Assault on Atlantis

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Sound officers’ call,” Custer ordered Trumpeter Martin. “The twenty-fifth of June,” Custer said to himself as he counted days, in his head. The centennial of the United States of America was to be celebrated in less than two weeks. As the bugle call brought his officers to his tent, Custer calculated whether the telegraph wires would be working going east. If the regiment engaged the Sioux today, he could send a messenger to Fort Lincoln and then, if the wires were up, the word of the Victory would most certainly make it to the celebration that would be taking place in Philadelphia in early July.

Custer frowned. But if the wires were down, the news might not get there in time. “Hurry up!” Custer snapped as his officers slowly gathered around.

He rubbed his forehead to push away a growing pain there. He was responsible for every damn thing in this regiment. His Indian scouts were chanting their death songs, and his own officers were moving like molasses. Damn fools, all of them. Custer looked over the sunburned faces of his twelve troop commanders. “Each company commander will immediately detail one NCO and six troopers to the pack train.”

He could see the surprise on the faces of some of the officers as the Import of the message sunk in. They’d been planning on resting today. Ten years of Indian fighting had lll1pressea one tact upon Custer: If the regiment delayed, there Would be nothing in the valley of the Little Big Horn. In all those years he had managed to come to blows with his red foe Only once decisively, at the Washita, and then only by surprising the village at dawn. Here dawn was already come and gone and the Sioux knew he was here. They would have to hurry.

Because the regiment was moving quickly, they had no Wagon train for logistical support. Extra ammunition, grain and food were laden on mules, and the detail Custer had just designated would have the duty of controlling the mules that held each company’s resupply of ammunition.

There was so much more to this than the damn fools back east imagined, Custer fumed as he waited for his subordinates to relay that order and return. He had 175 mules in his supply train and only six skinners to work them, thus the detail. The supply train was like a leash around his throat, but it was one that he could only cast off for several hours before the regiment needed the supplies that were carried.

“There’s a village on the Little Big Horn, northeast of here,” Custer briefed his men. “But my brother informs me that we’ve been spotted.” Custer glared at his subordinates. There would be plenty of time after they took care of the Sioux to get to the bottom of the breadbox incident. He would find out which troop it came from and deal with the commander appropriately.

“Any sign the Sioux might attack us?” Major Reno asked.

Custer stared at his second-ranking officer in amazement. How Reno ever survived the Civil War, he didn’t know. “Major, they would not dare attack the regiment. The issue is, can we catch them before they break camp and run? If we delay there will be no Indians to fight.”

“Sir, if they are on the Little Big Horn,” Reno said, “we must wait until tomorrow for General Crook and General Terry to complete the encirclement. They will be on the river shortly. We will catch the hostiles between us in a classic pincer maneuver.”

“Are you not listening?” Custer said. “There will be nothing to encircle on the twenty-sixth. Besides, we are not certain that General Terry will have made it that far by then, and of General Crook there has been no sign.”

Custer’s fingers bore down on his riding gloves as another officer spoke up. “Sir, our orders are to move in coordination with-” Captain Benteen began, but Custer had no time for this.

“I know what my orders are, gentlemen.” His tone of voice indicated there would be no further discussion of the subject. “Commanders will inspect their troops and prepare them to move out. We will march in the order that the commanders report back to me that they are ready to move. The last commander to report in will guard the pack train.” Custer waved a hand, dismissing them and ending any further discussion. He missed the days when he had a divisional staff waiting to carry his orders to his subordinates and he didn’t have listen to the whining and complaints of mere company commanders.

Of course, Custer had to remind himself, he was grateful to be here at all and in command. Custer had literally had to get on his knees to beg to be in this place. And he wasn’t going to let the fears of lesser men destroy the opportunity that he now saw in the valley of the Little Big Horn. Remembering kneeling in front of General Terry and pleading to be allowed to participate in the campaign against the Sioux still rankled Custer. Damn Grant and those meddlesome fools in Washington! Wait until they hear about what happens today. Custer thought. Which brought his mind full circle to the centennial celebration in Philadelphia. For a few moments he toyed with the possibility of even making it there in person if all went well today and the campaign was ended in one fell swoop. With luck and catching the right trains, it might just be possible. It would be wonderful to look Grant in the eye with a great victory over the Sioux under his belt. Custer remembered the adulation that had come his way, particularly from be press, from his victory at the Washita. Today could make that look like a minor engagement if he broke the back of the Lakota Sioux nation.

Custer’s ill mood with his unit became even blacker when the first company commander to report ready for march was Captain Benteen of Company H. The captain was the senior company commander and as such the third in command of the regiment in the field. Benteen had been a colonel in the Civil War and his record. As Custer reluctantly knew, had been exemplary.

Despite that, Custer did not wish to cede the lead in the march to Company H. “Does your company comply with the standing orders that were issued at the Yellowstone, captain?” he asked Benteen.

