look at that, will you now?” the Irishman exclaimed, pointing at the newsman’s bathwater being poured into a wooden sluice that went through a hole in the wall, where it spilled into the creek. “I ain’t seen the likes of such filthy, scummy water since we camped beside the Powder River!”

In less than an hour the entire detail had bathed and felt better for it, despite the fact they were forced to climb back into the same mud-crusted clothing the attendants had at least brushed and shaken. Out onto the street, as the sun began to set, they again poked their heads, and at once the town again erupted. Both sides of the long main thoroughfare were lined with saloons and drinking houses, restaurants and hotels, mercantiles and those parlors where the soft flesh of women was daily bartered, all of it closely hemmed in by the timbered hills that looked down on the merry celebrants.

At dusk, after the general’s staff had ceremoniously panned for gold along the banks of Whitewood Creek, the town’s leaders prevailed upon a reluctant Crook to give a short speech from a balcony of one of the hotels. Lacing his talk with a few jokes, most of them at the expense of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse and their Sioux, the general was even more popular when he walked down to supper than he had been when first stepping onto that balcony.

Again the town fathers stuffed their visitors to the gills, then escorted them over to the Langrishe Theater, where Mayor Farnum and his aldermen presided over a spate of formal speeches. When the officials presented the general with a petition signed by Black Hills citizens urging construction of a military post in their country, the general politely declined.

He went on to explain. “The Black Hills are not in my department. General Terry commands here. Your petition should be presented to the secretary of war. Not to me. But I will be honored to carry your petition to Fort Laramie with me and deliver it there to General Sheridan.”

After receiving the crowd’s warm appreciation, the general concluded, “When the rank and file pass through here in the days ahead, show that you appreciate their admirable fortitude in bearing the sufferings of a terrible march almost without a murmur, and show them that they are not fighting for thirteen dollars per month, but for the cause—the proper development of our gold and other resources, and of humanity. Let the private soldier feel that he is remembered by our people as the real defender of his country.”

When the crowd clamored and hooted for more from Crook, he instead prevailed upon Captain Burt, who excited the packed house by delivering his impromptu tale of their horrid march. Nonetheless, at every turn he extolled his own personal satisfaction serving under a general “who gets things done.” Burt went on to tell the miners and merchants just how much he “enjoyed the satisfaction of standing in a Sioux village and watching it burn.” Amid the raucous cheers and thunderous applause in response to those stirring comments, Crook’s men were officially handed their “keys” to the city.

One of the crowd hollered out, “You better turn over to us those Sioux prisoners you left back on the Whitewood! If you take them on back to the agency, Uncle Sam will feed them until they want to take the war path again!”

Burt replied, “No, we can’t turn them over to you. We won’t give you those Indians to kill, and we won’t kill them ourselves—provided they show us where there are more to kill.”

By the time Finerty pressed his way out of the theater and onto the street once more with the rest of the general’s entourage, he was sure his arm had all but been pumped out of its socket with so much hand shaking.

Taking Donegan by the arm, the pair of jubilant Patlanders strolled down the south side of Main Street until they happened before a likely looking saloon. Inside Johnny Manning’s Gambling Hall they were told to put their money back in their pockets.

“Why, hell, fellas,” Finerty bellowed. “We haven’t any money anyway!”

It made no matter to the miners, who all were anxious to put up for a round or two, treating those who had helped Crook whip the Sioux at Slim Buttes. For some time they drank and watched the gaming tables, where Finerty was surprised to find that more than half the dealers were women—older, hard-faced women who clearly showed the effects of years at a hard life. They nimbly dealt not just poker, but faro and keno and monte too. Beneath the smoky lamplight, cards and whiskey, colorful chips and coins and gold dust, lay spread across the emerald felt stretched over every table. Scales lined the bar, where for every ounce of dust a man could earn himself twenty dollars’ worth of credit at the tables, or right then and there with a miner’s choice of whiskey, rye, or gin with bitters.

Then it was out the open doorway and down the boardwalk until they found a second likely saloon, and in they went for another series of toasts at Al Swerington’s. On and on the evening went in just that way until they both staggered, shoulder to shoulder, down the street reaching China Town, where they crossed to the north side of Main, ducking into Billy Knuckle’s Belle Union, then next door to drink at the Big French Hook. Finally they stood on the muddy boardwalk before a sixth watering hole.

