Assault on Atlantis

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mitch Bouyer sat cross-legged in the darkness, staring straight ahead, listening to the noise of the camp settling in, horses shifting. Men sleeping. Sentries making their rounds. The column of blue coats had halted here a half-hour ago after trying to cross the divide between the Rosebud and the Little Bighorn River and not being able to make it. The regiment had been riding all the previous day and into the night. They had slowly blundered forward in the dark for six hours before Custer had been forced to call a halt, still short of the crest of the divide.

It was late June, but it was still cool at night here in the northern territory of Montana. Bouyer had reached the Seventh Cavalry two days ago much farther up the Rosebud, not far from where it ran into the Yellowstone. He found it interesting that no word of what had happened to Crook had yet made it to this column.

Remembering Bouyer from Washita, Custer had been eager to sign him up, not as a hunter this time, but as a scout. Custer had pressed Bouyer for word of what was happening to the south. Bouyer had answered honestly-the last he had seen of Crook’s column was that it was camped along the Rosebud.

The silhouette of a man wearing a cavalry forage cap walked by him, standing out against the stars. Bouyer recognized the C Company first sergeant.

“What’s going on?” Bouyer asked, getting to his feet. He estimated it to be about three in the morning. He had spent the previous day and into the evening scouting ahead and had reed back, made his report to Custer, then tried to get some sleep while other scouts moved forward to take his place.

He noted that there were some fires, which was a change. They were traveling hard and they were traveling fast. Custer wanted to catch the Indians before the other columns, everyone in the regiment knew that. It affected each man differently according to his own wants. For many it brought thoughts of medals and glowing newspaper reports. For most of the enlisted men it meant an end to the hard riding through empty grasslands and a return to post.

“Lieutenant Varnum and some of the scouts are going to some place called the Crow’s Nest to take a look-see,” the first sergeant said. “The general’s been riding about camp.

“Other scouts just came in,” the first sergeant continued. The man spit a wad of tobacco juice. ‘’Not good. Then red-faced fellows-” the sergeant paused as he remembered who he was talking to—“meaning no disrespect, say there’s Sioux, all around and we might have been spotted.”

It never ceased to amaze Bouyer how word of every little thing could spread so quickly through the regiment. Often the thing could spread so quickly through the regiment. Often the word.

Bouyer looked up at the hills where Varnum would be going to take a look. He could just make out their dark masses against the night sky. The Crow’s Nest. He’d been there be. When hunting with Bridger. It was a good place to look far.

Bouyer knew Custer wasn’t going to be happy about perhaps being spotted. The plan Custer had sketched out for the officers the previous evening had called for a day of rest for he tired men and horses after crossing the divide before the regiment thrust down into the Little Big Horn valley where the scouts said the Sioux were camped.

“Where’s the captain?” Bouyer asked. Tom Custer, the younger brother of the regimental commander and winner of two Medals of Honor during the Civil War, was the C Troop commander.

“He’s with the general.”

Bouyer had learned much about the Seventh Cavalry in the past two days. There were twelve troops or companies in the Seventh Cavalry, lettered A through M. Under strength, with just fifty to sixty men in each. The regiment’s current role call was about 675 men, and most of those men were spread out over the rocky ground trying to get some much-needed sleep.

Bouyer was used to being in the saddle. But even his body felt the ache of the last several days’ ride. God help the poor recruits, he thought. He knew that wasn’t exactly one of Custer’s concerns, but it was for some of the junior officers who spent more time among the men. The Seventh was made up of almost forty percent recruits who had received only minimal training in the basic skills of the cavalry, particularly riding and shooting. There had been no time during the forced march they’d endured the last several weeks for any additional training to be conducted. If trouble came-and Bouyer knew it would from the signs he had been seeing, not to mention his visions — the new men were going to have to learn in the heat of battle.

The first sergeant spit out some chew. “Guess r d best get the boys ready to move. The general won’t let us sleep if there are some Indians about.”

Bouyer regretted having gone to sleep. He should have stayed with Varnum. As one of the few who spoke several Indian languages present, Bouyer was now one of the interpreters between the Indian scouts and the Anny officers.

Bouyer went to his horse and saddled it. He pointed the animal’s nose toward the hills and moved out into the darkness, allowing the horse to pick the way. It took a good forty-five minutes to get near the top. He found a cluster of horses tied to some scrub and added his to them. He went the rest of the way on foot, his worn moccasins making no noise as he went uphill.

