Falcon was riding with Benteen when Keogh came up beside him.
“I’ve not an idea in Sheol where we are, I can’t tell head nor tail from this miserable pack of mules that make up the train, and I can’t see two feet in front of my face.”
All the time Keogh was complaining about the mule train, the banging of the cups rang throughout the valley.
“I wouldn’t worry about the mules,” Benteen said. “Nothing but an Indian could run one of them off. One of the packs might slip off and be left behind, but we could always recover it in the morning when it’s light enough to see.”
At that moment, the banging of tin cups on the saddles stopped, and the column came to a halt. Then word was passed down from the front.
“Dismount, but don’t unsaddle. Rest in place.”
“Dismount, but don’t unsaddle. Rest in place.”
The command continued to be passed down the ranks, though with slight variations so that, by the time it reached the last troop, it was:
“Dismount, leave the saddles on. Rest where you are.”
Shortly after the column halted, Lieutenant Varnum rode back to find Falcon.
“Colonel MacCallister, it’ll be light soon. I wonder if you would like to ride out on a scout with me.”
“Only if you quit calling me colonel,” Falcon replied. “That makes it a little awkward, don’t you think?”
Varnum chuckled. “Yes, sir, I guess you are right.”
“And I’d be honored to go on a scout with you.”
“Here, you might need a little breakfast,” Keogh said, handing Falcon a couple of pieces of hard bread and a strip of dried meat. “The jerky is from the last elk we cooked,” he said.
“Thanks.
“Say, Captain Keogh, how about switching horses with me?” Falcon teased. “Mine is a little tired.”
“Colonel, m’lad, you can have Comanche when you pry his reins from my cold, dead hands.”
“So, is that a no?” Falcon asked. Those near enough to hear the banter between the two laughed.
Falcon and Varnum rode off on their scout. They had gone only about five miles ahead when Falcon called out. “Lieutenant, look ahead. Do you see the smoke?”
“Yes,” Varnum said. “That’s not just a few lodges, is it?”
“No, I think not,” Falcon replied. “The way the smoke is spread out, I’d say that village is three, maybe four miles from side to side.”
They started forward again when Falcon saw someone coming.
“There’s Bloody Knife,” he said.
“Good. I sent him, Mitch Bouyer, and Charley Reynolds out last night.”
Seeing Falcon and Varnum, the Crow scout rode toward them.
“What did you see?” Varnum asked.
“Many Sioux camped on Little Bighorn,” Bloody Knife said.
“Where are the others?”
“They wait, make sure Sioux not leave.” Bloody Knife twisted around and pointed to an escarpment. “From there, you can see camp.”
“Good, good. MacCallister, you can wait here with Bloody Knife and the others if you like. I’ll go back and get Custer.”
Falcon climbed to the top of the ridge, then looked out toward the Little Bighorn River, which was twisting in a series of U shapes as it ran through the broad valley. On the east, from which side Falcon was looking, the river ran alongside steep bluffs, ranging from eighty to one hundred feet high. On the opposite side of the river was a wide, flat plain. There, in the distance, Falcon saw something that looked like a low-lying brown carpet.
“What is that?” Falcon asked, pointing.
“You can see?” Mitch Bouyer asked.
“Yes.”
“Ponies,” Bouyer replied. “Many, many ponies. Maybe twenty thousand ponies.”
It took about an hour for Varnum to go back for Custer, and when they returned, Reno, Benteen, and Cooke had come along as well. The little group rode to the top of the ridge, where Falcon, Bloody Knife, Bouyer, and Reynolds were waiting.
“Now, what do you see?” Custer asked.
“Many ponies,” Bouyer said. “Big village, there.” He pointed. “It is the biggest village I have ever seen.”
Custer pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddle pouch, then looked in the direction Bouyer pointed. He looked through the glasses for a long moment, then lowered them.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“They are there.”
“How many?” Custer asked.
“We will find enough Sioux to keep us fighting two or three days.”
Custer smiled. “Oh, I guess we’ll get through them in one day.” He lifted the binoculars and looked again. “You are sure they are there?”
Bloody Knife turned his hand over and wiggled his fingers. “From here, the ponies look like worms, crawling in the grass.”
“Gen’rul, I think you ought to know that we’ve also seen at least three war parties returnin’ to the camp,” Charley Reynolds said. Charley Reynolds was carrying his arm in a sling.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
“I got a cut in my ring finger, and it’s up and festered on me,” Reynolds said.
“Did you do anything for it?”
“I put me a poultice of a strip of bacon and some axle grease on it,” Reynolds replied. “That ain’t helped none, and I have to tell you it’s hurtin’ somethin’ fierce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Custer said.
“Gen’rul, I think you got to figure that the Injuns has done seen us by now.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you might be right,” Custer said. “All right, let’s return to the camp. We don’t have a minute to lose.”
When they returned to the column, Tom Custer was waiting for them, and he asked to speak with Custer for a moment. Falcon watched the two brothers engage in an animated discussion, but they were too far away for him to be able to hear what they were saying. When he saw Dorman a moment or two later, the black scout filled him in.
