Armstrong Rides Again!

by H. W. Crocker

  PRAISE FOR ARMSTRONG BOOK I OF THE CUSTER OF THE WEST SERIES

  “The world has a new hero—actually an old hero reimagined—George Armstrong Custer, in this delightfully funny alternative history that’s better, or at least happier, than the real thing.”

  —Winston Groom, bestselling author of Forrest Gump and El Paso

  “Droll satire, this is the West as it might have been if the Sioux hadn’t saved us.”

  —Stephen Coonts, bestselling author of Flight of the Intruder and Liberty’s Last Stand

  “If Custer died for our sins, Armstrong resurrects him for our delight. Not just the funniest book ever written about an Indian massacre, but laugh-out-loud funny, period. The best historical comic adventure since George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman.”

  —Phillip Jennings, author of Nam-A-Rama and Goodbye Mexico

  “If you like learning history while laughing, you’ll like this book… marvelous satire.”

  —David Limbaugh, nationally syndicated columnist and bestselling author of Guilty by Reason of Insanity and Jesus on Trial

  “Crocker has created a hilarious hero for the ages. Armstrong rides through the Old West setting right the wrongs and setting wrong the rights, in a very funny cascade of satire, history, and even patriotism.”

  —Rob Long, Emmy- and Golden Globe–nominated screenwriter and co-executive producer of Cheers

  “Sly and funny.”

  —City Journal

  “Crocker’s Custer, a milk-drinking, sharp-shooting master of disguises, takes us on a series of uproarious adventures in the persona of Armstrong.… Armstrong is an extraordinary hero—a military strategist, a courageous fighter, and some sort of dog whisperer to boot. He’s also a dashing romantic with a knack for making women swoon.… I’ll look forward to finding out where duty calls Armstrong next.”

  —Washington Examiner

  “The conservative novel of the year… Armstrong is a rollicking work of alternative history that doesn’t sacrifice accurate details or historical nuance for the sake of your entertainment.… Armstrong’s Custer is a hero to love and admire.”

  —The Conservative Book Club

  “A good read with a wonderful premise.… It does make one think that George Armstrong Custer was a very good man in command during a horrific battlefield defeat.”

  —Defense.info

  “Action-packed and great for laughs.… Fathers will love reading this book with their sons. Patriots will love it, too.… Prepare to delight in American history and heroism, unencumbered by trigger warnings.”

  —The American Thinker

  “This is the kind of book young people should want to read, which will challenge them and widen their horizons. It is part history, part humor, part drama, and all-around entertainment.”

  —Eagle Action Report

  “Crocker knows his history, so his anti-history is knock-down, pain-in-the-stomach hilarious.”

  —American Conservative

  “A good, old-fashioned yarn.… There is much to enjoy in Crocker’s book.”

  —American Greatness

  “H. W. Crocker has irresistible fun with George Armstrong Custer… a hilarious adventure.”

  —American Spectator

  For the Crocker Boys

  Numquam Concedere

  CHAPTER ONE In Which I Am Introduced to a Mystery

  Dear Libbie,

  Greetings from San Francisco! I write this from a study with a window overlooking the ships in San Francisco Bay. Beside me, smoking a cigar and criticizing my every word, is Major Ambrose Bierce, the journalist. He would rather tell this tale himself—he is the professional writer after all—but as you know, dearest Libbie, I can turn a handsome phrase myself, and this is our tale, Bierce’s and mine, and would not have happened had we not crossed paths (and swords), and I can tell it plainly, unadorned by journalistic exaggeration.

  My last letter chronicled how I liberated Bloody Gulch, Montana—and a fine, rousing story it was. But it left you hanging precipitously wondering what happened next. Now I can tell you.

  I had to flee. The U.S. Cavalry was on its way—and much as I love the Cavalry, I had to preserve my anonymity. A sorrowing world believes I am dead, and I cannot disabuse it of that mournful conclusion until I can prove that my men and I were betrayed into catastrophe at the Little Big Horn. I now had some clues—it was just possible that Major Reno and Captain Benteen had been suborned by that villainous Indian trader Seth Larsen—but I was still a long way from proving my innocence.

