Charles peeled off his mittens. He yanked the scarf from his face so he could lick his lips, stiff as wood and lacerated by painful cracks. He reached over his shoulder and pulled the Spencer from the sling. With Little Beaver striding between them, the two white men walked their horses across another snowy expanse to some widely spaced trees.
"There's something," Charles exclaimed softly. He pointed to an orange smudge, smaller and dimmer than those spied when they found Elliott. Dutch Henry drew both his revolvers and cocked them. Charles held his Spencer ready.
Black wraiths breathing small clouds of transparent mist into the moonlight, the scouts walked their horses into the trees. Charles smelled the smoke distinctly. A fire, all but gone out, built in the lee of some thorny shrubs.
Satan smelled something strange and didn't like it. Charles patted the piebald to quiet him. When he stirred the fire with a stick, the embers billowed; the light helped him see the ground roundabout. It was a churned mess of snow and mud. He stepped in a barely hardened pod of manure. The aroma mingled with that of the fire.
"A pony herd tried to graze here most of the day, Henry. I'd stake my life that this fire was built by the boys tending the ponies."
"So we can't be but two, three miles from the village?"
"That's right. But whose village?"
"Does it make any damn difference?"
The question threw him. The uneasiness returned. Little Beaver began a shuffling dance step, mumbling and chanting under his breath. He sensed engagement soon.
"I'll give the general the good news," Dutch Henry said, turning his horse's head.
Custer sent the two scouts forward again, walking. Charles's mouth felt like a dry gully. His pulsebeat leaped in his throat so hard it almost hurt. Where the trees thinned out, the moon shone on a strip of snowy ground with a sharply defined irregular edge.
"Careful. That looks like a drop-off," Dutch Henry warned.
Belly down, they crept on the edge. A slope sheered away; difficult for horses, though not impossible.
They were gazing out on a shallow river valley. "Got to be the Washita," Dutch Henry said. The river ran right below, silver in the moonlight, chuckling at them. Its course was roughly east and west. About two miles east, to their left, the river looped to the north and disappeared behind a spur of the hills.
Beyond some open ground on the river's far side, a dark mass suggested more heavy timber. Little else could be seen despite the brilliant moon and incredible display of stars in the heavens. Charles sniffed. He and Dutch Henry both smelled the smoke from across the river.
Over in the timber, a dog barked. Charles's hair almost stood on end. A few seconds later he heard the wail of a baby.
"Can't see the lodges from up here," Dutch Henry said. "Maybe if I get lower, I can count 'em against the sky."
He scrambled down the slope, leaving Charles with the thickening smell of smoke in his nostrils. A tinkling bell suddenly showed him the pony herd, a darker mass of shadow that flowed away behind the timber.
Shortly, Griffenstein came scrambling up again. "We got 'em," he whispered. "The tipis are back in those cottonwoods. Right around fifty of 'em. Let's go."
While they stole away Charles thought, Fifty. But whose are they?
Custer tilted the face of his pocket watch toward the moon. "About three and a half hours till dawn. We'll go in them. Main, gather the officers on the double."
They were together within minutes. Quickly, Custer revealed that they'd tracked the war party to its base, which the column would attack at first light. Charles could hear the excitement that generated. Venable even forgot about giving him intimidating stares.
With unconcealed enthusiasm, Custer improvised his plan on the spot. He split his seven hundred effectives into four detachments, three to support the main one, which would lead the attack from the bluff where Charles and Griffenstein had observed the village. One of the detachments would advance at the sound of band music. Elliott's and Thompson's detachments were to start toward their positions immediately.
"The men remaining here may dismount until it's time to move forward. They may not speak above a whisper. There is to be no other noise. They may not walk around, and even if they're freezing to death, they're not to stamp their feet. No matches are to be lit for pipes or cigars. Any man who disobeys will answer to me personally. Venable, do me a favor. Take Maida and Blucher to the rear and give them to Sergeant Major Kennedy to hold until we advance."
Venable didn't like this odd, menial duty, but he didn't argue. He whistled softly. The staghounds, well trained, leaped to follow him. Custer's fringed gauntlet swept over the other dogs hanging around near the officers. "Main, you and Griffenstein kill these strays."
Charles felt as though a picket pin had been hammered into his head. "What, sir?"
"You heard me. We want surprise on our side. These dogs could give us away. Get rid of them, and right now."
Charles stared and Custer gave it right back, his eyes like black skull-sockets in the gloom. Dutch Henry laid a mitten on Charles's shoulder, either to soothe him or restrain him. Captain Hamilton got things going, ordering a couple of lieutenants: "Bring up some ropes. We'll muzzle them before we do it."
Charles jumped at Old Bob, intending to pick him up and ran him to the rear. Custer snapped, "No. I said every one of them."
"I won't do it."
Custer gave him a long look. "Turning tender-hearted, are we? Get over it before we attack the village." He stalked off, his tiny gold spurs winking in the moonlight.
"Get away from here. Don't watch," Dutch Henry whispered.
The lieutenants rushed up with ropes. The men surrounded the dogs, ten in all, and after some struggle and a couple of chases to catch runaways, got them all muzzled and leashed. Charles, meantime, walked into the woods and leaned his forearm against a tree trunk, his face turned toward the village. Then a frantic yelping, though the muzzles controlled its volume. The yelping continued for a while, and so did the sound of frantic claws tearing the crusted snow. Charles didn't know who cut the throat of Old Bob, but he saw the limp yellow body in the redolent heap with all the others. He walked past it quickly. The air was nearly cold enough to freeze the bitter tears in his eyes.
The flanking detachment began to move out in order to get in position by daylight. Those in the main column had a chance for a little more rest. The moonlit snow resembled a strange park of military statues. Motionless soldiers, stood, sat, or lay by their horses. Every man held a rein. A few wrapped their caped coats around their heads and tried to sleep. Most were too tense.
Some of the officers huddled together, looking stout in their heavy overcoats. They whispered with suppressed excitement. Jack Corbin's pony began to stamp and whinny. Corbin couldn't control him. Charles stepped over and pinched the pony's nostrils shut and held them until the pony quieted down. Another Cheyenne trick Jackson had taught him. Corbin whispered his thanks.
Charles crouched beside Satan, passing the rein from hand to hand. Something in him felt wrong, dangerously explosive. California Joe replenished his liquid courage from his seemingly limitless supply of demijohns. He passed the jug to Dutch Henry, who watched for officers, then drank swiftly. Milner offered the jug to Charles. Charles shook his head.
"You don't seem exactly raring to go," California Joe remarked. "Should be a right lively scrap. 'F we hang on to our edge and surprise 'em, we shouldn't have much trouble, either. I thought that's what you wanted. I thought that's why you signed on. Cheyenne Charlie, just bustin' to kill him some —"
"Shut up," Charles said. "Just leave me alone or I'll ram that jug down your throat."