“Then he wants me to keep the Ree scouts with my command?” Reno inquired suspiciously, scratching his beard.
“It’s my opinion that he does—yes, sir,” Cooke replied. “He’s keeping four of the Crows and Bouyer with him. The rest, I assume, are now to go with you.”
“Anything more? Something in the way of orders?”
“No, Major.” Billy Cooke glanced back at Custer, sitting loosely atop Dandy on the rise above them. Strange, now that I think about it—
“Custer just wants me in command of three companies … is that right?”
Cooke thought Reno sounded more than a bit anxious. But then the skin around the major’s eyes sagged again. The dastard’s relieved that he’s not ordered into battle immediately. If I had my way—
“Correct, Major,” Cooke answered. “He orders you to proceed down the left bank of the stream.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.” Reno turned toward his three companies.
By the time Cooke galloped back to the head of the columns to rejoin the general, Custer was sending the short, shy Charley Reynolds off to ride with Reno as well. The scout’s soulful blue eyes twinkled with a melancholy light as he waved farewell to the general and the swarthy Bouyer, kicking his mount back along the dark snake of cavalry waiting patiently for Custer to complete this division of the troops for what most officers realized was to become a three-winged attack.
“Captain Yates?”
“Yes, sir!” he replied in his best Michigan Yankee accent.
“You and Captain Keogh will be in charge of the five remaining companies under my aegis.”
“Sir?” Yates appeared startled.
“You’ll take command of C Company under Captain Custer, E under Lieutenant Smith, along with your own F Company, Captain Yates.”
The eyes of the officers studied Custer as he in turn studied the valley beyond.
Billy Cooke understood why he wanted George Yates to command the lion’s share of companies under Custer’s personal aegis. Besides being a hometown Monroe, Michigan boy, Yates had served on Custer’s staff during the war. He was a rock-steady hand, proven in battle. Yet, as Cooke thought on it now, there still remained the hint of stain. Guilt by association. George’s brother, Fred, was the head trader for the Sioux at the Red Cloud Agency down in Nebraska, a fact that had not escaped the attention of many in high places during the graft-and-corruption scandals still rocking the War Department since the past winter.
If George does well in the coming fight, Cooke thought, looking at the two men, then Custer’s faith in him will be vindicated—and all taint removed from Yate’s career. That’s the kind of soldier the old man is.
“Meanwhile,” Custer continued, bringing his eyes back to the big Irishman, who sat sweltering in his own coarse gray-woolen pullover, “immediate command to fall under Captain Keogh will be his own and Lieutenant Calhoun’s companies.”
James Calhoun grinned as he reached over swinging a fist, slugging Keogh on the shoulder. They had long been the best of friends and drinking partners. Together they repeatedly boasted that their two companies alone could whip thrice their weight in Sioux.
“I want your command to be prepared for a rearguard action, gentlemen,” Custer went on. “No telling what the sneaking hostiles might do in coming up our backsides. They know we’re coming.” His eyes scanned the far hills to the north, then moved back up the divide behind them. “I can’t think of any better commanders to protect this regiment’s backsides.”
Keogh snorted that rollicking bray of his that characterized his lust for life. He never shied from anything thrown his way. “Jimmy and me—we’re ready and able to watch over anyone’s arses, we are, sir!”
“Splendid,” Custer said with a smile. “Now that Reno’s moving across the creek, you’ll see that I’ve kept my family with me. Just as I’ve long envisioned it on such a day of glory. You’ll all ride with me today. What say you, friends?”
“I’m one bastard fotching to spill some Sioux blood first, General!” Keogh rattled. “Washington City can wait till I get that outta my gawdamned system. Gimme more whiskey and bring on Crazy Horse!”
Custer said, “You’ll have your wish shortly, Myles. Let’s see if the Sioux are going to cooperate with us or not. I can’t shake this worry that they’re going to run on me.”
“How can we assure that they don’t, sir?” Calhoun piped in.
“Jimbo, I have a plan that might just work when we come in sight of the village,” Custer whispered, lending a mysterious air to his answer. “But for the time being—ah, good. Here comes Vic now!”
Minutes ago he had dispatched Saddler Sergeant John Tritten from his personal headquarters command to ride back to the pack train with Dandy and fetch Vic, Custer’s favorite chestnut sorrel, from Private Burkman. Back in the days of his Civil War battles Custer had learned the advantage in taking a fresh animal into a fight. Such a tactic had worked well for him in past campaigns, so he was not one about to break a string of good fortune now that he stood on the precipice of glory.
On Sergeant Tritten’s tail loped angel-faced Boston Custer and young Autie Reed, the eighteen-year-old bullyboy who had come to watch his uncles butcher some Sioux. Beside them rode Mark Kellogg, still raking his worn-out army-issue mule with Herendeen’s spurs. Taking their cue from the general’s stern face, the three civilians fell silent, not anxious to interrupt the proceedings. They reined to a halt. Tritten switched Custer’s saddle to Vic’s back atop a dry blanket. At the same time, other officers and enlisted tightened cinches, patted their horses’ sweaty necks, or adjusted their own damp clothing. Belts were wrenched up a notch, yellow-striped britches restuffed into scuffed boots.
Then Custer was up in the saddle once more, looking bigger than life atop Vic, the blaze-faced sorrel standing better than sixteen hands high. After tugging his hat down over his hogged strawberry haircut, Custer waved his officers and their commands to follow him downstream.
“Billy, you’ll see the troops are put to the march, then rejoin me?” Set deep within that sun-rawed, wind-scalded face were a pair of eyes burned red with alkali dust, hollowed and black-rimmed with characteristic lack of sleep.
“Will do, General,” Cooke answered. “We’ll follow your lead!”
And as Custer turned from his officers’ conference, he pointed Vic’s nose to the right—to every man’s surprise. For now he no longer led his men down that wide, well-marked Indian road scoured by thousands upon thousands of hooves across the dusty, dry breast of the Ash Creek trail.
Custer ducked behind some low hills, hills that for a time put him out of Major Reno’s sight.
With every bend and twist of the trail down into the valley, Marcus Reno grew a bit more apprehensive.
What if Custer’s taken off, and I suddenly confront the Sioux on my own? Reno’s mind raced, burdened by all the dreadful possibilities.
Several miles down the creek, both commands passed through a swampy morass. Here lay a steamy bog that over the centuries filled with stagnant seepage trapped as the spring rain and winter runoff trickled down from the Wolf Mountains. At this stage of the year, the morass by and large had already gone dry, its surface cracking beneath summer’s retribution upon the land.