  I had to remain incognito, and I reckoned my best chance was to hightail it west. I looked at a map and placed my forefinger on San Francisco. Named after a Catholic saint, it seemed the perfect destination for a man who has sworn off alcohol and gambling and who has eyes only for his wife—though she’s half a continent or more away—a city where a man could commune with his thoughts and with the beasts of the field, with brother sun, sister moon, brother ass, and perhaps Sister Rachel.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  It also held, I could see, an admirable harbor from which I could flee the country, if necessary. It was just possible that someone linked to my last adventure might track me down, penetrate my clever alias of U.S. Marshal Armstrong Armstrong, and expose me for who I really am: the late Lieutenant-Colonel George Armstrong Custer, former Boy General of the Union Army and husband of the most famous alleged widow in America.

  I was left to embark on a long and arduous trail, as you can trace on a map, to get from Bloody Gulch, Montana, to San Francisco. I was obliged to begin the journey on my own. Beauregard Gillette, my Confederate ally, I had sent to you. My Indian scout Billy Jack I had assigned as an escort to take Rachel, both heroine and villainess of my previous dispatch, to a nunnery. Miss Sallie Saint-Jean and her Chinese acrobats had decided to remain in Bloody Gulch, at least for a while, before resuming their perambulations as a touring theatrical company.

  I had for companions, then, only my horses, Edward and Marshal Ney, and the large and fearsome-looking black dog Bad Boy, who was both ferocious to my enemies and, I will confess, one of the most loyal and intelligent Lieutenants it has ever been my privilege to command. The four of us got on splendidly as we traveled west. Over the campfire I would hold them—Bad Boy anyway—in rapt attention as I recounted stories of my days at West Point or in the great war or during Reconstruction or in the Indian wars. I had assumed that Bad Boy spoke German, as dogs do. So our fireside chats were a way to instruct him in English—and to break him of one bad habit. Bad Boy, unfortunately, had been trained to hate Indians. I have worked diligently to convince him that not all Indians are evil, and that many, like my old Ree scout, Bloody Knife, or like Billy Jack, a Crow whom Bad Boy knew from our adventure in Bloody Gulch, are some of the best company a man can have.

  I suppose it was inevitable, but our happy critter company was eventually disturbed, some miles west of Bozeman, by a lone rider arriving in the night. Bad Boy heard him first, alerting me with a low growl, and then disappearing into the brush as the horseman drew closer. I had a Winchester on the stranger when he approached—and noticed that his black boots matched the black of his face. He raised his hands and said, “You don’t need that, sir. I was just passin’ through. Saw your campfire.”

  “Those are Cavalry boots, aren’t they?”

  He gave me a strange look. “You an officer?”

  “U.S. Marshal—was in the war, though.”

  “Marshal? Well, I’ll be. Always took this for a lawless territory.”

  “I don’t know how to take that—and you haven’t answered my question.”

  “Yes, sir, they is Cavalry sure enough: 10th Cavalry Regiment. Indians down south calls us
‘Buffalo Soldiers.’ I reckon that’s what I was. Kept the boots—if you treat ’em proper, they last forever.”

  “I was a Cavalryman during the war.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “You didn’t notice my own boots.”

  “Well, howdy-do, sir—I see ’em now. No wonder you was an officer—you sure is observant.”

  “And I’m obliged, as a U.S. Marshal, to ask you if you’re a deserter.”

  “Deserter? No sir, not me. Did my time, got mustered out, and moved up here with an Indian woman. Live in a cabin about five miles farther southwest. Just rode into Bozeman for a visit—by which I mean to a saloon. My wife, bein’ an Indian and all, don’t like me drinking at home. I was hopin’, in fact, you might have some coffee to share. My woman don’t even like the smell of alcohol.”

  “Neither do I. Alcohol I have foresworn. As for coffee—I do have some on the fire if you have your own tin cup.”

