Seize the Sky

CHAPTER 5

NOT long after Terry’s officers hunkered round the table over those maps and charts, the sky opened up as if someone had slit its underbelly and everything tumbled out.

For the first few minutes it rained, assaulting the Far West and all the troops on shore with drops the size of tobacco wads. When the wind suddenly shifted out of the north, the rain just as quickly turned to hail—huge, ugly, sharp-edged weapons from the heavens.

By the time the storm rumbled past and sundown was at hand, the ground lay white and the air chilled John Gibbon to his marrow.

“Isn’t that just like the high plains, gentlemen?” Custer asked, as he, Terry, and Gibbon crunched across a thick layer of hail icing the ground as far as a man could see. “One day you broil your brain, … and if you’re still alive the next, you catch your death of cold.”

Both Gibbon and Terry chuckled with the young lieutenant colonel as they drew near Custer’s tent at the center of his Officers’ Row on the south side of the Yellowstone.

“I wish I had more to offer you in the way of refreshment,” Custer apologized. “Just never got a handle on this matter of alcohol.”

“No matter.” Terry freed some of the top buttons of his tunic. “I think I’ve had quite enough for the day as it is.”

Gibbon glanced at Terry. “We came along for only a moment, Custer. To speak with you in private.”

Custer appeared perplexed as he settled on his prairie bed, a tick stuffed with grass. “Why is that?”

“Armstrong,” Terry began. He removed his hat and shook the water from the crown. “I need to reemphasize some concerns of mine now that we three are alone. I have only the two of you with me … the two who will form the pincers of this campaign.”

“Sir?”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear to everyone that you don’t want the Gatlings nor Major Brisbin’s cavalry along. I could beg you to reconsider, Armstrong. Hell, I could order you to reconsider … if I thought it’d do any good.” Terry sounded as morose as his dark beard. “But I’m afraid ordering you to take them wouldn’t be an answer either.”

“No, sir. It wouldn’t in the slightest.” His eyes held steadily on Terry’s.

“I think I share the general’s opinions of your talents here, Custer,” Gibbon offered with rare candor. “Even though I don’t approve of your methods at times.” He slipped his hat from his head, running a hand over his thinning hair. “I haven’t spent all these years in this man’s army not to recognize a young officer who’s going places. But we all want you to understand that you have much more at stake here. Not merely your reputation—”

“A reputation that’s been tarnished from time to time,” Custer interrupted. “Is that what you mean to say?”

“Only for doing what you felt was right.” Terry put a hand up so Gibbon wouldn’t reply. “I know. Let’s just say you got caught in some political traps through no fault of your own, and we’ll leave it at that.”

At that moment a black woman appeared at Custer’s tent flaps. Terry’s eyes flicked at Gibbon, watching consternation boil across the colonel’s face.

“John, this is Maria,” Terry introduced Custer’s servant.

Custer waited for her to curtsy to Gibbon before he explained, “She’s been with me since 1873 when my former maid ran off with a teamster after my unit transferred to Fort Rice. Maria’s been on both the Yellowstone and Black Hills campaigns with me.”

“Ginnel,” Mary began, bowing her head politely. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had com’ny, sir. I’ll come back later on.”

“No, that’s quite all right, Mary. You go right ahead and work on what you were doing.”

“I won’t be in the way?”

“Not at all,” Custer replied. She slipped past him into the tent. “Maria is quite the cook. Should you both choose to stay the evening, we’ll fix up some special dumplings for supper to go along with her sage hens. Including some delicious prairie onions she’s dug up hereabouts.”

“Thank you—no, Custer,” Terry answered for them both. “We’ll be heading back to the Far West. A lot planned yet for this evening. Still, Mary’s sage hen with dumplings does sound inviting. I’ll trust you to invite me to dinner when we get back home? Mary?”

She turned, surprised that General Terry had addressed her so directly. “Why, of course, Ginnel. Anytime you say. Anytime you and the Missus wanna have the hens. I’d be much pleased to cook for you.”

“Maria here is even taking some live sage hens back to the fort with her when she leaves in the morning.”

“Oh?” Terry glanced at the black woman. “You’re leaving in the morning?”

“Yessuh.”

“I’m sending her east with Chawako and his Rees, who are heading back to your Powder River depot, where she can board a supply steamer, taking our mail and dispatches with her to Lincoln. Since the Seventh pulls out in the morning, there’s going to be a lot of mail: letters to family back east … sweethearts and wives. I wouldn’t doubt but there’ll be a lot of greenbacks headed east on that ride too.”

