Reap the Whirlwind by Terry C. Johnston Page B

far west. *
    Then he held the old man out at arm’s length, admiring the packer’s face well-chiseled by wind and tracked with all the miles he had followed the cantankerous animals that were his life. Faint brown streaks tattooed his white beard, as well as darkening the blue blouse beneath it.
    Seamus inquired, “How’s Johnny Bourke?”
    Closter’s head bobbed and he smiled even bigger, one that seemed to fill the whole bottom half of his face. “The boy’s just fine. Just fine! Maybe you don’t remember, but Johnny’s going to put me in that book he’s writing. Why, if I ain’t told you about it, c’mon now and I’ll buy you a drink down to the Hog Ranch.”
    “Hog Ranch, eh?”
    With a devilish glint, Closter winked. “I’ll tell you all about it—and then we’ll give the girls a tussle or two, just ’cause we’re riding out for Injun country again.”
    With a chuckle Donegan patted the packer on the shoulder. “I know all about how Johnny’s going to make you as famous as General Crook, Uncle Dick. Bourke told me on that last campaign. You did too. More’n once.”
    Closter nodded his head, scratching his cheek absently. “Maybeso I did. Lots of long nights at the fire. Cold son of a bitch, Seamus. That was a march to make its mark on a man.”
    “I figure I put on ten rings last winter myself, Dick.”
    “So,” Closter said, “what you figure on doing this time out? Going to scout again with Grouard and the rest?”
    Moore eased back up by the two, wagging his head. “Don’t figger he will, Dick. General’s made it plain he ain’t hiring no more’n three for this march.”
    “That’s right,” Donegan agreed. “And I ain’t one of ’em.”
    Closter squinted one eye into the sun, looking up at the tall Irishman. “I’ll bet my next drunk that every one them three are half-breeds.”
    “You’re right,” Moore answered, then turned to Donegan. “So why you come back to Fetterman when I hear you got a wife down to Laramie?”
    “Need work.”
    Moore instantly beamed. “Work? Why I got all the work you can handle.”
    “Him?” Closter snapped sourly, rocking back on his heels and appraising the Irishman. “This soft-handed young sprout? Him—a mule skinner? Shit, Tom—that’ll be the day!”
    “With a recommendation like that from one of my oldest and best hands,” Moore exclaimed, “you’re hired, Donegan!”
    “Whoa! Hold on,” Seamus replied, not really sure he could believe it would be this easy finding work, pay, and a way to feed his family, if only for a few more months till the babe was born. At least until this goddamned war was over and he could take Samantha north to the diggings around Helena up there in Montana Territory. Samantha and … their son.
    “What—you too good to work for a living, Irishman?” Closter growled, backing a step, plopping his two hands on his hips and giving Seamus a critical, appraising once-over. “Told you he was soft-handed, Tom. Likely the youngster’s soft-headed too. These mules of ours going to prove smarter’n this mush-brained potato-sucker!”
    “Got something against Irishmen, do you?” Moore asked.
    “Present company excluded, Cap’n,” Closter apologized with a slight bow.
    Then Moore’s face went serious. “You want the work, don’t you, Seamus?”
    Donegan grinned. “I
need
the work more than want it. Even damned grateful for it. It’s just … I didn’t figure I would get hired—”
    “Wouldn’t get hired?” Moore replied. “Why, we knew you was coming for more’n a week, Seamus.”
    “Knew? How’d you—”
    “Crook wired up from Laramie. Got there just after you left to ride up here. Spoke with your wife, the way it sounded.”
    “Leastways,” Closter broke in, “Crook found out you were headed to Fetterman hoping to find something in the way of work. The general wired up here to Moore—have Tom hire you on.”
    Seamus turned to the chief packer. “General wired you about