The captain, whose most striking feature was white hair above a sharp and tanned face, kept his face impassive. “I’ve lent an NCO and six men back to the pack train to take care of the mules for my troop, sir. Each man has one hundred rounds of carbine ammunition and twenty-four rounds of ball for their pistols.”

The regiment, and Custer, had left their sabers back at Fort Lincoln. The unwieldy swords were next to worthless in the field. If there was fighting to be done, it would be done with rifle and pistol.

“Then Colonel Benteen, you have the advance,” Custer reluctantly said. He then ignored Benteen as the rest of the commanders trickled in. Captain Weir of D; Lieutenant Godfrey of K; Captain French of M; Custer’s brother Tom, of C; young Lieutenant McIntosh of G; Captain Moylan of A; Lieutenant Calhoun of L; Captain Miles Keogh of I; Lieutenant Smith of; Captain Yates of F; and last, and to be designated in the least favored spot, Captain McDougall of B, which Custer accordingly assigned to guard the pack train.

“Move your troop to the right and proceed in column of fours,” Custer ordered Benteen. Custer then pulled his horse to the side and watched as Benteen led the way, heading around the bulk of the mountains toward the valley of the Little Big Horn.

“Magnificent, sir, magnificent,” a voice piped up to · Custer’s right. He turned in the saddle and saw Mark Kellogg, the correspondent from the Bismarck Tribune. Some of Luster’s black mood fell away from him.

“You are most fortunate, Mister Kellogg,” Custer said… You are going to be witness to one of the greatest victories the frontier has ever known and see the end of the power of the mighty Sioux nation.”

“We will have a fight then. Sir?” Kellogg asked.

“If they do not run, we will have a fight,” Custer replied.

The third company in column was now passing by. A splendid sight to Custer in the morning sun. Custer knew Kellogg’s presence violated Shennan’s order to General Terry for no reporters to accompany the Seventh Cavalry. But Custer saw the long reach of President Grant in that order and had decided to ignore it. Custer had actually invited the publisher of the Tribune. Clement Lounsberry, to come along, but Lounsberry’s wife had taken ill just before they left Fort Lincoln and Kellogg had been chosen to take his place.

“Do you think they will run?” Kellogg asked anxiously.

Custer liked the man. The reporter wanted to see a fight. Unlike some of his own men, he thought bitterly. “The red man always runs,” he answered. “I have been out here a decade, and not once have they settled down and fought like · men. You have to threaten their women and their children to get them to fight at all.”

“I thought you had great respect for the red man, general. In your book Life on the Plains you wrote about-”

“I do respect them as foes once they take weapon in hand.” Custer quickly cut the reporter off. “They fight fiercely. The problem is getting them to fight. In the Civil War we knew our foe, and we could meet them bravely, face to face on the field of honor. Here we have to track them down like dogs.”

Custer knew he always had to be careful around newspapermen. He never knew how they might take something he said and twist it to their own end. He’d been criticized by newspapers before. But he also knew that Kellogg’s own career was tied to the success of the Seventh Cavalry. This was Kellogg’s big chance, because his stories were not only being printed by the Bismarck paper but were also being picked up by the New York Herald.

‘’Make sure you spell my uncle’s name correctly,” a boyish voice joked from behind the two men. Custer smiled as he pulled back on his reins and turned his horse. His nephew, eighteen-year-old Harry Armstrong “Autie” Reed was grinding. Having Autie along was another violation of Army policy, Custer knew, but it was good for the lad. He had been sickly back east, and the fresh air of the High Plains had done wonders for him.

“We’ll be seeing some action today,” Custer told Autie. “I want you to stay close to me.” Custer glanced over at the other man with his nephew. “You, too, Boston,” he directed toward his younger brother, Boston Custer. At least Boston was authorized on this trip. Although Custer had had to pull some strings to get his younger brother hired as a civilian guide. There were those, Benteen’s voice among them, who had wondered at the usefulness of a guide who had never been in this part of the country before. Boston was a comfort to Custer, and for that reason the general felt he was more than worth having along.

“You guard Autie now,” Custer said. “It wouldn’t do to have him get hurt. Elizabeth would never let me hear the end of it.”

Custer noted the new scout standing silently behind the officers and his family members. Bouyer bothered him although he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason. The man rarely spoke. He’d shown up two days ago, which had been convenient considering one of the scout/interpreters for the regiment had simply disappeared the previous evening. Custer remembered Bouyer from the Washita, and the man’s reputation for working with Bridger was well known along the frontier. But there was an air about him, a darkness that disturbed Custer. While Bouyer had dutifully reported all the signs the scouts picked up regarding the savages, he had not had the same edge of fear the others displayed. It was as if he were resigned to whatever was going to occur.

Custer turned his attention back to the column. The fifth troop was now going by. He looked to his left. He could see the front of the column crossing over the high ground between the Rosebud and Little Big Horn Valleys. By the sun, Custer estimated it would be noon shortly. Not good, he thought. The damn Indians had all morning to break: down their lodges and leave if they had spotted his troops.