“One of the pack mules lost a case of hard bread during the night march up here,” Dorman said. “Keogh sent a sergeant and some men back to retrieve it, and they seen a bunch o’ Sioux openin’ the box. They shot at each other a couple times. Then the Sioux run off.”
Once again, Custer called a meeting of all his officers. As usual, his orderly had stuck his command pennant in the ground to mark the place as headquarters, but a freshening southerly breeze caught the banner, causing it to flap briskly, then blow down. As Falcon was nearest the flag, he picked it up and stuck into the ground again, this time using a bit of sagebrush to help support it.
Because of the heat of the day, Custer had taken off his buckskin jacket, and was now wearing a dark blue army shirt, buckskin pants tucked into his boots, and a gray, broad-brimmed hat. There was no insignia of rank on his shirt, but no rank was needed to establish his position of command.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “It is beginning to appear as if we have been discovered and my biggest fear is that the Indian camp will break up, scattering in all directions. So, from this moment forward, we will have no advance elements. Instead, we will advance in force, find the village, and strike as soon as possible.”
June 25, 1927
MacCallister, Colorado
“We advanced to the head of what is now called Reno Creek,” Falcon said as he continued telling his story to Zane Grey, Libbie, and his great-granddaughter. “There, Custer formed the regiment into battalions. Major Reno was given command of one of the battalions, Captain Benteen was given command of another, and Custer took command of the largest single battalion. Captain McDougal and his company guarded the pack train and brought up the rear.”
“Who did you go with?” Zane Grey asked.
“Well, I had been with Dorman for most of the time and when they divided up, Dorman was with Reno, so that’s where I went as well.”
“Falcon, do you recall about what time of day that was?” Libbie asked.
“The reason I asked is, you may recall that June twenty-fifth was a Sunday, and several of the wives of the post had come to my house for a Sunday prayer service.
“Our little group of saddened women, borne down with one common weight of anxiety, sought solace in gathering together in our house. We tried to find some slight surcease from trouble in the old hymns: some of them dating back to our childhood days when our mothers rocked us to sleep to their soothing strains. I remember the grief with which one fair young wife threw herself on the carpet and pillowed her head in the lap of a tender friend. Maggie sat dejected at the piano, and struck soft chords that melted into the sounds of the voices. All were absorbed in the same thoughts, and their eyes were filled with faraway visions and longings. Indescribable yearning for the absent men, and untold terror for their safety, engrossed each heart.”
June 25, 1876
Ft. Lincoln, Dakota Territory
“Lorena, would you be a dear and stand on the porch just outside the front door, telling our guests that they don’t have to knock? They can just come right on in.”
“Yes, I would be glad to,” Lorena said.
“What about the chaplain?” Margaret asked.
“I’m afraid we are going to be on our own, Maggie,” Libbie replied. “The chaplain must conduct Sunday services for the troops who have remained in garrison. But I will read from the prayer book. We won’t be able to celebrate the Eucharist, but that certainly doesn’t mean that we won’t be in communion with one another.”
“And with our husbands,” one of the other ladies said.
“Yes,” Libbie answered. “And with our husbands.”
One by one, the wives of those who were on the scout with Custer arrived at the commandant’s house. It was not only the officers’ wives who came, but the wives of the NCOs as well, including some who were post laundresses and to whom clung the sharp smell of lye soap.
Libbie read a few lines from the Book of Common Prayer; then someone suggested that they share some of the letters from their husbands. Libbie started it by reading her latest letter from Custer; then Maggie read one from her husband, Jimmi Calhoun.
“Lorena got a letter from Tom, but I won’t embarrass her by asking her to read it,” Libbie said.
“Oh, read it, please do,” one of the other ladies said, and blushing, Lorena agreed to read but one paragraph. Retrieving the letter, she cleared her throat and began to read:
“The days are hot with the rigors of the trail, but the spirits of all the men are high. The nights are cold and lonely, and I asked myself, how can I be lonely as I am surrounded by the entire regiment? Then I think of you back there and myself here, and I know why I am lonely.”
Lorena looked up and saw the smiles on the faces of all the wives.
“Miss Wood, I can only say that, if you marry a soldier, be prepared to be lonely, for that is the lot of a soldier’s wife,” one of the others said.
“Maggie, if you will play the piano, we can sing a hymn, then all return to our homes and think of, and pray for, our husbands who are so far away from us now.”
Maggie sat at the piano and began to play the hymn “Nearer My God to Thee.” The ladies sang:
Nearer, my God to Thee,
Nearer to Thee.
E’en though it be a cross
That raiseth me,
Still all my song shall be.
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee.
June 25, 1927
MacCallister, Colorado
Libbie finished her story by actually singing some of the hymn. Rosie joined with her then. Smiling through her tears, Libbie finished singing.
“You have a very sweet voice, my dear,” she said to Rosie. “Remembering your namesake, I am not surprised. You come by it honestly.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Custer,” Rosie said.
“Falcon, I interrupted your story. Please continue.”
“Where did I leave off?” Falcon asked.
“General Custer had just divided his regiment into three battalions,” Zane Grey answered.
