He ran his fingers through his hair and hurried to the admin building, joining the small cadre of officers still at Fort Laramie. No one looked too soldierly, so no one commented on his own dishevelment at an hour when proper gentlemen were more sedately clothed.
Major Townsend, his eyes two coals in his head, cleared his throat. “Bad news, gentlemen. General Crook suffered a defeat at Rosebud Creek last Saturday and has withdrawn to the Big Horns. The wounded are at Fetterman now and headed our way.”
No one said anything; they had been expecting battle. But defeat? Good God, Crook had twenty companies in his part of the pincer movement. Joe looked around, and knew every man there was thinking the same thing.
Training took over. Townsend told the cavalry lieutenant on loan from his Nebraska post to saddle up two fast riders and locate Jim O’Leary and K Company. “If they’re near enough, tell them to ride to Fetterman and offer support,” Townsend ordered. The lieutenant left on the run, not bothering to salute.
Townsend issued orders that sent everyone moving, then looked at Joe, the only officer remaining. “Do what you do, Joe,” he said, sounding infinitely weary. “They’ll be here Monday. Expect the worst and be ready to transport.”
Monday turned into the blur he remembered from the Civil War, with his ward full of dirty men and dirty wounds. He dismissed ambulatory patients to make room for hard cases. His hardest case was a captain of the Third Cavalry, shot through the face, maybe blind and with teeth missing. Joe tended him in Ted Brown’s quarters behind the hospital, desperate to keep the man nearby, but in a quiet place.
Without asking, Suzie and Mary Hanrahan took over his ward, washing the men and sitting with them. Joe steeled himself for Suzie’s gasp when she saw Private Benedict, his leg ruined and full of gangrene. She was a novice around that kind of gross wound, but he still had to pry her away so he could remove Anthony’s leg below the knee.
He and Petteys, a veteran overnight, doctored for two days straight, taking turns sleeping on his cot. Suzie brought food for both of them, then sat with Anthony Benedict, just holding his hand. Joe watched her droop and knew it was too much, but he needed her.
Other wives came, too, unable to stay away, some more useful than others, but all a cheerful presence. He spent more time in his hospital steward’s quarters, watching the captain suffer in silence, his iron will evident.
Finally the ward was quiet, filled with clean, well-fed men who lay half awake, half asleep, in that curious somnolence of the wounded. The ward was just the way he wanted it, so the steward could watch tonight. Joe went to Anthony Benedict’s bedside and tapped Suzie’s shoulder.
She looked up, pleased to see him.
“Private, I’m taking my wife home. Go to sleep, and that’s an order.”
To his amusement, Anthony snapped his eyes shut.
“You’re a faker,” Suzie told the private, but she let Joe lift her to her feet.
They strolled down the hill hand in hand, silent. Inside their quarters, he took her in his arms.
“You know, Suzie, after two days of the three Ds—death, dirt and dismemberment—all I want to do is make a baby.”
She understood exactly what he was trying to say. Her clothes came off at the bedroom door, and she helped him out of his.
“You could use a bath, but I don’t care,” was all she said as she took care of his needs, her own, and proved to him how competent was woman—specifically, his woman.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’d like to think we made a baby,” his charming wife whispered in his ear as she sent him off to Fort Russell with an ambulance and three wounded soldiers. “It’s our turn to get lucky.”
When the ambulance stopped that night near Hat Creek, the courier riding the mail from Fort Russell to Fort Laramie recognized Joe and handed him a letter postmarked Omaha. After tending to his patients, Joe leaned against an ambulance wheel and opened it.
It was from Will Pinkerton. “I thought we asked you to stop,” he murmured as he scanned the lines, then reread them, impressed with the equally clever son of the detective he remembered from the war. He read the part again about Will preparing to leave for Chicago, and coming upon what he thought was Nick Martin in the army wagon yard.