Lie found Varnum and the rest of the scouts on top of a large boulder, black silhouettes against the dark. sky.

“God damn, God damn,” Lieutenant Varnum was muttering, trying to look through his binoculars.

The Crow scout Bloody Knife acknowledged Bouyer’s arrival with a nod. Streaks of black paint covered the Indian’s face-his death mask. Bouyer had talked with Bloody Knife briefly the previous day and was not surprised to hear the Crow’s belief that he would be dead soon. Bouyer had given him one of the crystal skulls, with the admonition to keep it hidden, but close by. Bloody Knife had taken it without protest or question, accepting it as he accepted that he would die in battle shortly.

Bouyer still had four skulls left, and he wasn’t sure how he Was going to be able to get them to who he knew was supposed to have them. He looked about the mountaintop. He’d heard two different stories from Bridger about how the location had received its name. One was that crows did indeed nest there. The second was that the mountaintop had been used by Crow Indians as an observation point when conducting horse-raiding parties into Sioux territory.

The Seventh Cavalry was not alone out here, Bouyer knew. Besides Crook’s column, Colonel Gibbon had left Fort Ellis to the west on April 1 and linked up with General Terry at the mouth of the Rosebud on the Yellowstone. The Seventh had been with General Terry until three days ago, when they had been sent south to scout along the northern part of the Rosebud, then swing over into the Little Big Horn and come downstream.

Gibbon and Terry were to slide farther down the Yellowstone, then come upstream on the Little Big Horn and link up with Custer along that river, catching the hostiles in between them. The date for the link-up was the twenty-sixth, and it looked like it was all coming together as planned, Bouyer thought as he peered out into the darkness. Terry’s column would be a sight for the scared eyes of some of the men, but Bouyer knew Custer would prefer to strike before the higher-ranking Terry and his troops met them. The more senior officers involved in any action, the more diluted the glory and honor. It always amazed Bouyer that men who claimed to be far-sighted were usually those who saw so little of reality. There were rumors that Custer wanted to run for president in the next election and that he wanted a great victory quickly so he could telegraph the news back to Philadelphia where a grand centennial celebration was to be staged the next month. Custer was looking to the White House when he couldn’t even see what was waiting for him in the next valley.

Still, Bouyer knew, the Seventh Cavalry, twelve companies strong, was a potent fighting force despite the high percentage of recruits and low force level. Bouyer had heard that Custer had even turned down some additional companies from the Second Cavalry and a battery of Gatling guns that Terry had offered before they split off at the Yellowstone.

Dawn was breaking to the east, and Bouyer could begin to make out shapes around him. Curly and Hairy Moccasin, two Arikara scouts, were peering off to the northwest. Bouyer wiped his brow. The sky was clear and it would be a warm day. He looked to the east and saw smoke rising into the air from the regiment’s hasty bivouac site. That surprised him. Custer had or4ered no fires and no bugle calls the last several days of the march since they’d split from General Terry. Why had that order been changed now?

Suddenly the Arikara began chanting.

‘’Damn,’’ Varnum cursed. “Enough! Stop it! Bouyer stop them.”

“They’re singing their death songs, sir,” Bouyer said, making no attempt to stop the chanting. He could now see what had prompted them, and he didn’t blame them in the least. “look, sir,” Bouyer pointed.

Varnum put the field glasses to his eyes, but early morning mist blanketed the long dark line to the northeast that was the course of the little Big Horn River. To the right of the Little Big Horn were bluffs that also obscured looking down into the valley in places. Far to the west, the ground rose in steps, leading to the Rocky Mountains. Closer in that direction were the Wolf Mountains, of which the Crow’s Nest was on the eastern edge.

“Don’t you see it?” Bouyer asked. “On the west side of the Little Big Horn.”

Varnum squinted, but all he could see was haze. “What?”

“Biggest pony herd I’ve ever seen,” Bouyer said.

“I don’t see a thing,” Varnum complained.

‘There,” Bouyer said, pointing once more. Looks like a bunch of worms squirming about.”

Varnum tried, but he couldn’t make it out. “You’re sure the Sioux are there?”

“Sioux,” Bouyer said affirmatively. “And more. Many, many more. They’re all there. The Sioux, Hunkpapa, Blackfoot, Oglala, Two Kettle’s people, Sans Arc. Old Sitting Bull, he’s out there. Gall. Crazy Horse, too. There will probably be.some Cheyenne there from the signs I’ve been seeing.” Crazy Horse was most definitely there, Bouyer knew. He could feel his “brother’s” presence. And the others needed I1im to be there. He hoped Sitting Bull was able to keep his coalition together from the Rosebud.

