After a terrible summer of blood and fire, scout Seamus Donegan finally has reason to rejoice: his wife, Samantha, has given birth to his first son. But the time to celebrate new life is short . . . for the old business of death continues. Phil Sheridan has gathered his officers at Fort Laramie for a war council to prepare the winter campaign. His objective: capture Crazy Horse, the elusive Sioux warrior chief whose exploits have put the U.S. cavalry to shame. Sending his scouts ahead—men such as Seamus Donegan and the legendary Yellowstone Kelly—Sheridan will march his armies north into the valley of the Red Fork of the Crazy Woman Creek . . . and into a battle that will prove as brutal and bitter as the killing winter winds. Praise for Terry C. Johnston “Johnston is an authentic American treasure.” —Loren D. Estleman, author of Edsel   “Terry C. Johnston has emerged as the great frontier historical novelist of his generation.” —Paul Andrew Hutton, author of Phil Sheridan and His Army Terry C. Johnston  is recognized as a master of the American historical novel. His grand adventures of the American West combine the grace and beauty of a natural storyteller with complete dedication to historical accuracy and authenticity. Johnston was born the first day of 1947 on the plains of Kansas, and lived all his life in the American West. His first novel,  Carry the Wind , won the Medicine Pipe Bearer Award from the Western Writers of America, and his subsequent books have appeared on bestseller lists throughout the country. After writing more than 30 novels, he died in March 2001 in Millings, Montana. Prologue 6 October, 1876     “So when does Sheridan say he wants you riding off for Camp Robinson to keep an eye on Red Cloud’s camp?” asked Seamus Donegan, his gray eyes reflecting the pulsing gleam of that dim-red glow of his pipe bowl as he drew smoke through the stem, those eyes then flicking another anxious look at the building fondly called Old Bedlam by those stationed here at Fort Laramie.   “He’s give me till the morning,” Frank Grouard answered. Then cleared his throat before he continued in that way of a person about to address a grave matter. “Seems worrying is a man’s part in all of this birthing business, Irishman. ’Specially when it’s his first.”   The tall man with the thick crop of beard only nodded, sipping from his clay mug of whiskey, frosty streamers rising from his nostrils in the hoary cold of that night. The anxious father-to-be and the half-breed scout had stepped outside the sutler’s saloon to catch a breath of the cold, dry autumn air. “Aye. But it makes it no easier: I wish there were something I could do other’n this bleeming wait and this god-blame-med worrying”   Close by, a woman’s rising scream raised the hackles on the back of Frank’s own neck. He watched that eerie sound cause Donegan to sputter, drawing down on that last swallow, his gray eyes registering grave concern as he gazed with concentration and smoky intensity on the building right next door.   Pushing some of his long brown hair back over his shoulder, Seamus murmured, “Maybe there’s something I could be doing—”   “Come inside with me, Irishman,” Grouard suggested, gently tugging at Donegan’s elbow. “That’s what you can do. She’s got all the help in the world right now.”   “Dear Mither of God,” Seamus whispered as he turned toward the doorway with Grouard, gazing one last time over his shoulder at Old Bedlam where his wife lay—giving birth to their first born.   “C’mon,” Grouard urged again. “They’re all mothers with her, every last one of ’em. Ain’t nothing to it—women’s been giving birth this same way ever since the start of time.”   His bloodshot eyes found the half-breed’s as they turned the corner of the mud-walled building and stepped into the half circle of greasy yellow light splashing from the open doorway at that moment held open by John Bourke.   “Looks like I showed up at just the right moment,” the thirty-year-old Lieutenant called out, bowing graciously low at the waist and motioning the two civilian scouts inside. “We just got word over at Townsend’s that your wife is about to deliver.” He saluted some soldiers as the men shuffled past him into the warm, bright, lamplit interior of Sutler Collins’s watering hole. “From the look on your face, I figure you could use another drink. Can I buy you one, Seamus?” He pounded the Irishman on the back as the three snaked through the tables toward the bar in the low-roofed saloon that sat beside the sutler’s trading room.   “I oughtta be doing something other’n drinking,” Donegan grumped as Bourke motioned the barkeep to bring them all a mug of apple beer.   “Can’t say as any of us ever get good at this, Irishman,” announced Andrew Burt as he moved toward the trio at the bar. “Lord knows I’ve had enough of this waiting myself. But Elizabeth’s there with your woman, and there’s three others besides, Seamus. Things’ll be fine now. Only a