“Dollars that sutler Coleman didn’t get his hands on yet? Now, that’s hard to imagine!” Terry guffawed with Gibbon and Custer. “That trader can smell a man with a coin in his pocket at fifty paces!”

“And pick that man’s pocket at ten paces!” Gibbon stated.

“You certainly know the man, don’t you?” Terry laughed all the harder. “Mary, I will take you up on that offer. When we return to the fort, Custer—you and Libbie must have us over for dinner.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Custer.” Terry cleared his throat, then said, “In all confidence—between the three of us—the plan for this campaign awards you and the Seventh the brunt of the action and hence the lion’s share of the—”

“Glory, sir?”

“Why, yes. Nothing short of the glory.”

“We won’t let you down, General.” Custer pursed his lips beneath the straw mustache.

“That goes a long way to relieving my anxieties, Custer. In that event I’ll issue your written orders in the morning.” Terry got to his feet as he slipped his campaign hat over his dark hair. “If you have any further questions at that time, we can go over them before you embark on your scout. For now, however, my mind is quite fogged enough as it is. We were at that meeting from near three o’clock until close to sundown! Life at the War Department in Washington City must be quite a bore compared to field action—eh, gentlemen?

“I plan to rest through the shank of the evening and see you off in the morning. Then I’ll get Gibbon’s outfit squared away and dispatched down the Bighorn to meet with you.”

“An effective plan, General,” Custer answered, his azure eyes smiling.

“Custer?” Terry stared at the ground a moment, as if tongue-tied. “One more thing—I’m not all that sure … sure just what to say for the last.”

That caught Custer completely off-guard. “Say … say whatever you want to say, General.”

Terry gazed at Gibbon a moment. Gibbon nodded.

The general sighed before he spoke. “Remember this, Custer: use your own judgment and do what you think best if you strike the trail. If you find my concept for this campaign impractical under the circumstances you encounter, you can change it … accepting full responsibility for varying from my plan, you understand.”

Custer nodded, a hard smile still crow-footing his eyes with tiny wrinkles.

“And, Custer—whatever you do—by God, hold onto your wounded. Just hold onto your wounded.”

“Yes, General.” Custer squinted quickly, his pale blue eyes gazing past Terry to the deepening indigo of the evening sky outside and the first faint splash of the stars spread across the darkening canopy reaching far across the southern horizon. Up the Rosebud. “The wounded … they will be protected. I promise you both that.”

Gibbon set his hat over his thinning hair and swiped the back of a hand beneath his huge nose as he turned to step out the tent flaps.

Terry halted at the doorway.

“Custer, I just may be the last to trust in you.” The general gripped the young officer’s arm paternally. “In fact, this spring it became apparent that not even your old friend Phil Sheridan …”

“I understand fully, sir.” Custer nodded at Gibbon before looking at Terry. “Thank you, General. The Seventh won’t let you down.”

“Find the Indians, Custer. We’ll help you do the rest.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” Custer snapped a smart salute.

Terry and Gibbon walked toward the south bank of the Yellowstone, where a rowboat waited to ferry the officers over to the Far West.

“Cooke!” Custer called into the twilight.

His adjutant trotted up from a nearby camp fire. “Sir?”

“Have trumpeter Voss sound ‘Officers’ Call.’ I want to speak to the men in an hour.”

In fresh paint and their finest outfits, Gibbon’s Crow scouts presented themselves to Custer.

To them the soldier-chief would be known as Young Star, Ihcke Deikdagua. At times they would call Custer the Morning Star. In years to come, none of the Crow would be able to explain to interpreters precisely why he had been given that name.

Young Curley was the first to climb up the bank to Custer’s tent, crunching across the frozen hail to present his hand to the famous pony soldier.

“What’s this?” Custer asked, peering down at his right palm, where Curley had placed a coin with his vigorous handshake.

“It is good luck that you touch his dollar.” Interpreter Mitch Bouyer translated Curley’s explanation.

Though only seventeen winters in age, Curley liked what he saw in the cut of the man. This pony soldier stood tall and slim, broad of shoulder as he thought a warrior should be. Most of all, it was those azure eyes that told Curley, Here is a kind, brave, and thoughtful man.

He had never before seen any man with such eyes.

Custer said, “Curley, is it? Yes—by jigs, I do believe we’ll all be good luck for one another, boys!”

