Seize the Sky: Son of the Plains-Volume 2 (29 page)

This unsettling mixture of veterans and raw, untried recruits followed him into the maw. Rogues and rascals … even innocents and children who had no conception of what war with the Sioux was all about. Sobering for the hard-files to brood on the men around them—some thirty to sixty percent
of each company unseasoned and scared enough right now to worry about wetting their britches.

Yet any man present would have said he trusted Custer. The general’s reputation protected them all with a brassy aura of invincibility as they rode on and on, following that big cream-colored hat and that bright scarlet scarf fluttering on the hot breeze.

Custer had never lost a fight. So they followed.

Some sweated in those white shirts first used during the Civil War and still issued on the frontier posts eleven years later. Others dampened dark blue shirts simply because the white ones got all too dirty much too fast. These indigo shirts made it pleasantly convenient for a trooper: He got away with going longer between washings than did the simple-minded, who wore white and far too often had to pay a call on the post laundresses along Soapsuds Row.

Even a scattering of these soldiers sported the coarse gray pullover of the variety Custer himself wore this day. In addition, there appeared a lively mixture of the checkered hickory shirts some had purchased from trader Coleman at the Yellowstone. Such lightweight cloth made for a more comfortable ride in the summer heat of this hunt for the Sioux.

From time to time the troopers worked at some saddle rations, choking down hardtack or cooked pork with swallows of the warm, stinking creek water from their canteens. Their noses reddened and crusted with alkali dust, none could smell the earthy aromas of man and animal on the dust anyway. Those rank odors of lathered horses and played-out mules, along with the well-known and all-too-familiar pungent stench of men too long without a bath, mingled with the perfume of the tiny wildflowers trampled underfoot.

An army on the prowl.

Every man sweltered beneath a wide sky, accompanied down trail by the familiar thunk and clink of saddle leather and bridle chain. Not to mention the reassuring plap of their reliable weapons at their sides. While officers carried .45-caliber Colts, the troopers were issued .44-caliber Remington pistols, both of which could drop a man at seventy
paces if a soldier could aim and fire without jerking the trigger. Those sidearms were usually worn butt forward on the right side of the body so the pistol could be withdrawn by the left hand, as the right normally wielded the nearobsolete saber.

Every soldier carried the 1873 trapdoor Springfield chambered for .45–.70 ammunition. Some men toted what they fondly called their knitting bag, a wool-lined cartridge box worn on the belt, used to carry more of that carbine ammunition: a .45-caliber bullet backed with seventy grains of powder that could kill at better than three hundred yards, making a tight six-inch group at a hundred. With a hundred rounds of Springfield ammunition assigned to each man, most soldiers filled the loops in their cartridge belts and allowed the rest of the shells to rattle loose in their leather saddlebags.

In the hands of a cool veteran, the Springfield trapdoors could fire seven shots in twelve to fifteen seconds. Enough to keep any band of charging warriors at bay.

With a rattle and thunk, a plodding clop of iron-shod hooves, and the snapping pop of the striped regimental pennants, the troops followed Custer down to the Greasy Grass. Beneath an oppressive summer sky, every man suffered a knotting belly and that nauseating ache from bad water, not to mention the agony of eyes scalded from alkali dust and a face burned raw by sun and wind.

The gallant Seventh marched down into the maw of that valley as surely as if it had been the cool, shady, beckoning halls of Valhalla itself. Less like an army of avenging Norse gods commanded by the all-powerful Odin himself—more like a roving band of renegade gypsies—Custer’s Cavalry plodded down into the seductive valley of the Greasy Grass while Destiny herself opened her arms at last.

“The general’s compliments, Major,” Adjutant Cooke began with a smile, his long, flowing Dundrearies tousled by the hot breeze clinging to the Ash Creek drainage. “He wishes you to take command of Company A under Captain Moylan, G under Lieutenant McIntosh, and M under Captain French, sir. In addition, the general wishes to
transfer to your command the services of Crow scouts White Swan and Half-Yellow-Face—also the Arikara interpreter, Gerard.”

“Then he wants me to keep the Ree scouts with my command?” Reno inquired suspiciously, scratching his beard.

“It’s my opinion that he does—yes, sir,” Cooke replied. “He’s keeping four of the Crows and Bouyer with him. The rest, I assume, are now to go with you.”

