A Cold Day in Hell

by Terry C. Johnston

  “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 … E
lizabeth 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.”

  Chapter 1

  7 October 1876

  If he lived forever, Seamus Donegan was dead certain he would never forget this night.

  At first the women fluttering around Samantha had tried to convince him in hushed tones that he should stay no more than a few moments with his wife. Reassure her, console her—then go back to the saloon—just as a man was supposed to do when a woman’s time came.

  “S-stay with me,” Sam begged in a harsh whisper as he came to the side of that tiny bed where she lay, her back propped up, the thin grayed sheet draped over her knees like sister mountain peaks covered with dirty snow. She held one hand out for him to grasp as he went to his knee beside the bed.

  Almost immediately he watched the rise of another contraction show on her face, and suddenly the others squeezed forward once again: two on the far side of the bed, one at Donegan’s shoulder. All of them muttering instructions to Sam, reminders about breathing, about not pushing.

  “Where’s the goddamned surgeon?” he looked up to ask them as Sam fell back against those tiny pillows and folded-up comforter they had braced behind her.

  Elizabeth Burt was the one to answer. “We’ll call him if we need him, Mr. Donegan.”

  He rose shakily from his knee. It hurt like hell down on that hardwood floor. As quickly he felt a flush of shame for thinking of that when Sam’s hurt must be so much the worse. He squeezed her slick hand between his two rough, callused paws and said as quietly, as politely, as he could, “Looks to me we n-need him.”

  “No, no,” Martha Luhn said. “Everything’s going just fine.”

  “F-fine?” Donegan stammered, gazing back down at Samantha, who stared up at him, transfixed and steady, licking her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

  “Truth is, that surgeon wouldn’t be a bit of help to us,” Nettie Capron replied. “That man might know how to set a broken bone, or patch up a bullet hole, or what to do if you had an Indian’s arrow sticking out of your back … but he sure as the Psalms doesn’t know near as much about what’s going on with your wife as we do.”

  “Get me some water there, Seamus,” Sam pleaded in all but a desert-dry whisper, diverting his attention from the scolding he was getting from the lieutenant’s wife.

  Elizabeth Burt leaned over Sam as Seamus turned to find some water, explaining, “You can only have a little, Samantha. Like we’ve been giving you all along. Remember—only a little.”

  “I want Seamus to give it to me,” Sam said with a weary nod.

  At the side of the bed stood the unsteady washstand where a china cup with its handle broken off sat next to a tinned pitcher. He filled the cup halfway before slipping a hand beneath his wife’s neck and head, gently propping her up as he raised the cup to her lips. Sam took tiny sips with her parched lips and that pink tongue, a half dozen of them before her eyes rolled away from him and she started to pant.

  Beside him Nettie Capron pushed Seamus back as Samantha gripped the bedsheet in both hands and started to groan. Her legs trembled beneath that grayed sheet.

  He felt so damned helpless as the three women hovered close, attending his wife, while he could do nothing to take the pain, this excruciating travail, from her. In helplessness at her misery, he gasped, “I … I must get the post surgeon—”

  “No, you won’t trouble him with this,” Elizabeth Burt corrected more sternly this time. “You best trust me in this: that man doesn’t know half of what any one of us knows about delivering your wife of this child, Mr. Donegan. Now—I’m warning you—don’t you dare get in the way, or we’ll have to ask you to leave. And that means the end to bothering us with any more of that fool talk about the post surgeon.”

  “Get in the way?” he squeaked. “She … Sam asked for me—”

  Elizabeth Burt moved down the opposite side of the bed, where she squatted on the edge of the tick, raising the sheet slightly so that she could peer beneath it without exposing Sam’s legs. Donegan thought that most strange—wondering how these women figured he had put Sam with child if he hadn’t seen her legs, indeed every last delicious inch of her! The woman’s eyes came up to look at the others, then rested on his.

  “It won’t be long now,” she explained, grim-lipped, as her eyes gazed down at the woman in labor. “Samantha—this child of yours is about ready to make its entrance into the world.”

  “S-seamus.”

  He turned and went down on his knee again at her side, stroking the back of one of her sweaty hands. From the nearby washstand he retrieved a damp, folded towel and dabbed at the pearling beads of sweat that glimmered on her brow and cheeks.

  “Give me a kiss, p-please,” she gasped as if her throat was raw.

  Leaning down, he brushed her cheek with his mouth self-consciously. Good manners and upbringing allowed that a man might lightly kiss his wife there while in public.