The regiment, in columns of fours, was strung out for quite a long distance, another disadvantage of moving in this terrain. Because of the unevenness of the landscape, the column y.ras bunching up and spreading out in a most unmilitary fashion.

This will not do at all, thought Custer. He galloped forward, along the column, passing the troops. Catching up with Benteen, he waved at him to stop his troop.

“Cooke, come with me,” Custer said to his adjutant, Lieutenant William Cooke. Custer liked having the Canadian-born officer as his right-hand man. Cooke was a deadly shot with both carbine and pistol. He also presented a fierce appearance, with bushy sideburns adorning his cheeks that were so long they flapped about in the breeze.

The two men rode forward about fifty yards. They halted on a slight rile, but there was nothing to be seen to the front except rolling grass-covered hills and a small gap between them.

Custer used the tail of his red cravat to wipe sweat from his face. It was hot already, the temperature somewhere in the mid-90s and likely to get higher. Two Crow scouts raced up and reported in sign language that they had spotted some Sioux nearby. The Sioux had ridden off quickly to the north. Custer dismissed the scouts with a wave of his hand. There was no doubt the seventh had been spotted. The problem was, despite his time on the Crow’s Nest, Custer still had no real idea where exactly the Indian camp was.

He knew the Little Big Horn ran in a roughly northeasterly direction and that the Sioux were most likely on the west side of the river; at least that’s what all the scouts agreed on. If the hostiles were going to run, they would run either north or south along the river, Custer decided. West was high ground leading to the Rocky Mountains; it was possible they might go that way, but if they did, Custer wasn’t exactly in position to stop them, being to the east. To loop around to the west would take much too long.

Eight years earlier, in November 1868, Custer had been in t similar situation on the Washita. In the dead of night he’d divided the Seventh into four groups and surrounded the village. It had been over in fifteen minutes. One hundred three Indians lay dead, their blood seeping into the snow. It had been glorious. Custer remembered. Riding forward at the head of his troopers, the strains of “Garry Owen” in the air, he had rushed through the village, firing his pistol at any red target that presented itself. It had been hailed as a great victory, perhaps the greatest of the western Indian Wars to date. By God, Custer remembered, General Phil Sheridan himself had ridden down from Fort Hays in the middle of the winter to congratulate Custer personally. Custer hoped to top that now.

Today, though, Custer knew he had a time problem. At Washita he’d been able to deploy the regiment at night to surround the village. He’d also known exactly where the village as. Right now he was still more than twelve miles away from the little Big Horn River, and he didn’t know exactly where along the water the village was. It was likely the regiment had been spotted, so the element of surprise might well have been lost. And if he didn’t burry, he might even lose what daylight he had left. To wait for next morning. He knew there would be no village.

Custer turned to look at the head of the regiment. Waiting like a deadly snake, the body stretching out to the east. His mind wrestled with the tactical situation. Then he spotted Benteen. His shock of white hair making him easily visible. Benteen had been with him at the Washita victory, but ever since then the man had become an irritating presence in the regiment Farther back in the column, Custer knew Reno was riding. Another burr.

If those were rebels down there, Custer had no doubt about what he’d do. Swing the regiment on line along the valley floor. Making sure they were south of the village. And weep up it, taking the enemy head-on. But if he tried that against the Sioux, he knew they wouldn’t stand and fight. They’d run, especially if the entire might of the Seventh was brought to bear.

No. Custer thought, this was going to be difficult to pull off. “How far do you make it, Cooke’?” he asked, pointing through the gap in the bills ahead to a dark line that marked the river.

‘’Ten miles or so, sir,” Cooke replied.

There was a creek a quarter-mile ahead. Ash Creek, the scouts had told him. It divided farther down, but eventually led into the Little Big Horn. To the right were rolling ridges, the same to the left with the Wolf Mountains behind them.

Custer noticed a group of riders coming in from the left. He waited impatiently, feeling success tick away with each minute. It was Varnum with his scouts, come from Crow’s Nest.

“General, we spotted some Sioux moving north along Ash Creek ahead of you,” Varnum reported.

Bloody Knife’s hands moved in the hand symbols typical of the Indian. They are too many!

Bouyer had come up to meet Varnum and the other scouts. He echoed Bloody Knife’s hands. “There are many in the village. It fills the valley.”

“How many is many?” Custer demanded.

Bouyer shrugged. “Two thousand warriors. Maybe more.”

Custer blinked. “They’ve never had that many in one place before. They couldn’t feed their ponies or their people.”

Bouyer didn’t answer.

“Even if they did,” Custer continued, “they can’t coordinate a force like that.”

“If you go in there,” Bouyer said, pointing ahead, “you will never come out.”

“Are you afraid?” Custer demanded, his patience with the temperamental scouts snapping.