Varnum rubbed his eyes and put the glasses back to his eyes. “Why don’t I see any smoke from their fires?”

“Smoke’s there,” Bouyer said. “Most of it caught in the alley, but you can see it.” He looked about. ‘’They’ve got to have hunting parties out. You’re sure to be spotted soon.”

Varnum looked back the way they had come. He could see the smoke from the regiment’s cooking fires, which was for sure. Rising up against the bright morning horizon.

“You,” Varnum said, pointing at Bloody Knife. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled a note onto to it with the stub of a pencil. “Take this to the general. Tell him we’ve found the village.”

Varnum cursed as Bloody Knife took the time to tie up his horse’s tail prior to leaving. Bouyer knew it was a signal that Bloody Knife believed a battle was about to commence. Once he was gone, Varnum looked through the binoculars again, trying with all his might to see the village or the pony herd.

Bouyer felt light-headed. Things were moving, corning together. He had never heard of such a large gathering of his mother’s people. There was powerful medicine at work — very powerful medicine. Just as he knew there would be.

His back ached. That was what had woken him up. Gall, not for the first time or the last, cursed the blue coat who had driven a bayonet through him, back to front, ten years ago.

A party of soldiers had come to his lodge to arrest him in the middle of winter when they’d known he’d be stuck in one place. He’d spotted them and walked out to meet them, try109 to talk peace. He was hit in the face with the stock of a gun and fell to the ground. While he was lying there, one of the soldiers pinned him to the ground with his long bayonet like a fish pinned by a bear’s claw.

They had left him there, cold steel holding him to cold ground, while they went to get their commander. Gall had pulled the bayonet out and then run, blood pouring from his wound, until he was in the cover of some trees. He stayed there until the soldiers finally gave up searching for him in the icy cold. He returned to his lodge, where his wives nursed him back to health.

Gall turned his head. Some of these women had been there. Others had come after. He had several wives, as befitted a war chief of the Hunkpapa Sioux. After that incident he vowed never again to meet the white man with anything but a weapon in his hand.

Gall reached toward where his head had rested. The crystal skull he’d been given by the strange white man was in a sack. He took the sack in his hands. The object was unnaturally warm. Gall didn’t need Sitting Bull’s confirmation to know this was powerful magic.

Gall rose, took the sack and slipped out of his lodge. The door, as was the custom, faced to the east. The Greasy Grass River, the river the white man called the Little Big Horn, was a hundred yards away. Gall stretched his heavily muscled arms up to the sky, trying to relieve some of the ache in his back. He was built like a wide tree stump. He had dark black eyes that had been the last thing many an enemy had seen. His name among his tribe was Man Who Goes in the Middle, referring to his bravery in battle, where he could always be found in the middle of the fray. His weapon of choice was a steel hatchet, something that required close combat, as he disdained using both bow and rifle.

Gall turned and surveyed the camp. His lodge and his people, the Hunkpapa of the Lakota Sioux, were the southernmost tribe in the camp. The other Sioux tribes were camped along the valley floor, stretching to the north, with the northernmost encampment being that of the Northern the northernmost encampment being that of the Northern or heard of.

The pony herd, cared for by young boys, was to the east and north among the green spring grass. Gall knew there Were warrior sentries out there among the boys. Only a fool would leave ponies without guards, but there were fools among the various tribes, as recent events had shown. Some still felt that no one would be stupid enough to attack such a large encampment. The same fools called the battle against Three Stars, which was now called the Battle Where the Girl Saved Her Brother, a victory. Gall knew better, even though Three Stars and his soldiers were retreating to the south. They called the battle that because a Cheyenne warrior named Comes in Sight had had his mount shot out from under him and faced certain death, from the Crows when his sister, Buffalo Calf Road Woman, rode in, grabbed his arm, swung him up on her horse and rode off with him to safety.

Looking at the vast number of lodges, Gall could almost I’ve that they were too numerous to be attacked. Except for one problem-he had never found the white man to be particularly sensible. The red man fought only when necessary and then in the most economical way possible. The white man, well, Gall shook his head. The white man made no sense. Their warriors were paid to fight. How can one pay for bravery and courage? Their homes might be many, many rides away, even on the far side of the great river, yet they came out here because they were told to. And they fought because someone told them to and paid them pieces of paper to put their lives in peril. And they followed a leader because he was appointed, not because he had necessarily proven himself on the field of battle to be worthy of being followed.