After shaking hands all round with the others, Custer gestured expansively across the entire group. “I have seen most of the other tribes of these mountains and plains except the Crow. And now I see the Crow for the first time. I truly think they are good and brave scouts. I have some scouts here, these Rees. But most of them are worthless to me. I am told the Crows are good scouts, so I sent for you to be part of my command. I myself gave General Terry six hundred dollars for you scouts, and Mitch Bouyer here, to pay for your services.”

He motioned the scouts to sit as Burkman and adjutant Cooke came up with stools and a couple of small trunks. After the Crows had settled themselves, Custer spoke through the half-breed Bouyer.

“I want you to understand I have not called you to go with me up the Rosebud to fight. Instead, you need only track the enemy’s path and tell me where they are. I do not want, nor do I expect, you to fight these Indians we are trailing. You just find the Indians for me. I will do the fighting.”

He turned to his striker. “Burkman, fetch me that pouch I set out on my field desk. The leather one with the fringe down one side.”

With pouch in hand, Custer turned again to Curley. “With this money I am giving you,” and Custer began to pour some coins out of the pouch into the scout’s palm, “I want you to go to the steamboat and buy some paints and new shirts. You must do this now,” he directed while he poured more coins into the palms of the rest. “We leave tomorrow as soon as preparations are made. I want you ready to take me to the Indians who took your hunting land and have long been causing your people many problems.”

Custer suddenly turned to Cooke, struck with an idea. “Lieutenant! I want you to hurry straightaway to the quartermaster and bring me a wall tent for these boys.”

“The Crows, General? A tent?”

“Exactly, Cooke! These boys will stay with me tonight. Eat supper and camp with me … won’t you boys?”

They nodded their heads after Bouyer interpreted the invitation, smiling for the soldier-chief.

“While supper is being readied for us,” Custer motioned for the scouts to stand once more with him, “you go to the steamboat and get your supplies with the money I’ve given you. By jiggers, I feel all the better already about this scout. With good men like you Crows with me … I can’t help but find the Sioux quick and finish them off. Now, come back as soon as you’ve made your purchases, and we’ll have something to eat.”

Custer escorted the group to the south bank of the Yellowstone, where several boats sat on the sand to ferry soldiers to the far shore or the steamboat itself.

As the Crow were about to board the skiffs that would row them out to the Far West, Custer suddenly became drained of his bubbly enthusiasm. The famous smile disappeared from his haggard face.

“I want you scouts to know I understand you don’t know a thing about me yet,” he explained through Bouyer by the lapping waters of the Yellowstone. “I am known far and wide among the tribes as Charge-the-Camp, because I will not hesitate to wade right into a battle myself. You ask about me. Anyone will tell you how I cleaned up a camp of Cheyenne on the southern plains. That was eight years ago, but I intend to do the very thing to these Sioux. And remember the Crow scouts who ride with me—the scouts who lead me to these Sioux I’m hunting—you will share in the horses captured from the Sioux herds.”

Smiles reappeared beneath the greased Crow pompadours as Bouyer translated.

Sioux ponies as an additional reward? What could possibly be better? Curley wondered. Money from this soldier-chief to buy a new shirt for this journey, and some war paint for our faces when we ride down on the Sioux camps. Aiyeee! Now the promise of Sioux ponies as well! This is a great thing in a young Crow scout’ life!

As Custer turned with a wave to them all, crunching back toward his tents across the icy hail melting in slushy patches up the slope, Curley turned to Half-Yellow-Face and White-Man-Runs-Him.

“This Young Star will be a good soldier to follow. He understands Indians. He will not fall behind. I will like fighting for such a soldier. This one will win. This one will bring us victory over our old enemies. Young Star will not quiver and fall back, afraid of the Lakota.”

As the soldier-boatman dipped his oars into the water, dragging the skiff toward the Far West, Curley watched the steamboat’s lights illuminate the tops of the wind-whipped whitecaps.

“It is decided,” Curley said quietly. “I will go with this one wherever he leads me.”

A half hour later Custer sent bugler Henry Voss to blow “Officers’ Call” through camp.

Tom Custer was the first to appear, as was usually the case. “Something’s eating at you, Autie,” he remarked as he strode up, watching his older brother slapping the old rawhide quirt against his boot. “Don’t often see you this worked up. Reminds me of the time Benteen wrote that letter dragging your name through the mud in papers all over St. Louis, Chicago, and New York.”

“Another attack on the Seventh, that’s what!”

“What now? Or should I say, who?”

