Seize the Sky: Son of the Plains-Volume 2 (21 page)

As he lay there beneath the arbor of the sun, The Bull finally received his sacred vision.

And with this mysterious event came the voice of the sun itself ringing in Bull’s ears, telling him:

“These I give you … because they have no ears to hear they are wrong.”

Hours later when Sitting Bull had revived, returning from the land of spirits to tell others of that dream’s great portent, the story was pictured on the smooth sand of a sweat lodge. Crude pictographs showing soldiers careening head down into the Hunkpapa camp. Now the Sioux came to know Sitting Bull had long been right. There was to be one last great fight against the white man. Through the power of the Great Mystery, it was told they would defeat the soldiers who marched against them.

So great was the renewed celebration for this coming fight that inside another sweat lodge three round stones were painted red and set in a row to signify a great victory in war.

Likewise a large cairn of rocks gathered up from the banks of the Rosebud was constructed with the skull of a buffalo bull on one side and the skull of a buffalo cow on the other. The bull was painted red, the color of war, and there was an arrow left pointing at the cow to show all who passed this place that Sioux warriors would fall upon the soldiers like mighty bulls while the white men would run like frightened cows.

And the final offering was placed just outside the Sun Dance arbor itself: four upright and painted stakes upon which this summer’s medicine men stretched a buffalo calfskin that had been tied with strips of bright trade cloth and hung with large beads … all to show that the Sioux understood the Great Powers were granting them a momentous victory over the white man. Even more so this primitive offering boasted that if the white man did not come to hunt the Sioux, the great Lakota nations would themselves hunt down the soldiers and destroy them.

The awesome power of one man’s prophetic vision surged through the veins of all, pumping them full with the fire of fight and courage. Sitting Bull had electrified his people and made them one against that white tide seeking to sweep over their ancient lands.

Their time had come.

There would be no other.

After learning the Crows had discovered the hostiles’ trail leading over the divide, Custer ordered an officers’ meeting, dispatching Cooke to announce the assembly without the use of bugles.

“The general’s compliments,” Cooke said breathlessly as he loped up to a group of friends near Godfrey’s Company K. “He wants to see all officers at headquarters immediately.”

Some of those Cooke rousted had just eased back on their bedrolls to get a fix on some sleep without dreams of their tired, sore asses plastered to sweat-dampened saddles. Others had just dipped their nightly tobacco quid in snuff or trader’s whiskey or even sweet fruit brandy. Still others wanted only to settle back to watch the fireflies or the stars swirling overhead like a slow, blazing pinwheel; they were content to listen to the gurgle of the Rosebud and that growing silence of the Montana prairie.

No moon yet. Still too early this time of the year. So without even that sliver of light overhead to guide their way, Custer’s officers groped their way through the snoring troops and picketed horses, doggedly stumbling upstream toward the general’s bivouac.

“You know, there’s one characteristic I’ll long remember as something that is truly Custer,” Ed Godfrey explained to lieutenants Wallace and DeRudio as the trio crept along the meadow. “His restless energy is back. Pushing, pushing—forever driving without stop. In a way it’s good to have the old man back again.”

“Have him back again?” DeRudio replied with his Italian inflection. The subtleties of the English
language
continued to elude him.

“Yes, have the old Custer back with us. Seems ever since
we hit the Powder, even more since we crossed the Tongue and ran into those burial scaffolds, the old man got more and more distant. Quiet, withdrawn. Not his old self.”

“Tell you the truth, Ed,” Wallace said, “I don’t know which Custer I like best—even if I had a choice!”

“As for me, it’s a blessing to see that restless abandon surging through him once more. Why, after finding that Sun Dance Lodge today and all the rest, I got to thinking hard on it. The general’s mind is right on course after all—straight and true. And that’s just the way Custer’s been able to get things done down through the years, fellas. He keeps his mind focused on one thing, and one thing only.”

“So? You going to tell us what Custer’s got his mind on?”

“He’s not thinking of another damned thing but finding and crushing those Sioux.”

“Still,” Wallace sighed, “something about the way he’s acting keeps nagging at me.…”

“You still haunted—still believe he’s going to be killed?”