“Oh, yes. Shortly after he divided the regiment into three battalions, they reached the creek that was known then as Ash Creek, but is now known as Reno Creek. Custer ordered Benteen to take his D, H, and K troops and head south to a line of bluffs about two miles off, at an angle of forty five degrees; to send a well-mounted officer and ten men in advance; and to pitch into any Indians he might find. He was also told to notify Custer at once if he saw anything.
June 25, 1876
Ash Creek
Falcon watched as Benteen and his battalion started off toward the south toward the line of bluffs that blocked any view of Indians who might be there.
A rider approached Major Reno.
“Major, General Custer requests that you ride down the left side of the creek, while he rides down the right side,” the rider said.
“All right,” Reno replied. Then, standing in his stirrups, he gave a hand signal indicating his battalion should cross the creek. At this point, the water was easily forded and the hooves of so many horses kept a sustained splash of bubbles sparkling in the sunlight, until finally all were across.
The regiment, minus Benteen’s battalion, now proceeded down the creek, with Reno on one side and Custer on the other.
“I hope we ain’t goin’ to need the pack train,” Dorman said, twisting around in his saddle. Falcon also tried to look behind him, but the pack mules were so far back that they couldn’t be seen.
They continued on for about three more miles, then came to a fork where the creek they were following joined the Little Bighorn. Here, Reno led his battalion back across the creek so that the two columns were joined. They saw a lone teepee, inside of which was a dead warrior, ceremonially laid out with his life possessions to include a bow and arrows and a shield.
“I’ve got the bow!” Boston said excitedly, coming out of the teepee and holding to bow over his head.
“The shield is mine!” Autie Reed claimed, displaying it with enthusiasm equal to Boston’s.
“Burn the teepee,” Custer ordered, and a couple of troopers set fire to it.
They heard a yell from the top of the hill that was just north of the teepee. It was Fred Gerard, waving his hat and shouting.
“Here are your Indians, General, running like devils!” Gerard called.
Some distance ahead, Falcon saw what Gerard was talking about. A party of warriors were galloping at full speed toward the river.
“We haven’t come this far to let them get away!” Custer said. “Reno, take the scouts with you and push ahead at a trot!”
“Scouts!” Reno shouted, and Falcon joined Varnum, Dorman, and the other scouts as they moved out ahead of the column at a brisk trot.
Falcon could tell by the gait of his mount that the horse was on the verge of physical collapse. Man and animal had been pushed hard for over a month now, long hard days, short, often sleepless nights, and with little food or forage.
But the horse gave Falcon all it had, and for that, Falcon was grateful. To Falcon’s right front, he could see a huge cloud of dust boiling up from behind the high bluffs that hid the Little Bighorn Valley.
When they reached Medicine Tail Coulee, which led down to the river at the central ford, Reno halted, and they looked across the creek.
“Major,” Falcon said, pointing. Here, for the very first time, they could see the village clearly. It was large—so large they it was impossible to see just how large it was because the other end of the village just disappeared in the distance.
“Damn,” Reno said.
“When’s the last time you seen somethin’ that big, Falcon?” Dorman asked.
“Last time I was in New York,” Falcon replied. He was exaggerating, and he knew that Dorman knew he was exaggerating, but even in the exaggeration, there was some tr
uth.
Custer and Cooke came riding up quickly.
“What do you see?” Custer asked.
Falcon pointed to the village across the river. This time, Custer needed no binoculars. He could see the village quite clearly.
Custer took off his hat and waved it over his head as his horse, Vic, made a couple of high-stepping circles.
“We’ve got them this time! We’ve got, ’em boys!”
When the rest of the regiment rode up, Custer held up his hand to halt them.
“Trumpter Martin!” he called.
The Italian trooper rode quickly to the general.
“Orderly, I want you to take a message to Colonel Benteen. Ride as fast as you can and tell him to hurry. Tell him it is a big village and I want him to be quick and to bring the ammunition packs.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin replied.
“Orderly, wait!” Cooke, the adjutant, called. “I’ll give you a written message.”
Cooke wrote something on a page from a small book; then he tore the page out and handed it to Martin.
“Now, Orderly, ride as fast as you can to Colonel Benteen. Take the same trail we came down. If you have time, and there is no danger, come back, but otherwise, stay with your company.”
“Yes, sir!” Martin shouted and, taking the message, he whirled his horse about and started galloping back along the column.*
“Major Reno, I want you to cross the river here and attack the south end of the village. I will support you,” said Custer.
“Yes, sir,” Reno replied.
“Colonel MacCallister!” Custer called. “You come with me.”
Falcon, who had been riding with Dorman and Reno, left Reno’s battalion and joined Custer. Just as he joined, Boston and Autie Reed came riding up. Tom Custer was sitting his horse, very close to his brother. He frowned when he saw Boston and Autie.
“What are you two doing here?” Tom asked. “You are supposed to be back with the train.”
“If there is going to be any action, we want to be a part of it,” Boston said.
“Yeah,” Autie said. “I’m not going to miss out on this.”
Falcon saw the expression in Tom’s eyes. Oddly, it was one of resignation and sadness.
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