Custer at the Alamo (4 page)

Tom held a cigar. Keogh and Smith had taken to rolling their own cigarettes. Georgie Yates sat quietly back, watching but saying little. Dr. Lord was half asleep, too tired to indulge. For myself, I hadn’t had a smoke or hard alcohol since 1862 and wasn’t going to start now.

“You’re talking fantasy, like those dime novels by that Frenchmen,” Lt. Harrington said. Twenty-seven years old, thin and blond-haired, Harrington was only four years out of West Point. Of my surviving officers, only he and 2nd Lt. Reily had not served during the Civil War.

“Jules Verne,” Mark Kellogg said, a reporter’s notepad in his lap.

“We’ll know more when we reach a settlement. Should find something by going downriver,” I said. “Saddle up first thing in the morning. Prepare for a hard day.”

“Another one?” Doctor Lord unhappily said.

“Sorry, doctor. Not much choice,” I replied.

Lord, normally a robust man typical of his native Massasschuetts, had developed a mild case of dysentery on the Yellowstone. The cold weather was making it worse. Chances were he wouldn’t last long in the damp air.

As my officers rejoined their men, Yates paused by the fire. We’d first met back in Monroe during the war and served together with General Pleasonton. Four years younger than I, blond and blue-eyed, Yates’s good temper never seemed to fail regardless of difficult circumstances. If I had a best friend, I suppose it would be George.

“What do you think the wives would say about this?” Yates asked.

“May be awhile before we find out,” I replied.

“I told Annie to take the kids home to Michigan if the campaign went beyond summer. Hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Libbie promised to stay at Fort Lincoln until I return. Probably put up those new lace curtains she keeps talking about.”

“Any idea how long this will take?” Yates asked.

“Not a clue in the world, Georgie. Not a clue.”

That night we slept bunched together for warmth. Most of the command prayed. I didn’t.

* * *

We were on the move at dawn, following the creek until reaching a minor river. The command rode under a gray sky in column of twos, our horses enjoying a slower pace that the previous few days. The recent rain had swollen the river, making it difficult to cross. Not that any of us had a desire to get wet. The sun came out around noon, and given the short period of time it took to reach its zenith, it was clearly a winter day. Probably late winter. Running short of grain for the horses, we had to stop each time we found a pitiful patch of grass.

Tom and Cooke rode at my side. I envied the protection Cooke’s mutton chops gave him from the cold wind. The battalion was divided into four groups, the largest detachments under the command of Yates and Keogh. Smith led a scouting party of twelve men, riding the trail ahead. Young Harrington was ordered to make a final sweep of the area for stragglers and catch up before sunset. Tom and I agreed that Bouyer might be right. After the Rebellion, we’d both had duty on the southern plains. This seemed more like Indian Territory than the Dakotas.

“Buff’lo, Gen’ral. Hundreds of ’em,” Bouyer announced from the next rise.

Tough and stringy though it may be, a nice buffalo steak sounded awfully good at that moment. Tom and I went forward with Sergeant Jimmy Butler, we being three of the best shots in the regiment, leaving most back so as not to scare off the herd. Bouyer and Kellogg trailed behind. As civilians, they were only nominally under my authority.

It was a big herd, bigger than I’d seen in years. The shaggy beasts were gradually wandering southwest toward a misty valley in the distance. It’s said there were once millions of buffalo, enough to cover an entire state, but hunters had been cutting the herds down to make fur hats. In another hundred years, I feared the buffalo might disappear entirely.

“First kill wins the prize,” I said, giving Vic a nudge.

We galloped for a few minutes, then slowed as we approached a wide bend in the river where a stand of trees blocked our view of the valley. The grass was thick here, the soil too loose for hard riding. We climbed a low hill for a better view, and much to my surprise, spotted a small campsite about a thousand yards downstream. And not just any campsite. There were two buffalo hide teepees with half a dozen Paint ponies grazing nearby. Twenty paces from the camp, I saw a heavy freight wagon hitched to four white oxen. Several mules were tethered together. Two horses of the larger Kentucky breed were tied to the tailgate.