“Now more than ever, Ed. The man’s got death written on his face, dripping from his every word.”

Ed stopped, grabbing hold of Wallace’s arm and hauling him up short. He whispered harshly, “Mind what I say, for your own good. Just don’t let any one of his inner circle hear you say anything like that. You best keep that kind of talk quiet.”

At that point they recognized the booming voice of Myles Keogh mixing with the high, contagious laughter of Tom Custer. Rounding the next clump of bullberry, Godfrey spotted a solitary candle lantern and the hulking shadows of officers gathering for Custer’s meeting.

“From all that the scouts have told me,” the general began, pacing before the assembly, “the Sioux are gathering in the valley on the other side of these mountains above us. We’re almost there, by jiggers!”

Godfrey saw how worked up Custer was, perhaps more so than at any time since leaving the Yellowstone.

“Fellas, what I’ve come up with is that we’re going to march as far as we can this evening, pushing up as close to the crest of that divide as possible. I want to find out where that Indian camp is … determine its size and strength.
Only then can I formulate a plan of attack. While I work that out, the regiment will conceal itself for the next day and night. Then attack at dawn on the twenty-sixth and catch the Sioux between us and Gibbon’s forces when they run.”

Custer slapped his hands together, rubbing them. “We’ve got to hope Terry and Gibbon got off as planned, boys. If not, that’ll put our attack for the twenty-sixth in a totally different light. If the Sioux try to flee north, and Gibbon’s not yet in position …”

As Custer’s voice dropped off in contemplation, Captain Myles Moylan stepped forward into the soft candlelight.

“General, what did the Crows tell you about the strength of the village? How strong is it?”

He turned to his former adjutant. Moylan was not all that popular among his fellows, something that had to do with the man’s Civil War record and a reenlistment under an assumed name. But Custer had taken Myles under his own wing at the beginning, when the Seventh Cavalry was formed, recognizing that Moylan had the makings of a good officer. The dark-haired Irishman never once let Custer down during that long winter campaign in Indian Territory.

“Myles, the Crow confirm we might meet fifteen hundred warriors at most. Seems they’ve found evidence of about four hundred lodges now. In their count they’re including the young warriors bedding down in wickiups. All that’s on the fresh trail heading over the divide.”

“So, boys!” Tom Custer leaned forward. “Are we gonna whip ’em?”

“Not a question of whipping ’em, little brother,” Custer chuckled in that bray of his. “Merely a question of keeping them from running on me before we can attack. Now remember what we’ll do—go over the divide and reconnoiter tomorrow, laying the regiment in wait until dawn of the twenty-sixth. Then we can hammer these Sioux for brother Tom here!”

“Goddamn right!” Tom cried. “Hammer Sitting Bull and finally head back to that wonderful summer holiday-land called Fort Abraham Lincoln!”

Godfrey had to laugh. He always laughed at Tom
Custer’s humor down through the years. There was much to admire about the general’s younger brother. Always the joker. Charming and witty, forever having his way with the ladies. The life of any party, or any campaign into hostile territory.

“We won’t go back until we’ve told the world about our victory,” Custer added quickly. “Not until the world knows we’ve defeated the mighty Sioux of Sitting Bull!”

“Are we going to get close enough to the buggers that they won’t be able to run on us?” Keogh growled darkly. “I’m ready for a good, dirty scrap of it, myself—so I don’t want none of ’em scooting out on me!”

“Precisely what we’re going to make sure of, Myles,” Custer answered. “The Crows speak of a high spot on the mountains up ahead, some sort of rocky prominence that will allow a man to view the whole valley of the Little Horn. From there they tell me we can see the rising of smoke up and down the entire valley. And that smoke will confirm the location of the Sioux village.”

The general strolled to Varnum’s side. “I’m going to send some of the Crow and Ree boys to this rocky knob the Indians call the Crow’s Nest. But most important, I need to have a white man along with the Indians to learn if the scouts do indeed see the Sioux down in that valley. I want verification, and I want someone who can send back some specifics to me.”

With Custer standing directly before him, Lieutenant Charles Varnum slowly became aware that everyone else stared at him as well. He scratched nervously at the new beard just beginning to bristle over his sharp chin. To the Rees, Varnum was known as Pointed Face. But he was always ready to let others joke about his chin easily enough. The same way he was going to joke about Custer drafting him for this important mission.