  “No,” Sam declared, tapping her dry lips with one finger. “Kiss me here.”

  The Irishman swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the other women before he leaned over Sam once more and laid his mouth on hers. He felt the press of her hand at the back of his head, preventing him from pulling away.

  She held his face close, whispering, “I wanted the … the feel of your l-l-l-lips—”

  Then she wrenched her hands down and was gripping the sheets once more, gritting her teeth and growling as the next contraction welled over her.

  “That’s good! That’s good, Samantha!” Elizabeth exclaimed, observing the progress there between Sam’s legs.

  “Bear down. Go on and bear down, Samantha,” instructed Martha Luhn as she pressed up at Seamus’s elbow, taking the towel from his hand and dabbing it against the hollow at the base of Sam’s throat where the sweat had pooled.

  He stepped back a step in that crush of women and their dutiful purpose. Then another step, for the first time noticing how drenched she was with this labor. Sam’s face flushed with her exertion … oh, how it stood out against the white of that loose camisole, damp, plastered to the skin across her chest and her arms as if she had just been caught out in a summer thundershower. It appeared these women had taken off her most everything else she had been wearing earlier that evening for dinner with Mackenzie … most all of it: dress and petticoats and bloomers—then draped that sheet over her legs as they began this long, agonizing process.

  He suddenly wondered what time it was—feeling guilty for not knowing how long he had been down at the saloon. Drinking, sharing stories with other men, while these women had been up here with Sam.

  She was his wife. He should have been here all along.

  He watched as Sam gasped, then went back to panting, almost like a dog, her head bobbing in rhythm each time she exhaled in those short, rough gusts of wind. Drawing her knees up as far as she could just as the others reminded her to do in their calming voices, assisting Sam as she struggled in lowering her head as far as she could, as if she were cramping up. Sam began a low shriek—

  To him the room felt suddenly very, very warm. Then he remembered he still had on his worn canvas and blanket mackinaw, sooted and smudged with the smoke of many fires, slick with wear and tattered at the elbows and wrists from long years’ wilderness service.

  He pulled his arms from it, one at a time, and dropped it carelessly in a far corner.

  “Oh, no—Mr. Donegan,” Nettie Capron said. “You put your coat back on. I’m afraid you can’t stay.”

  “S-stay!” Samantha contradicted.

  Martha Luhn turned to Sam, quietly declaring, “No. It’s much, much better that he’s not here.”

  “Why?” Sam asked in exhaustion as her head fell back against the pillows and comforter.

&nb
sp; “Yeah,” Donegan agreed, taking a shaky step back toward the bed as Sam held her hand out to him again. “Why not?”

  The women looked at one another for a moment while Sam laid her wet hand in his two big paws, imploring him with those red-rimmed eyes of hers. She said quietly, “C’mere—let me hold you—”

  He settled to one knee again there at the side of the bed just in time to have her clench one of her hands around one of his instead of the sheet with the sudden terrible avalanche of the contraction. Seamus sensed the blood squeezed out of the hand, felt the bones grind together as if another, more powerful man had his own callused paw caught in the grip of a vise. In a moment his hand began to tingle with its own pain, just before Sam collapsed back against the comforter and pillows, panting, her tongue lolling.

  “It’s not long now,” Elizabeth cheered, her eyes flicking up to Seamus suddenly, then back down to her work between Sam’s legs.

  “What … what can I do to help?” he asked them, his eyes touching each one.

  Nettie answered after glancing at the others. “You can stay right there at her side. Help your wife through each contraction, Mr. Donegan. Talk to her, talk her through each one.”

  “T-talk … talk her through—”

  “Do you still love me?” Sam interrupted, bringing her free hand alongside his cheek, turning his face so that he looked down at her.

  He gazed back down at her face, studying her at last—finding her hair plastered to her brow, at her temples, soaking at the back of her neck where she had tied it back with a ribbon upon returning to this room after their walk down to the cottonwood grove by the river.

  “L-love you? Of course I do,” Seamus answered. He slipped one of his hands free, brushing her cheek with his rough fingertips as she smiled up at him through glistening eyes. “I’ll always love you, Samantha.”

  He watched her eyes widen with the coming contraction, her tongue darting out to flick over her lips with a little moisture, sweeping over the droplets of salty sweat that poured from her flesh. Again he daubed her brow and cheeks as she squeezed his hand through the coming and leaving of that circle of pain.