“Anything more? Something in the way of orders?”

“No, Major.” Billy Cooke glanced back at Custer, sitting loosely atop Dandy on the rise above them.
Strange, now that I think about it—

“Custer just wants me in command of three companies … is that right?”

Cooke thought Reno sounded more than a bit anxious. But then the skin around the major’s eyes sagged again.
The dastard’s relieved that he’s not ordered into battle immediately. If I had my way
—

“Correct, Major,” Cooke answered. “He orders you to proceed down the left bank of the stream.”

“Very good, Lieutenant.” Reno turned toward his three companies.

By the time Cooke galloped back to the head of the columns to rejoin the general, Custer was sending the short, shy Charley Reynolds off to ride with Reno as well. The scout’s soulful blue eyes twinkled with a melancholy light as he waved farewell to the general and the swarthy Bouyer, kicking his mount back along the dark snake of cavalry waiting patiently for Custer to complete this division of the troops for what most officers realized was to become a three-winged attack.

“Captain Yates?”

“Yes, sir!” he replied in his best Michigan Yankee accent.

“You and Captain Keogh will be in charge of the five remaining companies under my aegis.”

“Sir?” Yates appeared startled.

“You’ll take command of C Company under Captain
Custer, E under Lieutenant Smith, along with your own F Company, Captain Yates.”

The eyes of the officers studied Custer as he in turn studied the valley beyond.

Billy Cooke understood why he wanted George Yates to command the lion’s share of companies under Custer’s personal aegis. Besides being a hometown Monroe, Michigan boy, Yates had served on Custer’s staff during the war. He was a rock-steady hand, proven in battle. Yet, as Cooke thought on it now, there still remained the hint of stain. Guilt by association. George’s brother, Fred, was the head trader for the Sioux at the Red Cloud Agency down in Nebraska, a fact that had not escaped the attention of many in high places during the graft-and-corruption scandals still rocking the War Department since the past winter.

If George does well in the coming fight
, Cooke thought, looking at the two men,
then Custer’s faith in him will be vindicated—and all taint removed from Yate’s career. That’s the kind of soldier the old man is
.

“Meanwhile,” Custer continued, bringing his eyes back to the big Irishman, who sat sweltering in his own coarse gray-woolen pullover, “immediate command to fall under Captain Keogh will be his own and Lieutenant Calhoun’s companies.”

James Calhoun grinned as he reached over swinging a fist, slugging Keogh on the shoulder. They had long been the best of friends and drinking partners. Together they repeatedly boasted that their two companies alone could whip thrice their weight in Sioux.

“I want your command to be prepared for a rearguard action, gentlemen,” Custer went on. “No telling what the sneaking hostiles might do in coming up our backsides. They know we’re coming.” His eyes scanned the far hills to the north, then moved back up the divide behind them. “I can’t think of any better commanders to protect this regiment’s backsides.”

Keogh snorted that rollicking bray of his that characterized his lust for life. He never shied from anything thrown his way. “Jimmy and me—we’re ready and able to watch over anyone’s arses, we are, sir!”

“Splendid,” Custer said with a smile. “Now that Reno’s moving across the creek, you’ll see that I’ve kept my family with me. Just as I’ve long envisioned it on such a day of glory. You’ll all ride with me today. What say you, friends?”

“I’m one bastard fotching to spill some Sioux blood first, General!” Keogh rattled. “Washington City can wait till I get that outta my gawdamned system. Gimme more whiskey and bring on Crazy Horse!”

Custer said, “You’ll have your wish shortly, Myles. Let’s see if the Sioux are going to cooperate with us or not. I can’t shake this worry that they’re going to run on me.”

“How can we assure that they don’t, sir?” Calhoun piped in.

“Jimbo, I have a plan that might just work when we come in sight of the village,” Custer whispered, lending a mysterious air to his answer. “But for the time being—ah, good. Here comes Vic now!”

Minutes ago he had dispatched Saddler Sergeant John Tritten from his personal headquarters command to ride back to the pack train with Dandy and fetch Vic, Custer’s favorite chestnut sorrel, from Private Burkman. Back in the days of his Civil War battles Custer had learned the advantage in taking a fresh animal into a fight. Such a tactic had worked well for him in past campaigns, so he was not one about to break a string of good fortune now that he stood on the precipice of glory.