  “Oh, yes sir, I surely do. Might I dismount—and might you point that Winchester somewhere else?”

  I nodded and lowered the rifle. “Dangerous to be traveling alone—Sioux and Cheyenne on the warpath; you heard about that?”

  “You mean, Custer and the 7th getting wiped out—yeah, I heard about that. Amateurs, that’s what I calls ’em. Would never have happened to the 10th.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. That’s what we did—fought Indians down south—Texas and all. You gotta be a whole lot more clever than to charge right into ’em. They was just asking for it.”

  “You do realize that Custer was the most celebrated Indian fighter in the Army.”

  “Pfft—celebrated for his golden curls most likely. I heard about him all right. He was a fancy pants.”

  “A fancy pants? Do you know who I am?”

  “A U.S. Marshal—at least you told me so. I don’t see no star.”

  “That’s right—a U.S. Marshal; and I could arrest you right now.”

  “For what?”

  “For slandering an officer of the United States Cavalry!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That ain’t illegal.”

  “If you think you’re getting coffee after slandering one of America’s greatest soldiers—well, you’re wrong.”

  “Now hold on there, sir.”

  “You hold on there. You are under arrest for desertion.”

  “Before you go arrestin’ anyone—before you go callin’ me a deserter—I want to see a badge.”

  “Very well,” and I made the incredible mistake of laying the Winchester by my saddle (which I also use for a pillow) while I ferreted the theatrical old tin star from my saddle bags. When I turned round, I’ll be darned if that darky didn’t have a revolver pointed straight at me.

  “Well, ain’t that pretty?” he said as I held up the star. I folded my fingers over it in frustration and rage. “Never thought I’d bag me a Marshal. I’ll be takin’ more than that coffee now, if you don’t mind. What else you got in those saddle bags?”

  “Nothing that would interest you—deserter. Marshals travel light.”

  “So do men like me, Marshal, and what you got I might need. Now you reach in there nice and slow—don’t do anything sudden. I’m not sure what to do with you yet. Might even let you live.”

  “I’m supposed to trust the word of a deserter, a thief, and a liar?”

  “Not all lies, Marshal. I got me an Indian woman all right. Fat as a mammy can be—eats me outta house and home. It’s on accounta her I turned to robbin’ folks. Gotta keep her fed.”

  I turned to my saddle bags and glimpsed Bad Boy on the periphery, quietly high-stepping through the brush to get a good angle on his target. His eye caught mine. I knew what he wanted—a distraction.

  “Well, Buffalo Soldier, if that’s the way it’s going to be—I do indeed have something you might want. The money I recovered from a stage robbery.”

  “You got what?” He stepped forward, completely off his guard, right into Bad Boy’s trap. My loyal Lieutenant flew from the darkness, canine jaws clamping on the deserter’s wrist. A banshee scream, and the deserter’s revolver clattered to the dirt, crimson blood drizzling down his fingers. Bad Boy clamped down even harder, jerked viciously, and threw the villain to the ground. I recovered my Winchester and had it leveled in a trice.

  “Well done, good and noble Bad Boy. You can let him go.”

  The dog released his death grip and backed away a couple of steps, growling a warning that the deserter shouldn’t try anything. The Buffalo Soldier got the message.

  “All right, deserter, on your feet.”

  “Marshal, that’s the Army’s business, not yours.”

  “You pull a gun on me and it’s my business. I’ve got you on charges of threatening a federal officer and slandering a Colonel of the United States Cavalry. Those are capital offenses in my book.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean there’s a death sentence attached.”

  “That ain’t so.”

  “As you said, deserter, this is a lawless territory.”

  “Now wait a second there, Marshal. Maybe we can make a deal.”

  “Why should I make a deal with you?”

  “You asked about Indians. A lone man’s at risk. Two would make it safer.”

  “Not if one is a darky deserter.”

  “I knows how to take orders, sir, if I wants to—and I wants to. You can have my gun. You can have my knife. I’ll be your guide.”

  “Guide to where? To the Indians?”

  “Wherever you wants to go.”

  “California.”