“That infernal Grasshopper Jim!”

“Brisbin?”

“None other!” He glared testily at his brother with those icy marine eyes, flames from the nearby fire dancing off his reddish blond mustache that all but covered his mouth.

“He still pushing to come along?”

“Tried once more to worm his way in on this scout,” he flared. “This fight is ours!”

“No man will argue that, Autie!”

“He’ll play no part in any of it, not him nor Gibbon! Not even Terry.” He slapped the quirt once more for emphasis as others straggled into the ring of firelight.

“I hope you told that bastard what-for!” Tom said.

“I did just that!” Custer kneaded the quirt handle into his palm. “I told him the Seventh had no need of his four troops of cavalry.”

“Damn, if you can’t stir a fighting man’s blood, Autie!” Tom slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Why, fellas, we’re going to kill us some Sioux just like we done to Johnny Reb down at Saylor’s Creek!”

Tom had won his second of two Congressional Medals of Honor during the Civil War at Saylor’s Creek, charging a Confederate artillery position and single-handedly bringing back the rebel flag to Union lines. He also brought back a serious wound—a hole in his cheek where a Confederate ball had entered, smashing an exit wound behind the ear. More than eleven years later, Thomas Ward Custer still wore that rosy scar on his cheek. Wore it as proudly as he wore his medals.

“Hear! Hear!” shouted Captain George W. Yates, a hometown Monroe boy like the Custers. “Go, you wolverines!”

“That’s the spirit, men!” Tom hollered enthusiastically as he watched friends backslapping.

His was the sort of contagious enthusiasm that his older brother liked to see run through his officer corps. Here on the precipice of their march up the Rosebud, here with the men keyed up tight as a cat-gut fiddle string, brother Tom could work his singular magic on his fellow officers.

Irishman Myles W. Keogh pounded big James Calhoun on the back. Both members of the Custer inner circle cheered lustily with Tom.

“Nothing short of death stands in the way of the Wild I Company!” Captain Keogh growled in his peat-moss brogue.

“Appears nothing will stand in our way now, Myles,” Custer said as the huzzahs quieted. “Terry’s giving us all the help he can. I believe the old boy knows we’ll be the ones to save his hide on this campaign—not Gibbon, not even Crook.”

“Custer and the Seventh!” Tom shouted, amid cheers.

“All right!” Custer himself shouted. “Let’s get down to business so we can get you back to your units. There’s much to do and little time to do it. We are leaving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Captain Frederick W. Benteen croaked.

“Damn! Old Sitting Bull himself better watch out for that mangy scalp of his now!” adjutant Cooke hollered.

“In the morning?”

“Dang-it-all—but I’m itchy for a good scrap a’ready!”

Waving a hand for silence, Custer began, “We’ll leave somewhere between late morning to early afternoon.”

“How long we expect to be out, General?” Major Marcus Reno shuffled a step forward to inquire. He would be second only to Custer himself on the scout.

“Just as long as it takes, Major. To put it in terms of something you can tell your men, I want to be ready for fifteen days of march.”

“Fifteen, sir?” Captain Yates asked.

“That’s correct, George. We’re being provisioned for fifteen days. For the first few days the marches won’t be all that long, but later on I figure the length of each march will be increased as need and circumstance arise.”

“Ol’ Iron Butt won’t go hard to wear us out—eh, Autie?” Tom joked.

“No,” he grinned. “It wouldn’t do to wear out a single man of you and run you into the ground trying to keep up with me! But on the lighter side, if more of you had done as I have, you would not have to brood on dying and leaving someone behind with nothing but your memory.”

“If you’re talking about that life-insurance policy you took out in your name for Libbie, I got myself one for Maggie as beneficiary,” Lieutenant James Calhoun boasted.

“Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, Jim?”

“That’s right, General. Same as you.” Calhoun winked to those round him. “While I don’t expect to use it—you never know when old Iron Butt here will ride us all to our deaths chasing Sioux up and down some bloody river again!”

As the laughter subsided, Keogh stepped forward, slapping his chest. Many were the times Myles Keogh was not the most-liked man in the regiment. Too often a drunken braggart, strict to a fault with his men and most times prone to violence. There remained an electrifying aura about the man, especially in that effect he had over the fairer sex—and it all carried over to the unquestioned control he held over the men of his “wild” I Company. With Custer’s regiment from its inception, brooding Myles Keogh brought the best, and perhaps the worst, out in all his men.