On Sergeant Tritten’s tail loped angel-faced Boston Custer and young Autie Reed, the eighteen-year-old bullyboy who had come to watch his uncles butcher some Sioux. Beside them rode Mark Kellogg, still raking his worn-out army-issue mule with Herendeen’s spurs. Taking their cue from the general’s stern face, the three civilians fell silent, not anxious to interrupt the proceedings. They reined to a halt. Tritten switched Custer’s saddle to Vic’s back atop a dry blanket. At the same time, other officers and enlisted tightened cinches, patted their horses’ sweaty necks, or adjusted their own damp clothing. Belts were wrenched up a notch, yellow-striped britches restuffed into scuffed boots.

Then Custer was up in the saddle once more, looking
bigger than life atop Vic, the blaze-faced sorrel standing better than sixteen hands high. After tugging his hat down over his hogged strawberry haircut, Custer waved his officers and their commands to follow him downstream.

“Billy, you’ll see the troops are put to the march, then rejoin me?” Set deep within that sun-rawed, wind-scalded face were a pair of eyes burned red with alkali dust, hollowed and black-rimmed with characteristic lack of sleep.

“Will do, General,” Cooke answered. “We’ll follow your lead!”

And as Custer turned from his officers’ conference, he pointed Vic’s nose to the right—to every man’s surprise. For now he no longer led his men down that wide, well-marked Indian road scoured by thousands upon thousands of hooves across the dusty, dry breast of the Ash Creek trail.

Custer ducked behind some low hills, hills that for a time put him out of Major Reno’s sight.

With every bend and twist of the trail down into the valley, Marcus Reno grew a bit more apprehensive.

What if Custer’s taken off, and I suddenly confront the Sioux on my own?
Reno’s mind raced, burdened by all the dreadful possibilities.

Several miles down the creek, both commands passed through a swampy morass. Here lay a steamy bog that over the centuries filled with stagnant seepage trapped as the spring rain and winter runoff trickled down from the Wolf Mountains. At this stage of the year, the morass by and large had already gone dry, its surface cracking beneath summer’s retribution upon the land.

Over the damp belly of the bog hung a stifling stench. Unmistakable—some poor animal had blundered into the marsh, seeking relief from the heat, instead found no way out. Even the wary predators of these high plains had left the old buffalo bull to rot beneath the hot sun. The stench of its decaying flesh clung to the place as the soldiers hurried past, choking down their stomach’s revolt at not only the smell, but the sight of maggots and blowflies busy at the blackened meat.

Shortly before two o’clock, Reno decided he would move his companies back to the north bank to ride in concert with Custer. Both the terrain itself and the major’s own nervousness dictated his change of heart. Even the veterans tensed up on their reins, wary and alert when a few minutes later arose the frightened cries of the scouts.

They were pointing ahead. Shouting.

Reno’s eyes shot up and down his columns. Every soldier had ears alert. Sour tongues raked dry lips. Sweaty hands yanked carbines into readiness.

Yet for all the tension and excitement, what the scouts had discovered was not a buffalo or antelope—much less a Sioux warrior.

All that stood astride the wide, well-plowed Indian trail pointing itself down the dry, cracked bottomland of Ash Creek was a solitary painted Indian lodge.

At first the Arikara scouts milled about nervously, bumping their mounts against one another, unsure of what to make of this startling discovery, more so afraid of what the existence of this lone tepee foretold. They shouted to scare off any evil spirits from the place. Then one of their number finally realized there were no Sioux here.

Only then did that solitary young warrior rattle heels against his pony’s flanks.

With a whoop and a high-throated cry, Strikes Two charged down on the solitary lodge, swinging by it at a full gallop, slapping his quirt across the dry buffalo hides. He whirled about in a dust spray, bringing his snorting pony up sharply. He smiled, quite proud of himself as the first man of this campaign, white or red, brave enough to count coup on an enemy’s lodge.

His strutting turn ended in time for him to watch his childhood friend, Young Hawk, leap from his pony at a full run and race on foot to the lodge, yanking his huge scalping knife from his belt. With one swift slash he had the lodge skins opened from the smoke flaps down to the stakes that were pounded into the dry, crumbly earth. Suddenly freed through that new wound in the old lodge, the stench of death and rotting flesh escaped, surrounding the tepee as Young Hawk stumbled back, his hand covering his nose.