  “California—hell, sir, that’s… that’s… hell, I don’t even know how far away that is.”

  “Then I can’t use you.”

  “But I reckon it’s that way, sir,” he said, pointing west. “I could take you into Bozeman and we could find us a real scout.”

  “Us, deserter?”

  “Well, sir, like I said, it’s my wife that drove me to robbin’. Maybe I need a fresh start. I can be plenty useful—the Army taught me a lot.”

  “You cook?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I shot game, you’d know what to do with it?”

  “Sure as biscuits and gravy, sir.”

  “I hate to backtrack—could we find a scout beyond Bozeman?”

  “Well, sir, there’s a trail to Virginia City, and from there onto the Oregon Trail. I reckon there’s some old scouts scattered that-a-way. Trail ain’t used much now—they might be looking for work.”

  “What’s your rank, deserter?”

  “Private, sir.”

  “And your name?”

  “McCutcheon, sir; they calls me Willie McCutcheon.”

  “All right, Private McCutcheon, I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself and be worthy of those boots you wear. I don’t have a Bible, but here, hold this,” I said handing him the tin star, “and repeat after me, ‘I,’ state your name and rank…”

  “I, Private Willie McCutcheon…”

  “… do solemnly swear to follow the orders of Marshal Armstrong or have my guts eaten by that dog named Bad Boy.” I inclined my head to my noble canine companion.

  “Does I have to say that last part?”

  “To make it binding, yes.”

  “I do solemnly swear to follow the orders of Marshal Armstrong or have my guts eaten by a dog named Bad Boy.”

  “Now give me back that star. You’re officially deputized, Private. And I promise you, if you’re not worthy of my mercy, you won’t get it.”

  “Yes, sir. One request, sir.”

  “State it.”

  “Might I have that coffee, sir? I is awful thirsty.”

  “Fetch your cup, Private. And if you fetch anything you shouldn’t—you know the rules, your guts get eaten. Now hand me that revolver, butt first, and that knife you said you had.”

  If meeting Private McCutcheon pro
fited me nothing more, I had at least acquired a serviceable Colt revolver, a stash of ammunition, and a handsome Bowie knife—all for a cup of coffee. It wasn’t a free trade, but it was a fair trade.

  We sat by the fire together, and mused, as soldiers often do, on our women folk at home.

  “My Libbie,” I said, “is the finest woman ever to come from Michigan; fine figure of a woman, educated too, a judge’s daughter, and devoted as the day is long.”

  “I reckon my woman,” said Private McCutcheon, “left the reservation ’cause she couldn’t fit in the teepee no more, or maybe her snorin’ blowed it down—don’t know which. Kinda smells funny too, but you get used to that. Big hands—and I tell you, she don’t mind usin’ ’em. Slaps me somethin’ silly when she gets mad. Sort of hate to think about her. Kinda intimidatin’ in her own way. Truth be told, sir, I is on the run from her.”

  I thought it wise to change the subject. “How’s your wrist, Private?”

  He raised a fist to display the blood-stained bandana wrapped around the wound. “I reckon it’ll be all right, but I’d be obliged if that dog slept next to you, not me. I don’t care much for dogs, especially those that got a taste for my blood.”

  I have to say that with my weapons (and his) and Bad Boy beside me, I felt I had little to fear from Private McCutcheon and slept as soundly as a drunken muskrat. When I awoke—and you know I sleep little—he was already at work, the campfire burning, the coffee ready.

  “Here you go, Marshal,” he said proffering the pot as I dug out my coffee cup.

  “Please, Private, call me General.”

  “General, sir?”

  “Brevet rank from the war. It’ll put us on a better footing—not lawman and outlaw, but officer and soldier.”

  “No more, ‘deserter,’ sir?”

  “No, Private, because you’ve enlisted in Marshal Armstrong’s own personal army; we ride to California…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “… as soon as you find me a scout.”

  We found one. He lived in a shack outside of Virginia City, Montana, and his name was Johannes Fetzer. He was grey of beard and hair, but sprightly all the same.