A slight smile crept across Bouyer’s face, which irritated Custer, but the man said nothing.

Bloody Knife’s hands moved, gesturing toward the sun. Custer knew the sign language well enough to read it: I will not see the sun go down behind the hills tonight.

Custer ordered the scouts to move back to the column. He needed a moment to think. He stared straight ahead as if he could see through the blocking hills to the Indian camp.

He turned to Cooke. “Relay my orders to Captain Benteen. He is to take Companies D, H and K and move to the southwest along those hills there.” Custer pointed in the desired direction. “He is to explore that terrain for hostiles and also make sure that no Indians make their escape in that direction.”

Lieutenant Cooke was startled by the command, but he nodded and rode off toward Benteen.

Benteen and Custer were like two wolves prowling the same territory. Custer had the rank, but Benteen had something else, a look in his eyes, that belied his gentle appearance. And the one time the two had come head to head, it had been Custer who had backed off.

Benteen was used to conflict, having grown up in a southern family that had owned slaves in Virginia and prior to the Civil War had moved to St. Louis in the border state of Missouri. When war came, Benteen accepted a commission in the Tenth Missouri, a move that stunned and angered his father, who promptly disinherited him. The father went to work for the Confederacy aboard a supply steamboat that plowed the Mississippi. As fate would have it, the Tenth Missouri captured that same steamboat, so the younger Benteen, disinherited though he might have been, held sway over his father.

While his father was held in custody the rest of the war, · Frederick Benteen served with bravery throughout numerous campaigns. He had been recommended for brevet brigadier general on June 6, 1865, but the brevet’ wasn’t approved due to the influence of politicians and the West Point network. Like many of the other officers now in the Seventh Cavalry, · at the end of the war his rank was reduced back to his regular Army commission as a captain.

Benteen came to the Seventh Cavalry in January 1867. From the very first meeting he didn’t hit it off with Custer. Benteen was older and he’d served more time with troops than Custer. But Custer was West Point and Benteen wasn’t. Still, Benteen had tried to be professional. Then came Washita and the issue of Major Elliott that put acid in the moat between the two men.

The “great victory,” as Benteen would caption the event, had almost gotten Benteen killed. It was something he wasn’t likely ever to forget. He’d charged into the village and spotted a young brave escaping, running from a lodge. Benteen gave chase, signaling for the brave to surrender. The man had turned and fired at Benteen, the bullet whistling by his ear. The brave fired again, and the bullet hit Benteen’s horse, knocking him to the ground. Benteen had rolled to his feet and finally shot back, killing the brave.

But it wasn’t that incident that soured and sickened Benteen at the Washita. It began after that, when Custer ordered the Indian ponies captured by the regiment to be killed. Almost a thousand of the animals were slaughtered. Even here, under the harsh summer sun, Benteen still shivered when he thought of that cold December morning just before Christmas. He could clearly recollect the screams of wounded horses and Custer riding about. Shooting the Indians’ dogs with his pistol as if it were the greatest sport in the world. Benteen shook his head as he watched Custer and Cooke talk.

Benteen jerked back on his horse’s bit as he remembered. And then there was the counting in the village. Everything had to be counted. Bodies, saddles, rifles, spears, shields, everything. Benteen had seen the official report and almost burst a vein in his forehead from anger. Custer reported 103 dead warriors. More like two dozen, Benteen had estimated from his Own ride through the camp. The rest of the bodies · were women, children, and old men who couldn’t even lift a spear any more.

And then there was Major Elliott and his eighteen men. Elliott had taken a platoon of men, charged after Indians fleeing down the river and simply disappeared. The rest of the command finished butchering the animals and burning the lodges and then Custer ordered them to form to return to post. It would be dark soon, he explained to astonished junior officers who wanted to search for Elliott’s party, and they had no idea if there might not be more large bands of hostiles in the area.

So they left without even looking for Elliott.

Benteen had been with the force that returned to the Washita two weeks later. They went downstream from the scorched site of the battle and found what remained of Elliott’s command. Nineteen mutilated bodies lay frozen in the snow inside a small hollow next to the river. Piles of spent cartridges next to the bodies pointed to a desperate last stand.

Maybe we could have saved Elliott, Benteen wondered not for the first time. If Custer had acted like any decent commander and-Benteen spit. He’d played it out in his head a · thousand different ways, but the fact of the matter was that his friend Joel Elliott and eighteen troopers had been killed and tom apart while Custer and the rest of the regiment, Benteen among them, rode for the safety of their fort.

Benteen could still see Elliott’s body, preserved by the cold weather. His arms had been ripped out of the sockets and placed alongside his head. Deep gashes ran down each thigh, cut through the muscle to expose white bone. His genitals had been severed and shoved into his mouth. His torso had been riddled with more than fifty arrows, so many arrows that Benteen couldn’t pull all of them out. He’d had to break them off to get the body into the burial wagon. Naturally, Elliott was scalped, the top of the head a mixture of white bone and red flesh.

