Wiping gritty sleep from his eyes, the lieutenant elbowed his way through the anxious Rees and scrambled up to join Hairy Moccasin and Red Star. White-Man-Runs-Him breathed hot on Varnum’s neck, standing right behind the white man to peer into the awakening valley below. In the graying light Charlie thought he was able to spot those two Indian lodges the scouts told him they had run across in their travels last evening before returning to the command with the portentous news for Custer.
Then the scouts directed Varnum to look far beyond and to the north, into that distant valley of the Little Bighorn.
“Look for worms,” they signed with their hands, fingers a wriggling mass of movement.
Again the soldier strained his tired eyes, this time looking for worms they said would be wriggling across the valley floor. Still he could see nothing of the herd, blaming his trail-weary eyes, reddened and irritated by the gritty dust of the march. Besides, he rationalized, he had just ridden some seventy-five miles without much sleep to speak of. No wonder his eyes weren’t working as they should.
In disgust Varnum slid back down to the pocket below the Nest and drew out his tablet and pencil he used to scratch a hurried message to Custer.
“Here, Red Star,” Charlie whispered, holding up the dispatch for the Arikara scout to see, using his poor sign language to explain the important mission. “I want you to go to the pony chief—”
The growing excitement and buzz among the Crows and Rees diverted Varnum’s attention at that moment. On his feet he could himself see why the Indians were hopping mad. Down below on the east slope of the divide, the regiment’s camp fires could be plainly seen only ten miles off, glowing like hundreds of pinpricks of orange red light scattered across the landscape. A purple twist of smoke curled lazily from each fire into the cool dawn air.
“I understand,” the white man tried to explain with his hands. “If we can see those fires, then the Sioux can see them too.”
The angry scouts bobbed their heads, grim faces a mixture of rage and fear. Varnum pulled his watch out of a pants pocket and noted the time. Four forty-five A.M.
“Red Star. Go. Give to Custer.” He tapped the folded paper one more time, nudging the young scout off toward the ponies.
By now some of the Rees had climbed into the Crow’s Nest themselves, studying the wide valley of the Greasy Grass beyond. Eventually the light grew more and more favorable for spotting the villages. Still, the scouts watched until absolutely certain. Then the Rees too filled the air with their own death chants.
“Otoe Sioux! Otoe Sioux!”
Varnum listened, frantically trying to sort out the babble, trying to remember the meaning of the Arikara words.
“Otoe Sioux!”
“Plenty!” the soldier whispered to himself, snapping his fingers as he recalled. “No,” he muttered. “More than plenty. Otoe means too many!”
Charlie gulped unconsciously, staring up at those Rees crowded in the Crow’s Nest, each one moaning with the sad refrains of his private death chant. Some scratched their faces, drawing blood, while others tugged at their un-braided hair, pulling strands out.
“Sioux everywhere,” Varnum murmured his own death song that cool dawn. “Too many Sioux.”
Because of some recent fears that Red Beard Crook would follow them over from the Rosebud after Crazy Horse’s warriors had battled the white soldiers to a standstill only eight suns ago, the Lakota chiefs kept a constant string of young scouts riding out from the camps in the valley of the Greasy Grass west of the divide.
Day and night, the scouts came and went.
Following little Ash Creek east up the divide from the Greasy Grass, Standing Bear and a handful of Hunkpapa warriors ran across a startling discovery: iron-shod horse tracks! And they were very fresh. A trail coming up to the crest of the divide, from below on the Rosebud.
Eighteen ponies, maybe more, Standing Bear concluded.
“Perhaps Red Beard is returning for another try at our great gathering of tribes, little brothers!” Standing Bear whispered to his scouts.
“One thing about the white man,” laughed Round-Face-Woman, a young warrior, “they can be very persistent.”
“Pretty stupid at times,” snorted another young scout.
“But—always persistent,” Standing Bear echoed, ending the discussion.
Just beyond the eastern slope of the crest, the scouts spotted the smoke rising from the regiment’s fires, the distinct smell of bacon and coffee carried on the morning breeze as the cool air was harried up and out of the valley toward the high places.
Yet this fresh trail seemed to lead off to their right.
Strange, Standing Bear brooded, those soldiers are camped below and to our left … while this fresh trail wanders up the divide to our right—
“Aiyeee! There!” Round-Face-Woman shouted, pointing up the slope, toward a pinnacle of rocks high on the divide to their right.
It was true. Several Indians hid themselves up there, looking over the edge into the valley of the Greasy Grass as the sun slipped its red ball of fire over the edge of the earth far to the east. Indians by their dress and hair … mostly their hair.
Sparrowhawks! Standing Bear figured. Maybe some corn eaters along by the look of things. And yes! A white man with them.
“Little brothers, these surely must be spies from Red Beard Crook’s soldiers.”
“We will ride back and give warning,” Grass-That-Sings cried out, urging his pony aside.
“I do not think Red Beard will attack this day,” Standing Bear whispered confidently. “He would not get close enough to our villages until the sun stands high in the heavens. And we all know soldiers prefer to attack at dawn. Have no fear, little brothers, that Red Beard will try our warriors in battle this day.”
The younger scouts agreed and snatched up their reins.
Up, up through the trees they climbed until coming to those bare rocks they had to cross before they could descend into the cover of shady trees and concealing shadows on the far side of the divide.
And that’s when Varnum spotted them: A handful of Sioux hurrying into the valley of the Little Bighorn with their urgent message of warning.
At daylight there were still a few soldiers and officers stretched out on the ground, some curled under a bush or with a saddle blanket pulled over them. Most of the troops hunkered red-eyed and wasted, clutching cups of strong, alkaline coffee and content not to have to think about much of anything at all.
Only a handful of these half-dead soldiers paid any attention to the lone Arikara scout who loped into camp, searching for the pony soldier-chief himself.
Tom Custer saw him coming first. He stood at the fire Burkman fed to heat some coffee the general wanted.
“Autie, you best quit wetting those bushes down now. Button up your britches and come on over here.”
Custer came back to the fire as he buttoned up his buckskinned pants. Tom pointed out the Ree scout headed their way on horseback, coming in at a slow walk now.
“You remember that one’s name, Tom?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“Find Fred Gerard, wherever he might be sleeping off last night’s whiskey. Bring him here immediately. I figure we’ve got us some news coming down from Varnum.”
As Tom loped off on foot to search for the interpreter, Custer held out his tin cup, not even looking back at Burkman.
“Striker! Coffee, please.”
John watched the young Indian dismount, then poured a cup for Custer. The general signed his offer of coffee. Red Star nodded and held out his hands; from them the single rawhide rein looped back to the lower jaw of his horse. Burkman picked up his own tin cup and poured the thick, scalding brew into it for the scout.