But Charley Reynolds had stepped up and said quietly, in that way of his, “General, I’ll carry your mail for you.”
What had astounded those present was that Charley said it as if he were volunteering to do nothing more than take a ride into Bismarck.
Reynolds made his hair-raising ride through Lakota land and carved himself a niche forever in Custer’s heart. Last day or so he had heard rumors that the general was about to single him out again to carry some crucial news back to the States.
While the Indian scouts made way for Custer at the top, Reynolds, Bouyer, and Varnum clung at the rocks. When the general was ready, Charley pointed where he should look through the field glasses loaned him by Lieutenant Charles DeRudio.
After several minutes adjusting the focus and straining his tired, wind-burned eyes, Custer was still unable to make out that dark carpet of worms they wanted him to see, nor could he claim that he recognized the smoke curling up from all the fires to be found along the banks of the Greasy Grass.
Eventually Custer pulled DeRudio’s glasses from his eyes, disappointed. “I’m sorry, boys. Seems like a blind trail, because I can’t see a thing that tells me there’s Sioux camped in that valley yonder.”
“You don’t see the herd?” Bouyer inquired, astounded. “The biggest herd there’s ever—”
“General,” Reynolds interrupted, seeing that Bouyer grew testier by the minute, “you can plainly see the dust of the herd slowly moving north—most likely.”
“Listen, fellas,” Custer replied, jamming the field glasses back into their case, “I’ve been on the prairie for a good number of years already. I’ll have you know my eyes are as clear and just as good as the next man’s, but—I can’t see what you claim to be a Sioux herd.”
“But, General … it’s right—”
“I told you, Reynolds! I can’t see a thing. Don’t you understand?”
Custer’s snap caused the soulful Charley to purse his lips tight, swallowing down his anger.
But the bull-faced Bouyer wasn’t about to give up without a fight. He had Sioux blood in his veins, which some would later say gave him a temperament hot enough to push for a scrap with Custer.
“Listen, you pompous ass!” Mitch spat, dark eyes flaring with bright anger. “If you don’t find more goddamned Sioux down in that valley of the Greasy Grass—more than you’ve ever seen in all your goddamned years on the plains—why, you get a rope and string me from the highest tree you can find down below!”
His unbridled fury shocked not only Reynolds and the scouts listening a few feet away, but it shocked Varnum and Custer as well.
“All right, Bouyer …” the general soothed. “It isn’t going to do anyone a bit of good for me to hang you. I’m after Sioux, and you’re not Sioux enough for me to hang!”
Charley couldn’t help it. He found himself chuckling along with Varnum at Custer’s joke.
“Now, let’s suppose there are Sioux down in that valley yonder,” Custer said as he dropped to his rump to slide toward the pocket below them. “I’m certain they haven’t seen us, Lieutenant Varnum.”
“What about those Indians I told you spotted us near daybreak, General?” Charles Varnum protested. “Along that ridge right over there.”
“I can’t believe you saw any warriors, Charlie,” Custer replied acidly. “Most likely, it was nothing more than the new light playing tricks on you.”
“Wasn’t only me who saw ’em, sir.” Varnum realized he was beaten before he got started. “Crow boys saw ’em too.”
Custer shrugged it off, not even looking at the young lieutenant only four summers out of West Point. “Light plays tricks on everyone, Lieutenant.”
“They had to spot our tracks, General,” Varnum fought on vainly. “From where we saw ’em, they had to cross our trail getting up to those rocks.”
“You haven’t told me a thing to convince—”
“Goddammit, Custer!” Bouyer roared, shoving himself up beside the soldier-chief, his shoulders trembling in rage. “You best listen to what Half-Yellow-Face has to tell you. He says you better attack now.”
“Why the blazes should I attack now when my plans are to wait through the day and hit them come dawn?”
“Because these Crow realize the Sioux scouts they saw are carrying word back to their villages at this very moment. In fact, those villages down there already know about you, most likely. We—the Crow scouts and me—were given to you to do a job. You best let us do our job. And remember, I’ve got Sioux blood running through my veins. I grew up in Sioux and Cheyenne camps. I know the people. So for a herd that size kicking up that much dust down below—it can mean only one thing.”
“What?”
“The great summer council,” Bouyer replied stiffly. “A time when all the tribes come together, whether they’re on the reservations or not. This year Sitting Bull called them to join him up here. That isn’t just a single village down there—one you can strike and be done with while you wash your hands in the waters of the Greasy Grass. Custer, that down there is the greatest gathering of Indians any white man will ever lay eyes on and live to tell the tale!”
“Utter … rubbish! My reports state there couldn’t be any such camp. Yet I’ll agree with you on one thing, Bouyer—you were sent along with my regiment to help me. And nothing more. Best you get back to your scouting now and leave the military operations to me!”
“There isn’t a man in your command who would know, Custer,” the feisty Bouyer protested, “but I’ve spent over thirty years among the Indians, either living or trading with them. If that ain’t the biggest camp there ever was anywhere, you can cut my heart out and feed it to your dogs.”
“We aren’t getting anywhere with this—”
“Sitting Bull himself has offered a hundred fine ponies for my head! You’d better understand that, Custer. I know what I’m talking about! Them Sioux’ll kill me if they ever get their hands on me alive. And it won’t be a pretty thing to watch!”
“You’re saying that very same fate awaits my command, Bouyer?”
Bouyer grinned at Custer wolfishly. “You understand, don’t you? The Sioux know all about you soldier-chiefs. There’s Red Beard Crook and No Hip Gibbon … and you, Custer. They call you Peoushi. Among the Sioux you are called the Long Hair.”
“And years ago the Cheyenne called me Hiestzi—Yellow Hair.” Taking off his hat, Custer began to chuckle. “Pretty funny, don’t you think, Mr. Bouyer? The bloody joke’s on them! They won’t have an idea one who’s charging their camp. I don’t have long hair anymore!”
Reynolds found himself snickering with Custer’s sour joke at his own expense. Varnum laughed loud and easy, like a colicky bullfrog.
Bouyer was patient. He waited until the white men were through with their fun. “If you’re going to be so goddamned bull stupid—I’ve just got one last suggestion for you, Custer, then I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“If that’s a promise, Bouyer—to keep your mouth shut—I’ll hear your last suggestion,” the commander replied haughtily.
“Get your exhausted men and beat-down outfit out of here as fast as their wore-out horses can carry ’em. You go down there into that valley, Custer—you and too many others never coming out.”
They watched the half-breed stomp off toward the horses.
Custer muttered to Reynolds and Varnum, “Let ’im go where he damned well pleases.”
Then, to Reynolds’s surprise, the general bolted after the whiskered half-breed.
Behind them all Ree scout Spotted-Horn-Cloud sitting solemn as an owl, having watched the white men argue before Bouyer raced off in anger. Slowly he scooped up handful after handful of dirt, pouring it over his head like water, mournfully singing out to the climbing sun. “Old friend of many, many seasons … I shall not see you go down behind the hills this night.”