Benteen wrote about the entire episode in a letter that he mailed to a colleague with whom he had served in the Tenth Missouri. The letter found its way into the hands of a man working for the St. Louis Dispatch, where it was published without the identity of the writer being revealed. It was a blemish on what Custer had claimed was a flawless victory and helped unleash a backlash of negative press, especially among the more liberal papers back east that decried the massacre of women and children.

Custer knew he wrote it. He threatened Benteen inside his command tent, a copy of the paper in his hand, and Benteen had asked him to step outside and take it up with weapons. Benteen had waited outside for more than a sufficient amount of time and then walked away as Custer continued to rant and rave inside the tent but dared not show his head outside.

Benteen grimaced as Cooke and the new scout came up. The adjutant had his head so far up Custer’s rear, Benteen often wondered if those damn whiskers tickled Custer’s bottom. The scout was a strange creature, one of those who’d spent so much time on the frontier and alone they didn’t seem to fit in around other people.

Cooke relayed the orders for the march without meeting Benteen’s eyes. Benteen didn’t acknowledge the orders directly.

“Do I get a surgeon?” he asked.

“One has not been detailed to you, sir,” Cooke replied.

“And if I make contact with the hostiles?”

“You are to pitch into them, sir,” Cooke replied vaguely.

“’Pitch into?’” Benteen repeated. “Is that a military term that is taught at the Academy? I am afraid I do not have the benefit of such an excellent education.”

“You are to engage the enemy, sir.”

“Engage with a hundred and twenty men?” Benteen asked rhetorically.

The adjutant rode back to Custer, whose back was turned to the column. The scout, Bouyer, dawdled. Benteen rode up to him. “What is it?”

“There’s no one to the southwest.” Bouyer said.

“I know that. But 1 have orders. You heard them.”

Bouyer nodded. “1 heard, major. But you don’t have to ride hard to the southwest.”

“Custer wants all the glory,” Benteen said. “Why should I worry about-”

“It ain’t about Custer,” Bouyer interrupted. “It’s bigger than him.”

“What’s bigger than him?”

“What’s going to happen today.”

“And that is?”

“I think you have an idea.”

Benteen stared hard at the scout but didn’t say anything. Bouyer reached into a large sack tied off to his horse’s pommel and pulled out something wrapped in a leather pouch. “Here.”

Benteen took the pouch, surprised both at the weight and the warmth being propagated by whatever was inside. “What is this?” he asked as he reached to loosen the drawstring.

‘’Don’t.’’ Bouyer held up his hand, indicating Benteen should stop. “Not now. Just carry it for today.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Benteen was tempted to open the satchel and look, but there was something about Bouyer’s demeanor, a seriousness that drew him in. Benteen not only had a strong feeling that · something was going to happen today, his military sense told him a battle would be engaged today. There was too much evidence to ignore. And the battle would not be to the southwest, · but somewhere along the Little Big Horn.

“All right,” Benteen said.

Bouyer nodded. ‘’Ride slow, sir.” With that he turned and headed back to the column. Benteen watched him for a few moments, then twisted in the saddle and barked orders, getting the three companies that were to form his battalion in line. He dispatched Lieutenant Gibson and ten men to form a forward screen in the difficult terrain to guard against ambush.

“Left oblique, march!” Benteen cried out With a hundred and ten men he marched to the southwest.

“Where are you going?” Major Reno shouted from Benteen’s left as the newly formed battalion began moving.

Benteen pointed. “To those hills.”

“For what purpose?” Reno asked in a lower voice, coming closer so Custer couldn’t hear, although Benteen doubted the general could hear anything above the noise the column made moving.

“To drive everything before me,” Benteen said sarcastically.

Reno turned and looked at the Wolf Mountains toward which Benteen’s battalion was moving, and his face reflected what Benteen felt. There was nothing more to be said. Benteen didn’t particularly care for Reno either, and, if the truth be known, he’d rather have Custer in command than the major.

Almost immediately upon leaving Ash Creek the column hit rough going. That struck Benteen immediately in the tactical sense, telling him that no reasonable group of Indians would be camped here. They were down on the Little Big Horn as every sign and every scout in the regiment had indicated.

Benteen smiled grimly to himself. The boy general wanted the valley for himself. Well, so be it. Custer and Reno could take on the Sioux. Benteen would do as he was ordered.

Then he looked at the satchel Bouyer had given him and the smile slipped away. Today was shaping up to be a most strange day.

Reno and Custer had much in common and that fact darkly amused the major whenever he happened to reflect on it, which wasn’t often. Custer graduated last in his class at West Point, and Reno had failed to graduate with the class he entered with, the class of 1855. Then he failed to make it with the class of ’56 for the same reason: excess demerits. In fact, Reno had so many he set an Academy record of 1,031 demerits; of course he had six years to achieve that somewhat dubious honor, whereas most cadets only had four. Custer had once pointed out what an achievement that high number was, when there were actually some cadets who graduated without a single demerit, a notable example being Robert E. Lee, who had achieved some fame during the War Between the States, Custer had been sure to add. Reno had finally made it out of the Point in 1857, the year Custer entered the Academy.