The first requirement of a leader among the Sioux was bravery. In fact, there were times that displaying bravery was more important than winning the fight. Gall had displayed bravery on more than enough occasions to rise to the position he held in his tribe.

Despite his position as war chief, though, to get a tribe of his own people to fight, Gall had to get a consensus and give them a valid reason to put their lives in jeopardy. He could see. The lodge signs representing the different tribes. Some had even been enemies in the past, but they had run out of options as they had run out of land. The Indians gathered here at the Greasy Grass were from two major tribal groups: he Lakota, or western, Sioux and the Northern Cheyenne.

The Lakota Sioux, of which Gall was a proud member, consisted of seven different tribes: Hunkpapa, Blackfoot, Oglala, Brule, Two Kettle, Sans Are and the Miniconjous. They had originally, before Gall’s time, come from the headwaters of the Great River, but they were pushed out of that land by the Chippewa in the late eighteenth century. It wasn’t that the Chippewa were necessarily better fighters, but more a logistical event. The Chippewa were to the east of the Sioux and came into contact with the white man first. Thus, they were armed with muskets while the Sioux were still relying on the bow and arrow and the spear. So the Sioux moved west. First to the Missouri River area. Where the Dakota, or Eastern Sioux had been overwhelmed, then past it to the land of the Yellowstone River and its four main tributaries: the Powder, Tongue. Rosebud. And Bighorn. Gall knew that if they went any farther west they would be in the inhospitable terrain of the Rocky Mountains. This was as far as they could go.

The Cheyenne were also pressed west by better-armed tribes and the white man. They settled around the Platte River and split into two major groups. The Southern Cheyenne lived between the Platte and Arkansas Rivers. The Northern, as the name implied, drifted above the Platte, which brought them into conflict with the Sioux.

Of course, when the Sioux and Cheyenne moved west, the land wasn’t empty. The Crow, some of whom Gall knew rode with Custer, were displaced. And it was against the Crow, and their allies the blue coats, that the Sioux and Cheyenne, former enemies, were now joining forces to fight, not because of any great love for each other, but because there was no more land to displace to.

The other option was to accept the white man’s edict and move onto the reservation. Gall would rather die than do that. Many of those who had heeded Sitting Bull’s call to come here had slipped off the reservation. The stories they told were not pleasant ones. Poverty, disease, lying agents and above all the lack of freedom to go where one wanted to and live off the bounty of the land-these were the curse of the reservation.

Gall leaned against a tree. It wasn’t just about food. It was about living, about freedom. About a way of life.

Gall knew-the Crow wouldn’t attack this camp. But the blue coats, the blue coats didn’t make any sense, and that is what scared him the most, because how could he fight an enemy whom he couldn’t predict?

Gall’s youngest daughter came out of the lodge, laughing at something. Gall felt his heart relax. They might be surrounded by enemies, but in this great encampment surely they would be allowed some days of peace and happiness. Gall gathered up his daughter and easily lifted her over his head and swung her about. After a few minutes of play, he · put her back down so she could help her mother.

The sun was up now, casting long shadows from the cottonwoods lining the Greasy Grass. At least today would be a quiet day, Gall thought as he smelled breakfast cooking. If the blue coats didn’t attack at dawn, then they wouldn’t attack. That was the way it had always been. Tomorrow, well, tomorrow he would worry about tomorrow.

“We’ll get through them in one day,” Custer said.

Bloody Knife kept his face still. He understood what Long Hair said. He had just handed Custer the note Varnum had written. He also knew that the new scout, Bouyer, had advised Custer about the extensive signs that all had been seeing for the past several days, particularly the massive trail they’d come across the previous day coming out of the Rosebud pointed straight toward the Little Big Horn River twenty miles away. The trail was more than a mile wide. The entire width looked like it had been plowed like the white man’s fields, so tom up was the ground by horses’ hooves and the ends of travois. Even Custer had to have seen that.

After seeing the trail, Bloody Knife had not even tried to sleep during this halt. There would be plenty of time for sleep later. There was also the added concern of the strange object he had been given by Bouyer. It was obviously a powerful talisman, the likes of which Bloody Knife had never seen, even when he had traveled east to the white man’s cities.