“What’s to say ’bout me—eh, mates?” His thick brogue poured over every one.

“Why, who the hell would you name your beneficiary, you lady-humping rounder, you?” Tom Custer swung a fist into Keogh’s taut mid-section.

“Why, Tommy, me boy! You know I ’aven’t got a dolly to mourn me passing, a’tall … a’tall. But, still took me out a policy with the same blooming life insurance drummer. And, should these red buggers be-chance lift my scalp—why, them bankers’ll pay me dear ol’ mither back in Erin they will!”

Calhoun slapped Keogh on the back, pushing him back into line good-naturedly.

Calhoun and Keogh were quite a pair. Both serving long with Custer and his magical Seventh, both part of the inner clique that drew close around Custer himself, protecting the general. Fiercely loyal to a fault, both Keogh and Calhoun swore that should the day ever come that they could repay Custer’s kindnesses to them, neither of them would be found wanting.

“Gentlemen!” Custer held his arm up, and the officers’ laughter subsided. “We’ll move up the Rosebud tomorrow. There will be no wagons this time. Hence, no tents.”

He waited until the good-natured groans and complaints played out. “No wagons means we’re taking mules along. A pack train. Twelve mules per company. That forces us to march light, you understand. Fifteen days we’ll be out, so fifteen days’ rations packed for each man. Hardtack, coffee, and sugar to be carried on each man’s mount. Twelve days of bacon only. No more. Don’t overburden the mounts, gentlemen. There may well come a time when we can’t afford to overtax the animals, and we’ll need their energy and strength for a fight of it. Ammunition more than food, fellas. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Cooke answered for them all.

Custer peered a moment at the cloudy sky, almost as if hoping for a peek at a star. “Speaking of our mounts, every man will carry twelve pounds of oats and a nose bag for his horse. In case we can’t locate good graze, we must be prepared to feed the animals. And every man will keep on him a hundred rounds for his carbine, twenty-four for his revolver. In addition, see that two thousand rounds of carbine ammo are loaded on each company mule. If you feel your assigned mules can take it, I might suggest some extra forage.”

“Sounds like you’re fixing to have us out even longer than fifteen days, General.”

Custer glared at Major Reno’s dark face. “We might be. Terry figured five days at the most before the jaws of his trap snap shut. However, I want us ready for fifteen at the least. These Indians won’t get away this time. My only fear is that the Sioux are going to run, that I’ll have to chase them as they scatter on us. But Sitting Bull won’t get away for long if we’re prepared to follow.”

“Beggin’ pardon, General.” The big Missourian stepped into the light between lieutenants Edgerly and Smith. “Are you prepared to support any unit that gets itself into trouble this time out?”

Custer tensed, turning slowly toward the strapping Benteen. “Captain, care to tell me just what you mean by your question?”

“Why, I was remembering the Washita and Major Elliott.…”

With Benteen’s acidic words Tom Custer sensed a stunned silence slash through the assembled officers like a saber.

“Major … Major Elliott?” Custer stammered.

“Yes, General. That time on the Washita when you failed to support one of your officers. I want to be assured in front of your officer corps that such an event will not occur again. You will follow and support as you have promised?”

“Promised?” Custer grew bright red. “This is war, Benteen! Not some sterile battle maneuver pitting us against civilized soldiers in the Shenandoah Valley. We’re preparing to do battle with hardened warriors. Don’t dare speak to me of promised support, for I won’t hear of it ever again! We’re soldiers, doing our job as best we can. Do you all understand?”

After a moment of reflection, Custer ripped off his hat and ran a hand over his freshly clipped hair. Back to bristles, compliments of barber-trader James Sipes aboard the Far West.

“We’ll be fighting warriors who have battled us before on the Yellowstone, I’m sure. Led by Gall and American Horse and none other than Crazy Horse himself. So it’s reported. I led my cavalry into many battles during the recent rebellion in the south, engaging my horse against the cream of the Confederate horse. But I want each and every one of you to understand that we have never come up against warrior-leaders like this Crazy Horse. He’s the kind who likes to hurt you before he kills you, as I understand.”

“Let the bastard taste Seventh Cavalry steel!” Tom blurted angrily.

“If anything, he’ll have to taste our lead,” Custer replied. “The sabers were left behind at Powder River.”

“Let it be my lead, pray God!” Tom said.

Custer turned back to Benteen. “Captain, I repeat—we will be fighting warriors.” He eyed the rest of his officer corps. “Unlike those you killed at the Washita.”