When Custer had laughed about his demerits, Reno had been forced to bite his tongue. While Reno was punished for excess dements at West Point, Custer was court-martialed. Reno had heard the story from one of Custer’s classmates. Just before graduation, in 1861, Custer was officer of the guard at West Point when two cadets became involved in an altercation. Custer, instead of doing his duty and stopping the fight. Ordered the bystanders back and directed the belligerents to conduct a fair fight. Unfortunately for Custer, the officer of the day, a commissioned, regular Army officer, happened to hear these words and Custer was brought up on charges. Only the onset of the Civil War kept his Army career going.

However, unlike Custer, Reno’s war record was not notable in either direction. He served and he did his duty without particular distinction or disgrace. After the war, Reno did not have a good go of it. He managed to antagonize about!very possible person he could while trying to wrangle a good assignment and was banished to Fort Vancouver, Washington, as far away from the mainstream a soldier could be sent and still be in the Army.

Reno thought of it as the bad luck time of his career. Everyone had one. Even Custer had been court-martialed in Kansas and forced to take an unpaid leave of absence for a year not too long ago.

But Reno’s luck had changed in 1869 when he was assigned to the Seventh Cavalry at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Or so he had thought at the time, Reno reflected as he watched the dust cloud from Benteen’s battalion.

So far his tour in the Seventh had not turned out well. Besides having to serve under Custer, of course. Two years ago Reno’s wife had died while he was afield with the Seventh. He’d requested a leave of absence to attend her funeral and take care of family business. Headquarters turned down his request, the cold letters of the reply telegram still vivid in Reno’s mind: ‘’The Department Commander feels it is imperative to decline to grant you leave. You must return to your command.”

My command, Reno thought as he glanced over at Custer still talking to Cooke. This regiment should have been mine, he fumed. Damn Custer and damn those who believed in him! The colonel had gone AWOL, absent without leave, in 1867, an offense Custer himself had punished with summary executions in the field. Reno hadn’t been with the Seventh then, but · he’d heard all about it from others who’d been there.

During General Hancock’s ’67 campaign in Kansas, Custer took it upon himself to leave the regiment while it was in the field and ride to visit his wife. The board had drummed him out and suspended him for one year. But then, because of his connections and his reputation, he was back. And here he was, still in command despite all he had done to flout the rules and regulations of the Army.

Reno watched as Cooke rode toward him. My turn, Reno thought.

“Your orders, sir, are to take your three troops along the south side of this creek. Cross the Little Big Horn, and attack the Indian camp from the south.”

Reno swallowed and looked over Cooke’s shoulder where Custer was. The general was peering to the northwest and signing with some of his scouts.

“Just my battalion?” Reno asked.

The general says that he will support your attack if you make contact.”

‘’Where will the general be?” Reno asked.

“We will be on the other side of the creek … on your right flank … within supporting distance,” Cooke replied with a bit of hesitancy in his voice.

Reno peered in the direction Custer was looking. “It’s quite a way to the river.”

“Ten or twelve miles,” Cooke replied. ‘”The general fears · that the Indians are already striking camp and are on the run.”

“On the run?” Reno repeated dully. He could not believe his orders. Benteen was chasing ghosts to the south, and Custer Was splitting what was left of the regiment once again. Hell, they’d already split from Terry. If this kept up Reno envisioned leading a platoon of men eventually.

Cooke’s voice finned up. ‘’The scouts will go with your command, sir.”

“The scouts?” He could see the half-breed who had just been assigned as a scout coming up behind the adjutant.

“Yes, sir,” Cooke affined.

Reno reached up a hand and touched his forehead. It was blazing hot under the sun and his fingers were drenched with · Sweat. He ran his tongue across his lips. “But what is the · plan?”

Cooke was startled by the question. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t understand the plan,” Reno replied.

“You are to move up the valley and attack the hostiles,” Cooke said. “The general will support you as needed.”

“As needed?”

Custer was waving his hand. Indicating for Cooke to come · back. Custer’s five companies were already moving. Reno shook his head, trying to clear the fog he felt descending through it, slowing his thoughts and muddying them. Cooke turned and started to ride away.

“Just make sure I get the support!” Reno called out. Cooke raised a hand, indicating he heard. At least that’s what Reno thought.

Bouyer rode and half touched his right hand to his forehead in a form of salute. “Major:”

“What exactly does the general want me to do?” Reno demanded.

Bouyer dropped the hand. “He didn’t tell me his orders. Sir, other than to link up with you.”

Reno shook his head. “It makes no sense. The hostiles will be in the valley along the river. Why is Custer riding in the hills?”