In this country, trees only grew in the low ground where there was water to feed the roots. There were some pines on the higher hills, but mostly the terrain was grassland with high ridges and some mountains interspersed here and there. Bloody Knife knew the open spaces were deadly in their deceptiveness. A man could think he saw everything for miles when there was so much hidden in the folds of the land that he couldn’t see until he rode right on top of it.

The trail they had come across bothered Bloody Knife. He’d tried explaining why to Lieutenant Varnum the previous day using sign language, but the officer was more concerned about what Custer thought than about what really lay ahead. The main Indian trail out of the Rosebud was indeed large; that in itself should have been enough to cause concern. It was also fresh, so fresh that Bloody Knife tried to convey his concerns to Varnum again this morning.

The original trail had been made about four days ago. Laid on top of that first trail were the signs of more pony herds, travois being dragged, and moccasined feet. Those were the marks of the others joining Sitting Bull from the reservations. None of the white men seemed to understand what Bloody Knife and the other scouts were coming to appreciate. This just wasn’t a few rogue tribes camped together. Yes, there were those Indians the soldiers were sent to corral-the ones who had ignored the government’s order to come onto the reservations. But there were also large numbers of reservation Indians whom the agents had told Custer were still sitting on the reservation, eating agency meat. It was one trail leading into the Little Big Horn, but actually one trail that many were following, and they couldn’t impress that idea on the white men.

Bloody Knife didn’t know the exact number of Indians that were camped ahead. He didn’t have to. He knew the number was sufficient to handle the Seventh Cavalry, no matter what Long Hair believed.

He could tell Custer was agitated and trying to hide it with his boastful words. Scouts had already reported several band of Sioux in the area, feeding the general’s fears that the Indians would run before he had a chance for a fight.

Custer sat taller in the saddle and addressed the officers gathered around. “Well, men, we’ve found them. As I suspected, they’re on the Little Big Horn.”

That wasn’t a surprise to Bloody Knife. If they weren’t on the Rosebud; and they weren’t on the Yellowstone, that left only the Little Big Horn. The only question had been where exactly on the river the Sioux were camped. Someplace with a lot of grass, that was for sure. Bloody Knife estimated that there must be at least ten thousand ponies, probably more, with this camp. That meant the herd would go through grass at a ferocious rate. No camp that size could last. Maybe a week at most. Then it would have to break up so the ponies could get grass and the hunters could find game. Bloody Knife had also tried to tell Custer this the other day, but Long Hair’s response had been the opposite of what Bloody Knife had hoped for: “By God, then we’ll get them all at once. Save us quite a bit of time campaigning, won’t it?”

It was all bad omens to Bloody Knife. Too many chance happenings converging. Custer splitting from Terry. Reno disobeying his orders dung reconnaissance and crossing the disobeying his orders during reconnaissance and crossing the Rosebud on the seventeenth and finding the main trail when he should have still been looking in the Tongue and Powder {alleys. It was strange how the same thing meant two radically differently things, depending on one’s perspective. To Bloody Knife, Reno’s discovery was disastrous, while to Custer it was one of the most fortunate breaks of his military career.

The bad omens hadn’t ended there, as Custer pushed the column hard to follow the trail. The other night Custer’s personal flag, two crossed sabers on a red and blue field, had been blown over by the wind. It had been picked up and stuck in the ground again, only to blow over once more. A bad wind. Bloody Knife knew. A wind of ill spirits was blowing across the entire command. The white men pretended to worship a god, a god the priest at the post had tried to get him to believe in, but Bloody Knife thought they lied. If they couldn’t appreciate the power of an evil spirit blowing down their flag, how could they worship a good spirit?

The Son of the Morning Star had dismounted and begun talking back and forth, when suddenly he stopped. “Let’s move forward and get to this Crow’s Nest I’ll see for my· self.” Bloody Knife fell in behind the commander.

Bloody Knife caught the glances several of the staff officers gave him. For all they knew. There were Sioux all around, perhaps even waiting in ambush. Never bad any of me scouts seen so many signs. Bloody Knife kept his face impassive. There was no safety riding with the regiment or riding ahead.

Bloody Knife remembered the time Custer had left the command by himself to hunt buffalo. The general, chasing down a bull, had shot his own horse in the head accidentally d been on foot, all alone, out in the middle of the plains. Fortunately, the regiment’s course of march had come upon the dismounted general. From that point on, Bloody Knife had ceased to respect a man who could be so foolish.