Back Donegan rocked on his heels unsteadily, squinting, peering intently at the sign above their heads. “Number … Ten? That what it says?”

“Yep—says so right there in plain English, you idjit Irishman!” Finerty burbled.

Wagging his head, Seamus replied, “Who the hell would name a saloon after a god-bleeming-blamed number?”

“C’mon,” Finerty said, grabbing hold of Donegan’s arm as the big Irishman suddenly froze. The newsman tugged, saying, “Just one more for a nightcap.” Then he looked up at the scout’s face, gone as white as a ghost, and Finerty’s belly went cold as January ice.

Turning slowly, the reporter saw what had stopped Donegan dead in his tracks there before the Number Ten Saloon. A big freshly painted sign nailed beside the open doors, announcing to one and all:

NUMBER 10 SALOON

Where Wild Bill Hickok

was murdered by

Jack McCall

on

August 2, 1876

“Will you look at that?” John exclaimed with an excited gush. “Wild Bill, the famous pistolero, was killed right here! And just a few weeks ago! My, my—wait till I write about this!”

Like a statue there beside Finerty, Donegan crossed himself with a trembling gun hand. Eyes welling, he murmured, “B-blessed Mary, Mither of God!”

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Irishman?” Finerty asked, sensing the first quiver of fright at the way Donegan stood transfixed, as if he’d just seen a ghost. “Don’t tell me you’d be superstitious having us a drink in there now. Just think what you can tell your children—that you drank whiskey in the same saloon where the famous Wild Bill Hickok was gunned down.”

“Murdered.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, Seamus. Wild Bill was gunned down right inside there.”

Donegan shook his head, clenching his eyes, some tears creeping out at their corners. “No—there wasn’t a man what could’ve gunned Bill Hickok down. Just like the sign says: he was murdered.”

Inching in front of the big scout, Finerty stared into Donegan’s eyes. “You—you knew him … knew Wild Bill Hickok?”

Nodding once, he sniffed. “Back to sixty-seven. We scouted a short time together. Me and Cody both.”

“That’s right,” Finerty said, remembering. “The winter you fellas hijacked that load of Mexican beer and made a tidy profit selling it to Carr’s soldiers. Well. I’ll be damned, Irishman. I hadn’t put it all together until now. I see. Well. Under the circumstances I can understand why you might not be thirsty no more. Maybe we have had us enough and should find a place to sleep off the rest of the night.”

Eventually the Irishman nodded, quietly saying, “Yeah. Someplace else to go but here.”

“My God! Listen to this, Seamus!”

Donegan really wasn’t at all interested in what the Chicago newsman found interesting in that copy of The Black Hills Pioneer.

Ever since he had stared at that sign nailed to the front of Mann’s Number 10 Saloon last night, the Irishman had thought of nothing else but Bill Hickok, fondly remembering their scouting days together, learning of the gunman’s meteoric rise to fame as a Kansas cow-town lawman.

Annoyed at the interruption, he dragged his eyes away from gazing out the restaurant window and looked into the face of the reporter seated across the table from him, who was reading a copy of the local newspaper.

Donegan asked, “Does it say anything about Crook’s visit?”

“Yes—they’ve got a really good piece on our campaign and some nice writing on the general’s oratorical efforts last night,” Finerty answered that morning of the seventeenth. “But it’s this editorial you’ve got to hear: ‘Some pap-sucking Quaker representative of an Indian doxology mill, writes in Harper for April about settling the Indian troubles by establishing more Sunday Schools and Missions among them.’ ”

“Just what the Sioux and Cheyenne need,” Donegan grumbled. He took another sip of his steamy coffee, then went back to staring out the window.

“There’s more here,” Finerty continued. “‘It is enough to make a western man sick to read such stuff.’”

Without looking at the correspondent, Seamus said, “I never was much of one to read newspapers, anyway. Though I personally have nothing against newspapermen.”

“Now, listen, Seamus—this here is the clencher! ‘You might as well try to raise a turkey from a snake egg as to raise a good citizen from a papoose. Indians can be made good in only one way, and that is to make angels of them.’”

Finally he looked into Finerty’s eyes. “By that account, seems Crook’s and Terry’s armies haven’t made too many Indians good, have we?”

For most of the previous night and into the morning, Lieutenants William P. Clark and Frederick W. Sibley had busied themselves pulling all of Deadwood’s blacksmiths out of bed and the saloons to work at reshoeing the patrol’s horses and unshod Indian ponies. Finally at eight A.M., after a big breakfast and lots of coffee for those who had unwisely celebrated most of the night, Crook had them climbing back into the saddle for their ride south to Camp Robinson.