In response, Bouyer reached into a large sack tied off to his pommel and pulled out a leather satchel. He extended it toward Reno. “Here you go, sir.”

Reno didn’t take it “What the hell is this?”

“A talisman.”

“A what?”

“Strong medicine.” Bouyer still had his arms outstretched.

Custer was gesturing toward Reno, mouthing something. The major had no doubt that whatever the general was saying, it wasn’t pleasant He grabbed the satchel and looped the leather tie over the hook holding his map case near the left rear of the saddle. There was no time for this nonsense.

Reno shouted orders, getting his three companies, A, G and M, in line and moving. He had eleven officers and about a hundred and twenty-five troopers. He also had the scouts, which he found out of the ordinary. Even Bloody Knife was with his column. Strange of the general to part with his favorite scout, Reno thought He also had a surgeon, Henry Porter, an assistant surgeon, James DeWolf; Fred Gerard, the colonel’s personal interpreter, which was also strange; and Isaiah Dorman, the only black man in the entire outfit, a scout with much experience on the plains. And he had Bouyer, the half-breed and his medicine in a bag. The only scouts staying with Custer were Lonesome Charlie Reynolds and four Crows. That fact made Reno wonder that he might indeed be the main thrust and Custer would support him. But years of working with the general told Reno that that simply couldn’t be. Custer would never delegate himself to a supporting role m an event as big as what this was looking to be. Maybe Custer was simply tired of the death chants of the Arikara scouts.

Reno galloped to the front of his column. He could look to his right across the small creek and see Custer’s command riding in parallel. That gave him some hope. They were just a stone’s throw away from each, well within mutual supporting position. Reno glanced to the rear. The only sign that the pack train was following was a distant patch of dust.

Bouyer was riding to the left front of the column, ranging toward the bluffs that were about a mile away in that direction. The columns rode for several miles like that, occasionally breaking into a trot, then Reno noticed Custer gesturing. There was no mistaking it. Custer was directing him over to the north side. Reno felt a tremendous rush of relief. They were rejoining the regiment, at least what they had here.

Reno splashed across the creek. He could see that Custer was standing at a lone teepee. Reno rode up as both columns came to a halt. Custer was inspecting the structure. Reno dismounted and followed his commander into the teepee. A dead Indian lay within. Reno glanced at him-he’d been shot and Ute wound had soured.

Who shot him? Was Reno’s first thought. Had the Indians made contact with some other column of soldiers, or was this the result of infighting between the Indians themselves? Custer still hadn’t said a word. He was simply staring at the dead man, surprisingly subdued for some reason. Then the general turned and stalked from the tent, Reno following.

Reno noticed that Bouyer had ridden up while they were in the tent. The scout was talking to Bloody Knife, motioning at the tent, but Reno couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Burn it,” Custer snapped. The Crows set to that task quickly.

Custer walked up to Bouyer and Bloody Knife. ‘’Who killed that Indian?”

“Hard to say, major,” Bouyer replied.

Custer was fidgeting with his red bandana. His eyes were darting about. He pulled out his watch and checked the time, shaking his head. “We’re wasting daylight.”

Bouyer chuckled. “General, I wouldn’t be worrying about nightfall if I was you.”

“You aren’t me.”

The Ankara scouts were painting themselves for battle. The two columns were milling about when yelling and several shots were heard to the east.

“There go your Indians, brother!” Tom Custer was pointing.

One of the Crow Scouts was on a knoll to the east and he was gesturing back.

“After them!” Custer ordered the Ankara scouts.

Reno watched with amazement as the scouts ignored the general and continued putting on their paint. Custer’s arms flew as he signed at the Arikara, and there was no doubt in Reno’s mind about the threats inherent in those gestures even though he didn’t understand the exact meaning of what Custer was conveying. The scouts began moving.

Custer wheeled about and grabbed his adjutant, Cooke, by the collar and talked rapidly. He then swiftly walked to his horse and mounted.

Reno stood there, still among the action swirling about him.

“It’s begun.”

Reno turned to Bouyer. “Who exactly are you, and why are you here?”

“You ever get caught in a strong stream while trying to cross it?” Bouyer asked, instead of answering.

“What?”

“A strong current that just grabs you and pulls you along. You can’t get out on either side. You fight and fight, but finally the water wins and you just let it take you where it takes you.”

Reno wanted to ask the scout what the hell he was talking about, but Custer’s column began to move as Cooke came over for the second time with more orders.

“You are to move forward as rapidly as possible across the river, and once you are in position, you are to charge the Indian camp from the south. You will be supported by the whole outfit”

“Where is Custer going?” Reno demanded as he watched the other column move to the north.

“We will be on your right We will support you.” Cooke · yelled as he turned to burry after the Seventh’s commander.

It was a good day to be alive, Crazy Horse thought as he sat under a tree and watched the ponies eat grass. Never had he seen so many horses in one place. There were almost as many in number as the great buffalo herds he had hunted in his younger days. But the big herds were gone now, another legacy of the white man’s encroachment on the land.

