The valley of the Pa-zees-la-wak-pa lay blanketed with buffalo. A massive herd slowly inched south and west toward the hazy bulk of the Bighorn Mountains. By now little over a decade had passed since the white man began his wholesale slaughter of the black, shaggy beasts. But here this summer these herds were another blessing of the all-powerful Wakan Tanka.
Here in this valley the people would stay … far to the west from the white man. Here they could follow the buffalo as they had for time beyond remembering.
Eating the flesh of Pte to make themselves strong as a people once more.
“At last we are out of the white man’s land,” they all agreed, and smoked together each night on the Greasy Grass. “Let the wasichu stay over on his side of the land. We will stay here on our ancient hunting grounds. This is our last ground. From here we will not be moved.”
With some three hundred lodges and better than three thousand people themselves, the Northern Cheyenne led the Sioux bands down the west slope of the Wolf Mountains to what the Cheyenne had always called Goat River. And in that valley of the Little Bighorn, they created a sight never before seen by Sioux and Shahiyena alike: eight huge, graceful camp circles rising along the Greasy Grass, the horns of each circle open to the east in prayerful greeting to the rising sun.
At the extreme north end of this greatest of all congregations, the direction the tribes were marching, stood those Cheyenne lodges. Next to them were raised the lodges of the Sans Arcs, the Miniconjou, then a small camp circle of the Brule Sioux. Beyond them spread the huge camp circle of Crazy Horse’s Oglallas, the Blackfeet Sioux, another small circle of Santee Sioux, who without fail always pitched their camp next to the last tribe, Sitting Bull’s Hunkpapas.
That name long ago given to The Bull’s tribe had significance as “the edge” or “the border,” for it identified the group that traditionally camped at the village entrance. In the parlance of the old days, the Hunkpapas were “The Ones Who Camp by Themselves.”
Like Sitting Bull’s huge black-and-red lodge, the Sioux tepees were tall and narrow with a big smoke-flap opening at the top, whereas the lodges of the Northern Cheyenne were larger in circumference, yet sat a bit squatter and were topped with smaller ventilating smoke flaps. Sioux lodge or Cheyenne—there were better than two thousand lodges scattered along that silver ribbon of river. And nestled back in the thick willow and alder and creepers were huddled those wickiups that served as small brush-and-blanket shelters for the young warriors fresh off the reservations without families of their own.
To the west beyond the eight lodge circles, the huge pony herds had been put out to pasture on the rich green belly-high grasses. More than thirty thousand animals in all. No man had an accurate means of counting just how many ponies roamed those fertile bench-land pastures.
A man would have to say they were as thick as the ticks on an old buffalo bull’s back.
Off the divide at last a beautiful panorama opened up before the command.
The regiment had crossed a series of ridges some fifteen to eighteen miles wide, which separated the drainages of the Rosebud from the Little Bighorn. Far below their feet now spread a green, grassy plain extending a little more than fifty miles to the Bighorn Mountains, resting stoic and silent in a snowcapped majesty, pale and hazy beneath a summer sun that relentlessly worked at the high overcast to make for a hot day. By now the clouds above the column were burning off. The air about the men droned lazily with that buzz of summer’s retribution upon the high plains.
Down the slopes of gray rock sprouting with stunted sage and sparse bunchgrass, they wound their way, weaving round the dark green of jack-brush and pine and cedar clustered in clumps like old squaws gossiping over the army columns coming their way.
Lieutenant W. W. Cooke felt the first drops of sweat rolling down his long, flowing Dundrearies that spilled off his jaws. All the rage back east at the time, the long sideburns had proven quite a hit with the young ladies come visiting Fort Abraham Lincoln. For a man handsome to begin with, the Dundrearies only accented his dark good looks. He swiped a hand across his handlebar mustache as Custer called a halt on the open tableland where the column could enjoy the beckoning green of the lush grass calling seductively from the valley below.
“Not far now, General,” Cooke commented, reining in beside his commander.
“Billy, I want to see the officers. Promptly.”
“Right away,” replied the Canadian-born adventurer, who had come south to America when the Civil War offered excitement. He quickly gathered Custer’s officers at the head of the march.
“We’re close now, fellas,” Custer began. “I’m going to form the columns for the attack should we be presented any surprises. Therefore, the first troop commander to report back to me that his pack detail is complete and that each of his troopers does indeed carry a hundred rounds of carbine ammo and twenty-four rounds for his pistol will ride the advance of the column. It seems the honor of this position should go to the command who have done their best to obey my order against grumbling and is best prepared. I’ll wait here for a company commander to report—”
“I take the lead, General!”
Custer jerked sideways in his saddle to stare at Benteen.
The stocky Missourian’s H Company had been marching right behind Custer since the climb over the divide began.
Eventually Custer answered Benteen’s salute. “By all means, Colonel Benteen,” he stammered, flustered and referring to the captain’s brevet rank awarded during an illustrious Civil War career. “You have the advance for our attack, sir.”
“Thank you, General.” For the first time in many, many years since he had joined the Seventh in its early days, there rang the genuine sound of appreciation in Benteen’s voice.
That sound struck Cooke as odd, if not a bit off-key.
“Lead off, Colonel.” Custer waved Benteen forward, sitting atop Dandy beside Cooke while H Company trooped past.
“The man hates you,” Cooke whispered from the corner of his mouth as the dusty, ragged soldiers clambered by.
Custer never took his eyes off Benteen’s men to reply. “He doesn’t have to like me, Cookey. He’s a bloody good soldier. Perhaps the most experienced and levelheaded company commander I’ve got.
“Keep in mind we will all rely on each other today. Besides, it suits me that Benteen’s up front. If we’re confronted with the hostiles—Benteen hits them first. And if I have time to split my command for the attack as we did at Washita, then I can always count on the captain to come to my aid if I need him. No matter what you might call him—Captain Frederick Benteen is a soldier first.”
The insides of George Herendeen’s thighs were sweating. Tiny rivulets of cold water poured down the back of his knees and into his stockings already soaked and chafing. He was sure he’d never pull his feet from his boots come evening. Perhaps he could soak his feet in the cool waters of the Little Horn tonight.
But that meant this regiment under Custer would have to wade on into these Sioux and get finished with them before evening. George Herendeen didn’t want to think anymore about his sweaty feet.
It didn’t take long before the regiment descending the divide in column-of-fours started marching a little too fast for Custer’s liking. Herendeen figured whoever was setting the pace up there was just as anxious as he was to reach the beckoning green pastures down in the valley along that bright, silvery ribbon of the river.
But Custer wasn’t as patient as George Herendeen. He nudged Dandy into a gallop, racing to the head of command, where he could reassume the front of the march itself.