Bloody Knife looked at the regimental camp as they left it. The noise made Bloody Knife grimace. Many of the bluecoat soldiers were inexperienced. Some could hardly ride their horses, and the blistering pace Custer had set the last several days since parting from General Terry’s column on the twenty-second had made matters worse. Horses and men were tired. That made for poor thinking and poorer action, Bloody Knife knew.

The Sioux up ahead would not be tired, that he also knew. He could clearly picture the camp in his mind. Bloody Knife’s father had been a Sioux; his mother an Arikara. He’d spent his childhood among the Sioux, living as one of them, but it was not a happy childhood, as the Sioux despised the Arikara.

Bloody Knife was a handsome man, standing five feet, seven inches tall with black hair and brown eyes. His features were finely formed with a broad forehead and sharp cheekbones and nose. His complexion was that of dull copper. A surly twist to his mouth marred his good looks. Bloody Knife Was not above talking down to white men, a custom that Custer treated with amusement at times in a camp full of sycophants.

Given the childhood he’d had, Bloody Knife had sworn to himself to never again look up to another man. He had earned his place here in the Seventh Cavalry, much more so than most of the soldiers now blundering their way around in the dark. If no one else would tell Custer the truth, he would.

Bloody Knife leaned back on his horse and stretched his neck. He looked to the northwest, into the growing light. Out there were many Sioux, among them people he had known as a child. If the Sioux were preparing for war, Bloody Knife was sure Gall was out there. Gall had killed Bloody Knife’s two brothers’ years before and dismembered their bodies, leaving them for the animals to feed on. Bloody Knife’s hand slipped down to the razor-sharp blade strapped to his belt. If nothing else, he hoped he ran into Gall. There was blood to be paid.

“I don’t see it,” Custer said. Mitch Bouyer could see relief flood Lieutenant Varnum’s face. The fool would rather be right about not seeing anything than bothered that his scouts were telling him there was something out there and he see it.

“Well, they’re there, general,” Bouyer said. “At least you can see the smoke,” he added.

“I can see that,” Custer said testily.

Bouyer knew that even Lieutenant Varnum could now see the smoky haze that hung above the dark line that was the Little Big Horn. But whatever was below that smoke they couldn’t make out.

“Obviously there are some Indians there,” Custer said. his voice less harsh.

‘’There aren’t just some Indians there, general.” Bouyer felt like he had one time in the mountains when his horse had slipped on a steep slope covered with snow and both of them had been carried down, not able to stop until they got to the valley floor. Whatever was going to happen was already set in motion, and nothing anyone said was going to make a difference today. He could feel the powers in the air.

Bouyer knew this terrain well from his time with Bridger. Besides the obvious trail, he had spotted numerous campsites bordering the trail. In one he had counted the spaces where more than four hundred lodges had been set up. That alone indicated eight hundred warriors. And that was only one of five abandoned campsites he’d scouted.

“There are more Indians out there than 1 have ever seen in one place,” Bouyer said.

Custer’s face flushed red. The general’s famous long locks had been cut short prior to leaving Fort Lincoln. And he was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket and trousers. Under the jacket was a broad-collared blue shirt, and around his: k was a scarlet cravat. He wore a wide-brimmed white hat that Bouyer thought., along with cravat, made him an easy target.

When Custer didn’t respond Bloody Knife spoke. “Turn around, general. Ride away as fast as the tired horses will carry you. If I am not speaking the truth, you can hang me.”

That brought a slight smile to Custer’s wind and sun-beaten face. “I don’t think I’ll be hanging you.” He had field glasses and was looking to the northeast. “I still don’t see it.” he muttered. Custer stood. ‘’Lieutenant Varnum, remain on watch here until you see the regiment enter the valley, then join the command.”

Bouyer followed as Custer walked back down to the horses and remounted. They rode down in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. A horseman was coming up slope toward them and Bouyer recognized him: Tom Custer.

As Tom drew near, Custer spurred forward, Bouyer following. “We got them, Tom!” Custer called out.

“Bad news.” Tom doused his brother’s enthusiasm. “Last night some breadboxes fell off a mule and we sent back a detail to police it up. They came across some Indians at the boxes. Fired a couple shots and drove them off, but we’ve been detected.”

Custer drove one fist into the other. ‘’They could be breaking camp right now if they know we’re here.”

“I do not think-” Bouyer began, but Custer had put the spurs to his horse and was heading to the camp, leaving Bouyer and Tom Custer to follow as well as they could.