Crazy Horse was not technically a chief, nor did he wish to be one. He was a “shirt-wearer,” a renowned warrior. Among his people, bravery was the number-one requirement of a warrior, and Crazy Horse had that in plenty.

Crazy Horse could sense his “brother” approaching from me southeast, which was strange because that was the direction of the Rosebud, and they knew Three Stars had run away, back toward Fort Fetterman.

Crazy Horse could not believe that the white man was still coming. But the reservation Indians who had arrived in the last several days had given conflicting reports of columns of soldiers. Some said they were to the east in the valley of the Rosebud. Others said they were to the north, near the Yellowstone.

Despite the defeat suffered by Three Stars, there were others still coming, and Crazy Horse knew that was the curse for his people. They would always keep coming. And he was on the banks of the Greasy Grass. Where his mother had foretold he would meet his “brother.”

For the last time, Crazy Horse vowed to himself.

There had to be hope, though. There had to be. Crazy Horse was a warrior, but he also knew that if there was no hope, then warriors would not fight well. The fight on the Rosebud had shown them all something. It had been most difficult for Sitting Bull to cajole all the various tribes and war leaders into accepting a common plan, coordinating the activities of all the warriors. Finally, after many hours of pleading, and with the weight of Sitting Bull’s visions and Gall’s rank as war chief, they had managed to get all the warriors to the Rosebud in the middle of the night and positioned.

Crazy Horse had to wonder though, how much his ‘’brother’s’’ arrival with the strange clear skulls had influenced things. Even Crazy Horse knew they were powerful medicine.

Still, for the first time in history, the entire Sioux nation had fought as one and the result had been a victory, sending Three Stars reeling south. But there were still white men coming, and there was still his mother’s vision, which had not been fulfilled.

Soldiers were falling into camp. Crazy Horse stood up and looked about. There was only one direction from which soldiers could fall into camp. That was to the east, on the other side of the Greasy Grass, where high bluffs overlooked the camp.

Crazy Horse shook his head. He knew this land intimately. A force coming from that direction would be channeled into one of several cuts coming down to the river. It would not be wise tactically, although a foe could approach unseen from the land beyond in that direction.

But the white man was not known for his tactics. Maybe tomorrow, Crazy Horse thought. Maybe they will come out of the hills in the morning. If that were the case, then he had better be prepared. Crazy Horse went in search of one of his ponies. He wanted to make a quick scout of the east side of the Greasy Grass to get a feel for the lay of the land.

But first, there was something he must do. Crazy Horse rode through the large encampment until he found the Miniconjous lodges. He saw several boys gathered near one, and he nudged his pony in that direction. The boys all stopped their play as he rode up.

Crazy Horse dismounted. The boys watched him without saying a word. He looked at them one by one. He felt a charge of power when his eyes touched upon a slight boy near the r: ear. The child held an old rifle in his hands. The stock had splintered and was wrapped with buffalo sinew to hold it together.

Crazy Horse crooked a finger and the boy came forward. The warrior held out his hand and the boy gave him the old rifle. Crazy Horse inspected it. Although old, it was well maintained.

“Have you counted coup?” Crazy Horse asked.

The boy shook his head.

“You are Walks Alone?”

The boy nodded.

“Can you speak?”

The boy began to nod, but caught himself. “Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

Crazy Horse took the leather satchel off his pony and held It out to the boy. “This is for you.”

Walks Alone took the satchel but didn’t open it, which Crazy Horse liked. “Where is your father?”

“He was killed by the Snakes while hunting.”

Indians versus Indian again. Crazy Horse thought. “Your mother?”

“She died giving birth two summers ago.”

“And the child?”

“Dead also.”

“Who takes care of you?” Crazy Horse asked.

“I take care of myself,” Walks Alone said. He paused. “But e old warriors who stay in the camp when the young warriors go to count coup — they let me enter their fire circle.”

“You listen to them?”

Walks Alone nodded. “I have learned much from listening.”

“And keeping quiet?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Crazy Horse pointed at the satchel. “Do riot open it. But keep it with you no matter what happens.”

Walks Alone nodded.

Crazy Horse mounted his pony. He looked up at the sun. The day was advanced past the mid-point. Perhaps it would not be today. But he felt his “brother’’ closing. He looked down at Walks Alone, the damaged, old rifle in one hand, the · satchel in the other. Everything fell into a shadow for a moment, and he glanced up, expecting to see a cloud passing in front, and he glanced up, expecting to see a cloud passing in front of the sun, but the sky was perfectly clear. A great weight pressed down on Crazy Horse’s heart as he forced himself to ride away from the boy.

He rode across the Greasy Grass and toward the bluffs on the eastern side when it struck him like a white man’s bullet in the chest that by giving the stone skull to Walks Alone he was helping fulfill the prophecy.