“Who the hell are they?” Tom asked.

“Sioux markings on the tents,” Cooke said, looking through his field glasses.

“Maybe we’re not so far south after all,” I surmised.

“There’s trouble down there,” Kellogg observed, adjusting his spectacles for a better look.

I raised my Austrian binoculars, observing the scene with surprise and a bit of shame. Several Indians lay on the ground, possibly dead. Four white men in crude hunting leather stood about, three with old-fashioned muskets and one with a large knife. Two squaws and an Indian boy were hovering over the bodies. The man with the knife grabbed one of the squaws, a young woman with a very graceful figure.

“What’s going on there?” Tom asked, standing up in his stirrups.

“Looks like those buffalo hunters are plundering the Sioux camp,” I speculated.

“More than plundering. The fat one is ripping off the girl’s dress,” Cooke said.

“That son of a bitch!” Tom shouted.

Before I could stop him, Tom was riding full kilt down the hillside toward the camp, drawing his Colt .45 revolver.

Cooke and I started after him, but Tom’s horse, Athena, was said to be Arabian. Fast as lightning. I might have kept close if I’d realized Tom was going to bolt. Vic was my battle horse, a Kentucky thoroughbred, and fearless in a charge. I’d owned him since taking command of the Seventh in 1866 and he’d never let me down. Cooke’s horse was a little faster than Vic, but not by much.

“Tom! Tom!” I yelled, but the young gallant’s blood was up.

Tom could never stomach abuse of a woman, Indian or not. Libbie had taught him that. He emerged from the war a brave man and decorated hero, but rough in his ways. It was Libbie who patiently molded her poorly educated brother-in-law into a gentleman. Of sorts.

The men in hunting leather turned to see Tom bearing down on them. Two were large, a third not so much, and the fourth short but stocky. All were thickly bearded, dressed warm against the weather. It was the stocky villain who was attacking the young Indian lass, a hand entangled in her long black hair while using a hunting knife to slash her deerskin dress. At first the hunters seemed to feel no danger, but gradually they took alarm as they sensed the approaching rider was not friendly.

Tom raised his Army Colt and fired from fifty yards away, the first shot missing. His second shot hit one of the hunters high on the shoulder, causing the man to howl in surprise. The other three marauders raised their muskets and fired, the reports echoing off the prairie.

I couldn’t tell if Tom was hit, but he kept riding right into the camp, shooting another hunter several times at point blank range. The stocky man with the knife pushed the girl backwards and charged at Tom. Tom jumped from Athena and wrestled for the blade. The fourth hunter quickly started to reload, using an antique ramrod to jam a lead ball down the barrel of his rifle. The Indian lass and the older woman took flight for the teepees, dragging a young man with them. The Indian boy stood his ground, watching with curiosity while showing no fear.

The hunter with the knife was putting up a good fight, keeping Tom’s attention from his treacherous friend. I pulled Vic to a halt and yanked my Remington .50-caliber from its sheath. It wasn’t a long shot, only three hundred yards. Over the years I’d made many a fine kill, a few at five hundred yards or better. More often than not, I’d exaggerated the distance, as sportsmen are prone to do. But I could not afford to miss now. Not with my brother’s life at stake.

Tom gave the stocky man a solid left hook, knocking him down, and then pounced. The other man finished reloading and took aim at Tom’s back from ten feet away. I drew him in my sight, held my breath, and squeezed off a shot. The hunter’s head exploded in a pink cloud, his arms flung out as he fell. Seconds later, Cooke rode up with his revolver ready and shot the wounded man attempting to reload his rifle. The man collapsed against the wagon, made a feeble attempt to lift his weapon, and then toppled over as Cooke shot him two more times. Tom took the knife away from the last remaining hunter and plunged it into his foul heart.

“Damn it, Tom,” I chastised, riding in after the fighting ceased.

“No harm, Autie,” Tom said, wiping a streak of blood off his forehead.