“So, General, you want a white man along. I suppose that means me, eh?”

“Correct, Charlie, I want you in charge of the detail. Beside Bouyer and Gerard, take Reynolds along with you. I want as many trustworthy eyes as possible on that valley come first light.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Then I suggest you move out at once.” Custer’s tone was solemn once again. “What time is it, Billy?”

“Just after nine o’clock,” Cooke answered.

“Good. The rest of us will set off after eleven as planned. I’ll proceed to the base of the mountain below this Crow’s Nest and await word sent down by you. As soon as you know anything, Charlie—anything at all—send me word by one of the Rees. I’ll be waiting.”

“Yes, General.” With a salute Varnum parted the officers and disappeared into the darkness to fetch eight of his Rees, along with five Crow; Custer’s favorite, Charlie Reynolds; and the half-breed, Mitch Bouyer.

Varnum never found Fred Gerard that night and didn’t really waste any time searching for him. If he had, the lieutenant would have found the interpreter dead drunk beneath an outlying bullberry bush, sleeping off a bellyful of his patent whiskey.

The Crows, Rees, and Bouyer followed Varnum and white scout Reynolds out of camp on foot, leading their horses toward the hulking mass of the Wolf Mountains. A swinging pinpoint of light became a candle lantern looming out of the night.

“Lieutenant?”

It was Custer’s voice. Mitch Bouyer would recognize that high-pitched, excited call anywhere.

“Over here, General,” Varnum responded.

“Charlie, I just thought of something. Glad I caught you before you were gone. I wanted to ask something of the Crows. Where’s Bouyer? Is he here?”

“I’m here,” Mitch answered, stepping out of the pony shadows. He didn’t even want to get near the general, still itching from their argument earlier in the day.

Custer gazed past the half-breed to the nearest Absaroka scout. “You, what’s your name?”

“White-Man-Runs-Him,” Mitch replied.

“Bouyer, ask this one where does his tribe stay. I mean … where’s his home?”

Bouyer was confused at the reason for the question, studying Custer’s face for some explanation and reading
there a strange light aglow behind the blue candlelit eyes.

“We live along the Bighorn River. Up to the lodge-grass country—down to the valley of the Greasy Grass, what the white man called the Little Horn.”

“Ahhh,” Custer replied. “Exactly as I supposed. This regiment’s approaching your ancestral homeland, aren’t we, White-Man-Runs-Him?”

The Crow nodded with Bouyer’s translation, his eyes flicking up to the Wolf Mountains. “On the other side lies the Greasy Grass. I am close to the land of those gone before. Yes.”

“Then understand this.” Custer spoke slowly, purposefully, so that Bouyer could translate as he went along. “I want you Crows to believe me. If I have to die to do it, you will get this land back from your longtime enemies, the Sioux. If you die in the coming battle, at least you will be buried on the land of your own people.”

To Mitch’s surprise Custer waited for no reply from the Indians or from Bouyer. He turned on his heel instead and was gone into the night. The scouts remained speechless a few moments until White-Man-Runs-Him muttered something. His exact words were chorused by the other five Absarokas. All six moved out toward the edge of camp.

Lonesome Charley Reynolds, who rarely talked to anyone at all, hung back to walk beside Bouyer, who had to keep tugging at his small Crow pony to keep it moving. After more than twelve hours of scouting up and down ridges already today, the animal wasn’t in the least eager for a night ride up the rocky slopes of these mountains.

“What that Injun say back there?” Reynolds whispered to Bouyer.

Mitch stared at the white scout a moment, deciding he could talk to Charley.
He is a good man, after all
, Bouyer decided.

“White-Man-Runs-Him said something about Custer.”

“Yeah? What’d he say about the general?”

“He said Custer’s wearing some mighty bad medicine hung like a buffalo robe over his shoulders.”

S
INCE
the march would be resumed shortly after eleven
P.M.,
so the command could inch as close to the Sioux as possible before daylight and thereby choose the best concealment for the day, many of the men didn’t see any sense in trying to get back to sleep.