Free Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 by Terry C. Johnston Page B

thick growth of stubborn grass. “And he’ll mourn the loss of that horse for the rest of his?”
    â€œI took more than the big gray from him that day,” Donegan admitted in whisper. “Never have I wanted to kill a man as badly as I did him that day in the Shenandoah.”
    â€œYou rode under Sheridan, then?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œDoes your wound trouble you still?”
    Donegan studied the inquisitive minister a moment longer. He found the old man forthright in his nosiness. Besides, every man of the cloth Seamus Donegan had ever run across made a lifelong practice of getting down inside another man’s britches and learning all that was hidden beneath.
    â€œA’times, Reverend. The weather changes, I feel it in this knee. Took both a saber slash there and a ball in the meaty part of the leg above the knee here. But my back doesn’t nag at me when it’s coming cold. That ugly scar nags at me only when there’s trouble on my backside. Like a set of eyes, i’tis. The one time I wasn’t looking out for my backside in battle—a poltroon of a Confederate officer carved me up pretty good. Seems now that this scar o’ mine is going to make sure no one ever sneaks up on Seamus Donegan again.”
    The men round the smoky fire fell silent as Donegan’s eyes refused to budge from the mesmerizing flames. Long moments later Reverend White finally picked up his battered, blackened pot from the edge of the fire and poured more of the steaming brew into each man’s waiting cup. Finished, he shoved more unruly gray hair back along the sides of his head, proposing a toast.
    â€œTo good friends and companions, gentlemen. They make any journey worth the wait … worth any effort. May our Lord God Jehovah bless us all, everyone—as we poor wayfarers travel in the good company of one another … each in search of his own private dream.”
    All four civilians drank in silence for a moment, until Marr licked at the droplets of coffee hung from his thick mustache and asked, “Reverend, what dream possesses a man like you?”
    White smiled, both rows of wide teeth stained from too much coffee and tobacco smoke. “Captain Marr, my dream is to make this trip north to my new flock without serious hardship or mishap … and without losing what I have left of the hair on my poor head!”
    White began to chuckle, running his bony fingers through the long gray strands. Though they were hands most accustomed to holding a bible or wagging a warning finger at a congregation, White’s hands nonetheless showed they were no stranger to hard work. With thick-knuckled fingers he patted the baby-pink scalp taut across the full length of his head.
    Captain Marr laughed even louder. He pulled his wide-brimmed hat from his own silver head, showing White that he too had a patch of valuable, pink scalp to lose. The Missourian’s long, silver curls spilled well past his collar, where his sagging neck skin had begun to wrinkle.
    â€œNo Sioux warrior gonna want our two hoary old scalps, Reverend!”
    White guffawed loudly, his laughter merry and genuine. Pointing a skinny twig of a finger at Seamus, the minister roared, “Let’s just pray the sight of Mr. Donegan’s fine head of long, curly hair will not lead the Sioux nation into temptation!”

Chapter 6
    â€œColonel. Sergeant of the guard reports his sentries signaling the approach of Indians.”
    Carrington looked up from his detailed drawings and plans of the fort. He let only his eyes touch each officer gathered round the long table he had readied in the huge hospital tent for this very occasion. Bridger found the colonel gazing at him.
    â€œJim, I’ll want you and Jack by my side.”
    â€œBest you bring Jack along,” the old scout replied. “He talks Cheyenne better’n I do.”
    â€œBut, Jim Bridger knows Indians better than any man