Charles's fingers started to tingle. Excited murmurs greeted the news, and Custer's blister-red face fairly beamed. Handsome Harry Venable, whose hostile looks didn't faze Charles any longer, stated the obvious:
"If we keep on and they do, they'll cross our trail ahead of us. Maybe today."
"Aye God," California Joe said, reeling slightly from some recent refreshment. "It's Thanksgiving Day, and we got Custer's Luck."
Some of the sycophantic officers went "Hear, hear!" and clapped. The anti-Custer men, including Benteen, glowered. Custer himself looked renewed; he couldn't stand still.
"I want the men ready in twenty minutes for a night march. No tents, no blankets. One hundred rounds per man, a little coffee and hardtack, and that's all. We'll take seven wagons and one ambulance. The rest of the baggage train stays here with one troop and the officer of the day. Where is he?"
"Here, sir." Captain Louis Hamilton stepped forward. He looked unhappy. "I beg the general's permission to go with the detachment. I'll bet those damn Indians are close to their lair, and we're going to find it."
"I commend your enthusiasm, Hamilton. I share it." By now Custer was fairly dancing around the marquee. His blood was up, and so was that of almost everyone else. Charles wondered why, after so many months of yearning for revenge, he didn't share the excitement.
Custer continued: "If you can find a substitute in twenty minutes, you're welcome to ride with us."
"Yes, sir," Hamilton exclaimed, like a boy given a handful of candy. He dashed out without bothering to salute. Everyone laughed.
To Jack Corbin, Custer said: "Can you get back to Major Elliott?"
"With a fresh horse I can, General."
"Tell him to continue the pursuit with all vigor. We should intersect with him about dark. Tell him to expect that."
Corbin hurried away. Custer dismissed the others. There was a huge push to leave the marquee. Dutch Henry fairly exploded with good humor. "I think we're gonna get what we come for, Charlie."
The advance sounded in twenty minutes precisely. The designated force, eleven troops and Cooke's Sharpshooters, struck south again through high drifts. Hamilton was along; an officer suffering partial snow blindness had agreed to take charge of the wagons.
The weather had moderated a little; the drifts were melting. In a couple of hours, Hard Rope and another Osage galloped back past Charles, shouting in pidgin, "Me find. Me find." Dutch Henry eyed the trail ahead. Charles nudged Satan to follow the big man's horse. Several of the stray dogs frolicked along too, leaping and barking.
It was a find, all right. Clear sign of the Indian party, as big as Corbin said, with no marks of travois. Braves, then. On a last raid or hunt. The trail continued on through the level, treeless country in a southeasterly direction.
Now there was impromptu singing as they advanced — "Jine the Cavalry" and other Army ditties. Everyone felt warmer, and they had the prospect of an engagement, not just an endless advance through snow. Old Bob kept jumping in the air. He barked almost constantly.
Toward the end of the day the land began to change again. From the level prairie, it sloped slightly downward in a long descent to a horizon-spanning stand of misty timber still miles away. Custer sent Griffenstein ahead with orders to find Elliott and stop his advance until the main column caught up. Elliott was to choose a rendezvous where there was running water and a supply of wood.
Charles judged it to be about five in the afternoon when they reached the edge of the timber. His belly gurgled and contracted painfully. He was sure Satan was just as hungry; none of the horses had eaten anything since 4:00 a.m., hours ago, and Charles had munched only a piece of hardtack, which nearly broke a tooth before he got it softened with spit. He realized that the advance had become one of Custer's ruthless forced marches.
On and on they rode through the mazy timber. Darkness came, and renewed cold. The mushy drifts froze into a hard crust that crackled at each step the horses took; the night seemed alive with a sound like musketry. The dogs barked, sabers clinked, men cursed as the march went on past seven o'clock.
Past eight.
About 9:00 p.m., Charles saw an orange glow ahead. He circled a dark tree trunk and discerned several similar glows. He speeded Satan past the Osages to an expanse of treeless ground. A sentry leaped up to challenge him and Charles shouted, "General Custer's column. Is this Elliott?"
"Yes, we're here."
"We found them," he called over his shoulder. He heard cheering.
Major Elliott's three troops were resting along the steep sides of a stream. Taking advantage of the natural cover the banks afforded, small cooking fires were blazing on the south side. The column prepared to dismount and rest. The air of festivity reminded him of those first blithe days Whitelaw Reid described.
Captain Harry Venable went riding along the line with the good news: "One hour. Saddles and bits off the horses."
The time seemed to fly. Charles dragged the horse furniture off his piebald, dried him as well as he could, and fed him the oats he was carrying. He fed Dutch Henry's mount too, while his friend heated some coffee. That and hardtack was their sumptuous Thanksgiving feast.
At ten sharp, the advance resumed without trumpet calls. Four abreast, the cavalrymen began to move down the steep bank, through the stream and up the other side. The snowfields glittered with a diamond liveliness; a brilliant moon shone.
Little Beaver and another Osage led the column on foot. Because of the noise, the gunshot crackle of the snowcrust, the trackers stayed four hundred yards ahead of the first large group of riders which included the other Osages and the white scouts, all of whom were in single file. Custer rode with this group, surrounded by the noisy dogs.
Charles walked Satan toward what appeared to be a large stump about five feet high. He was startled when the stump moved. Little Beaver had waited for them to catch up.
"Village," he said.
Custer heard. "What's that?" he exclaimed.
"Village near."
"How far?"
"Don't know. But there is a village."
There were aspects of Indian tracking so entangled in mystery and second sight that Charles never tried to understand them. Gray Owl had displayed some of the same intuitions, and whites were foolish to disregard them. Custer didn't.
"Very good, Little Beaver. Back to your place. And quietly, quietly." In the dark they heard a couple of troopers laughing and joshing. Custer wheeled out of line, almost trampling a couple of the dogs. Charles saw his blade-nosed profile against the dark moonlit sky. "No talking. From now on, I'll cut down any man who speaks."
Charles had no doubt he'd do it. His nerves tightened up a notch. The uneasy feeling worsened. The advance continued, the black snake of horses and riders crawling over the moonlit snow without the wagons or the ambulance; Custer had left them behind with Quartermaster Lieutenant Bell.
They seemed to be in a region of ridges that ran east and west, parallel to one another, with narrow valleys between. Saddles creaked. The snow crackled. Far away, a wolf howled; another answered. Once Charles looked back and was almost deluded into seeing buffalo sitting upright on the horses. The bulky overcoats of the troopers created the illusion.
Again they came on the two Osages waiting for the main column. "Smell fire," Little Beaver announced.
Custer controlled Dandy after the horse nearly stepped on Blucher. "I don't."
"Fire," the Indian insisted.
"Go see. Griffenstein, Main, go with him. Arm yourselves."