A Cold Day in Hell (3 page)

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?”

A wry smile came across Grouard’s face. “You think I figured to let that son of a bitch burn me twice, Lieutenant? Hell no, I didn’t believe a word of his song. But he didn’t trust me neither. Fact was, he come to my room that night—checking to see if I’d gone and got the sneak on him after dark.”

Donegan squinted one eye in appraising the half-breed. “Listen, you goddamned half-blood—I know you good enough to know you wasn’t about to eat supper and lay your head down in no bed if there was a chance Crawford was about to get the jump on you through the night. So what’d you do?”

Smiling, Grouard replied, “To make sure of him not running off on me again—I sat tight and finished my supper before I went down the street to find me a good man there in town I could trust to carry a note to Captain Egan—”

“Teddy Egan?” Donegan asked.

Grouard nodded. “The same what led your charge on that village in the Powder River last winter. Told Egan that I needed one of his men to get the dispatches on through, and then had that fella ride off with ’em on a fresh horse down to Egan’s camp at Red Canyon—a good forty miles off. Sent Crook’s note on with the man too. Then I wrote me a letter to Crook, telling him what all I’d done before I went off to find me a empty bed. After Crawford come and shook me up, I didn’t wake up for the next three days.”

“Three days?” Wessels exclaimed. “What became of Crawford?”

With a shrug Grouard said, “I hear he got up and pulled out at nine the next morning. Seeing how I slept in, he likely figured he had the jump on me. Got to Red Canyon midafternoon, where Egan broke the bad news to him. Told Crawford he just as well ought to spend the night because he wasn’t about to overtake those couriers by that time.”

“That was the fifteenth—which means he didn’t reach Laramie ahead of Egan’s courier,” Bourke declared.

“So how was it that Davenport’s dispatch got on the wire before Crook’s?” Schuyler asked.

“Crawford got to the key shack at Hat Creek about eight o’clock the night of the fifteenth,” Burt replied, “but the line was down.”

“Line was still down when I went through there,” Frank disclosed.

Bourke shook his head, beginning to ask, “If the line was down—”

Burt interrupted, saying, “When Crawford came through there, the operator told him that the wire should be back up by the next morning. Now, I’ve heard enough of the story to know that Captain Jack had him a second copy of Davenport’s story
that he left right there with the key operator, with instructions to put the story on the line as soon as there was current.”

“Where the devil’d he get that second copy?” Donegan asked.

The table fell silent. Slowly, man by man, Grouard felt all the eyes turn on him, expecting an answer. “He got it from me,” he groaned.

“From you?” Bourke roared.

“I was so damned angry with him there in Custer City that I handed him that copy of Davenport’s story that son of a bitch Davenport give me back at the Belle Fourche and told him I wasn’t carrying it no more.”

“So when the line was repaired, that’s how Davenport’s dispatch got on the wire before Egan’s courier could reach here,” Wessels said. “And in the meantime, Crawford himself kept on pushing for Laramie. The next key shack was up at Sage Creek, just forty-eight miles beyond Hat Creek, and that’s where Crawford must’ve found out the line was up and working by that time. The operator there told him Davenport’s story was already on the wire ahead of all the others.”

Donegan sat his mug down with a clunk, wagging his head. “Damn the bloody hell of it—so that’s how Davenport’s story got out ahead of Crook’s dispatches to Sheridan.”

“But only part of Davenport’s story,” said Andy Burt.

“What do you mean, only
part
of it?” Donegan asked as Grouard rocked forward on his elbows.

“When the Hat Creek operator paused in the middle of Davenport’s story for a moment, the operator at Laramie broke in and took over possession of the wire with Crook’s official dispatches,” Burt explained. “Still, with the jump Crawford had there at Hat Creek key station, Davenport’s story got wired east a good five hours ahead of all the rest of those other newspapermen.”

Bourke asked, “What’d Crawford get for his trouble?”

“It sure wasn’t that five hunnert Davenport promised him,” Grouard grumped.

Donegan grumped over his whiskey, “Davenport’s the sort so tight he squeaks when he walks. I’ll wager he gave Captain Jack no more’n a shinplaster or two.”

Wessels explained, “I heard he got only two hundred dollars since he wasn’t the first to Laramie and only part of the story got out before Crook’s report.”

“Where’s Crawford now?” Schuyler asked.

“He laid over here a day,” Burt answered. “Then he doubled back for the Hills.”

“Let’s drink to Frank Grouard!” Bourke cheered, raising his mug of beer.

The half-breed watched a sudden bright twinkle gleam in the lieutenant’s eyes as the officer tapped Donegan on the shoulder and pointed out the window.

“Who’s that?” Seamus asked, squinting through the smoke-smudged windowpanes.

“That?” Andy Burt replied. “That happens to be Lieutenant Capron’s wife, Seamus. The woman who tonight is helping my Elizabeth deliver your child.”

“Ch-child?”

Donegan and the rest suddenly whirled about on their seats in that next instant as Nettie Capron swirled into the room, a blast of autumn cold clinging to her long dress, a shawl clutched tightly about her shoulders. Burt stood immediately, signaling the woman through that smoky atmosphere. The rest of the men stood gallantly as she came to a stop at the table.

“Mr. Donegan?” Nettie Capron said softly.

“Y-yes?” he replied, his face sagging a bit as his knees began to turn to water.

“The captain’s … Elizabeth Burt sent me to fetch you.”

“And?” Andy Burt asked, his voice rising. “Is Seamus a father?”

“No, not yet—but soon,” she answered, then turned to the Irishman once more. “Could you come … now? Your wife is … she’s having a struggle of it. And, sh-she’s asking for you.”