Two of the Indians lying on the ground stirred, knocked down but not killed. A third was dead, his brains bashed in with rifle butts. All three were young, late teens or early twenties. Of the two women, the graceful beauty seemed about eighteen, the other a crone close to fifty. Ancient by Indian standards. They had dragged an old man in the largest teepee, so old his age was beyond guessing. He had been struck over the head and appeared dazed. The Indian boy I took to be six or seven. A sturdy lad with intelligent black eyes. Bouyer rode up, ready to be our interpreter.

One of the young bucks got up, nursing a wounded arm but determined to be their spokesman. The young woman rushed forward, one hand holding her torn dress together, seeming even more intent on speaking for their party. They argued, silently. The woman won.

“My name is Morning Star,” the woman said, her accented English easy to understand. “This is my little brother, Slow, and my cousins, Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf. Spotted Eagle’s mother is called Walking-In-Grass, and my grandfather’s name is Jumping Bull. Our lost cousin was Closed Hand. We thank you for saving who you could.”

Morning Star bowed gracefully. The other Indians merely watched, apparently unfamiliar with a civilized language.

“You speak well,” Tom said.

“I spent two years at the St. Joseph school in St. Louis. You’re hurt. Let me wash that cut,” Morning Star said.

She found a piece of soft hide and dipped it in a water bag. Tom did not resist her ministrations. I motioned to Cooke and Kellogg to take care of the dead buffalo hunters. Bouyer reluctantly helped. The old Indian emerged from the teepee, wearing a headdress with scores of eagle feathers. He had counted many coup in his day.

“Are we near your village?” I asked.

“No, we have traveled south for many moons on a vision quest,” Morning Star said.

“What does your grandfather seek?” Tom asked, taking a second look at the old fellow.

The ancient chief was my height, about five feet, nine inches. His finely cut rawhide outfit indicated a man of great dignity. His deep brown eyes looked tired, not from exertion, but from too many years of a hard life.

“Not my grandfather. It is Slow’s vision we seek. Someday he will be a powerful medicine chief,” Morning Star explained. “At first I thought we were searching for a white buffalo, for there are legends of such. Or maybe a white wolf. Now I’m not sure.”

The boy came forward, first staring at me, then at Tom. I don’t think he’d ever seen a white man before. But neither of us was a white buffalo or a white wolf. He wore a deerskin outfit decorated with red and blue beadwork. Rabbit fur mittens were keeping his hands warm. I gave him a smile, being fond of children. Libbie and I had never been blessed.

The explanation made sense. The group was traveling light with just the two teepees and a few horses to drag the lodge poles. An old iron pot hung over their fire, a fine stew offering a pleasant aroma. They had sufficient blankets and some supplies, but not so much as they would have closer to home. Having gone on hunting trips with my Ree scouts many times, I was familiar with the resourcefulness of the plains Indians. Nevertheless, these people were a long way from the Missouri River country.

Bouyer returned from the freight wagon, chewing a piece of jerky, a cured buffalo hide draped over his slim shoulders. It was a large wagon of an older style, like the ones I remembered seeing as a child. It lacked steel springs or a good brake, and the wheels were primitive. My father would never have allowed such a relic to leave his blacksmith shop.

“Buff’lo hunters were doin’ good, Gen’ral. ’Bout a hundred or so skins. No horse blanket for me tonight,” Bouyer said.

“We also found several sacks of flour, about fifty pounds of jerky, and six cans of coffee,” Cooke said. “What should we do with the bodies?”

“Leave the curs for the buzzards,” I rashly ordered, though I knew we’d have to bury them eventually.

“And the Indians?” Cooke asked.

“Once we figure where we are, we’ll find transport for them back to the reservation,” I said.

“Reservation?” Morning Star asked.

“Don’t worry, miss. We’ll get you home,” I promised.

I saw Yates appear on the hill, the rest of the command not far behind. The night wouldn’t be so cold with the confiscated hides for warmth, and hopefully there’d be enough coffee to go around. All we needed was to shoot a couple of buffalo and our bellies would be full. There was a canvas tent in the freight wagon for my officers, but I decided one of the teepees would serve better as my headquarters.