On the road to Custer City they passed a growing number of wagons: empty freighters rumbling south to the Union Pacific rail line at Sidney, Nebraska, returning north with those precious goods bound for the Black Hills mining camps. In the early afternoon the general’s party met three companies of the Fourth Artillery escorting a wagon train ordered north with supplies for Crook’s expedition. For more than an hour the groups stopped there beside Box Elder Creek to exchange news of the world for news from the front.

In their travels the following day they passed by the new community of Castleton on the Black Hills route that led them along Castle Creek and on through the shadow of Harney’s Peak. Already the new community was home to more than two hundred hopeful miners and merchants. On the outskirts of town, fields had been plowed and a few small cattle herds grazed in the tall grasses. By noon they had reached a plateau, where they looked down upon Hill City, abandoned save for one hardy hermit.

“Why did everyone go?” Donegan asked the old man.

Came the simple answer, “Indian scare … and no gold dust.”

The sun was settling into the western clouds, igniting them with radiant fire, when Crook’s party reached Custer City, aptly named for that one soldier who brought his Seventh Cavalry to explore the Black Hills back in seventy-four, then promptly informed the world of the prospects for finding gold in that land ceded to the Sioux. Here Crook called a halt for the night, and the party reined up outside a likely looking hotel.

“Donegan? Is that really you?”

Seamus turned slowly at the call of his name, unable to recognize the voice. His hand slid closer to the butt of a pistol. He looked at the clean-shaven soldier bounding off the boardwalk toward him, not able to place the man.

“Seamus Donegan! By the saints—it is you!”

“Egan? Don’t tell me!”

The captain stopped and spread his arms widely in a grand gesture, cocking his head to the side slyly. “Teddy Egan, his own self!”

They laughed and hugged and pounded one another on the back as John Finerty came over.

“Still tagging along with this worthless bit of army flotsam, I see, John,” Egan said after shaking hands with the newsman.

“Ever since the three of us went marching with Reynolds down on that Powder River village,” Finerty responded.

James “Teddy” Egan’s famous troop of grays, E Troop, Second Cavalry, the same men who had led the charge on the village nestled beside the frozen Powder River which Frank Grouard swore was Crazy Horse’s camp back on St. Patrick’s Day,* had ever since that winter campaign been assigned to protect emigrant and freight travel along the Black Hills Road between Fort Laramie and Custer City.

A courier from Laramie reached the general just after supper, bearing a message from Sheridan requesting that Crook hurry on and reach the fort within forty-eight hours. That was all but impossible given the condition of their weary mounts and captured Indian ponies. Yet the general would try to press on with all possible speed. To do so, he would require new mounts, immediately requesting Captain Egan to lend fifteen of his sturdy, sleek horses then and there in Custer City on the following morning of the nineteenth. Leaving behind his escort under Lieutenant Sibley to accompany the pack-train under Major Randall, the rest of the officers climbed atop those strong grays of Teddy Egan’s and set out at sunrise on a forced march. They had over a hundred miles to go just to reach Camp Robinson.

Glory! But it was good to have a good horse under him once again, Donegan thought. For so many weeks his horse had slowly played out before he finally turned it over to Dr. Clements back at the Sioux village and taken for his own one of the Sioux ponies. But now this was so much better. A fine army mount, surging along with the others on that trail behind Crook, who kept them at a gallop for most of the day. The general shot a deer for their dinner that noon; then they pushed on, reaching some marshy land at the southern end of the Hills by dusk.

Not more than a quarter of a mile ahead lay the waters of the South Cheyenne River. As the sun set far to the west, they struck the wagon road blazed from Buffalo Gap in the Black Hills down to the Red Cloud Agency. Pushing the horses back into a lope, Crook soon had them at a gallop once more.

By ten P.M. they reached a branch of Warbonnet Creek, where they watered the stock and talked of Bill Cody’s first scalp for Custer. Crook then asked if the others would agree to press on, and the entire party went back into the saddle for another four hours, when they finally stopped to picket their horses and lie down in their blankets on the frosty ground to enjoy a few hours of sleep.

Seamus told himself he must be getting old. He simply couldn’t remember a piece of cold ground ever feeling that good.

^* The Plainsmen Series, Vol. 8, Blood Song.