“Seems you have me at a disadvantage now, General,” Benteen replied. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“For those who don’t know or may have forgotten about you shooting a young boy during battle—”

“Young boy!” Benteen shrieked.

“A mere youth, Captain!”

“He was over twenty. A full-fledged warrior, by god!”

“Don’t lie before these good men. Your fellow officers!”

“By damned, General—with God as my witness … that man was a warrior. I daresay a better warrior than many of the soldiers we’ll be leading south along the Rosebud in the morning.”

“The difference being, Captain—that those young men I’ll be leading down the Rosebud will know the difference between warriors and … boys.”

Benteen shrugged shaking his head as he shuffled back in line, muttering loud enough for most to hear, “A young warrior will kill you just as quick as a gray-headed one … any day.”

“Any questions?” Custer inquired.

“General?”

“Yes, Myles?” Custer smiled at Captain Myles Moylan. He had always liked the dark Irishman. Moylan was genuine, early on coming to enjoy Custer’s respect during his time as adjutant during their Fort Hays duty. Following his years as adjutant, Custer had rewarded Moylan’s loyalty with a captaincy at the head of A Company.

“I was wondering, sir, that with two thousand rounds of carbine ammo and extra forage you’re suggesting—all that on the backs of just twelve mules—won’t that break ’em down before too long?”

Custer studied the flames before he answered. “I trust in each and every one of you men to do what you feel right for your commands. If you think you should carry extra forage, then by all means do so. Carry what you damn well please.”

With that singular word Tom realized his brother still smoldered with Benteen’s insult. Custer rarely if ever swore. And this use of profanity did not go unwasted on these men who knew him best.

“The idea was only a suggestion of mine, Myles. You need not hold to it. But, best that each of you tattoo this on your minds. You’ll be held accountable for your companies—both men and animals. Understand once more that we will be following the hostiles’ trail … no matter how far it takes us. No matter how long it takes us. Understand, gentlemen—we may never see the Far West again. We cannot rely on it or its supplies from this point on. If my guess is right, we may not see the other units for some time either. Once we march over those ridges to the south, following the Rosebud in the morning … we’ll be entirely on our own.”

Custer turned toward Calhoun, testy as a sage cock, when he heard his brother-in-law mutter something under his breath to Keogh. “What was that, Jim?”

“I just said it was better that way, General,” Calhoun replied self-consciously. “Better that we don’t have the rest of those other units bogging us down.”

“Bloody right, General!” Keogh growled. “We’re a fighting unit. Not like these other shoneens what never seen a fight or scrap before … much less a battle with the bloody savages!”

“You can count on Company A, sir!” Moylan joined in.

“In that case,” Custer said quietly as he stepped near Moylan, “you all might suggest to your men to bring along a little extra salt.”

“Salt, sir?” Lieutenant Edward S. Godfrey asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant. We may have to live on horse meat before this campaign is out. Most certainly mule meat unless some troopers are put afoot … or there are some saddles emptied.”

“Saddles emptied?” Lieutenant George D. Wallace croaked.

“Casualties.”

“Salt certainly makes horse meat taste better to my discriminating palate!” young Tom joked to raise everyone’s sudden gloom. “Had it before down to the Indian Territories chasing old Medicine Arrow himself. Not bad, if the horse isn’t a friend … and you’re hungry enough!”

Custer himself had turned on his heel and taken a couple steps toward his tent when he suddenly turned back again. “I’m sorry, but I forgot to mention something to you men before we break up. General Terry has given his permission to tap the whiskey kegs aboard the steamboat this evening.”

He had to wait while wild cheering erupted from the group. “If any of you have the inclination, you might avail yourselves of the army’s generosity. I’m aware many of you, like Tom here, make a habit of taking along an extra dram or two in your canteens—just for what Tom calls that ‘extra-tired time.’”

“From the sounds of it,” Tom stepped beside his brother to face the rest, “looks like my brother here is set on pushing us extra-hard and making us extra-tired!”

The officers laughed along with the younger Custer, wiping the backs of their hands across dry lips or rubbing their bellies to show what they thought of his idea of getting enough whiskey to wet down a month-long thirst. A long, dry trip out from Fort Abraham Lincoln.

“When I have General Terry’s written orders in hand come morning, I’ll have Cooke come round. Otherwise, have your sergeants pay heed to the bugle calls. We’ll strike camp as soon as the regiment is prepared to move out. That’ll be all. Good night, gentlemen.”