Reno galloped to the front of his column. He could look to his right across the small creek and see Custer’s command riding in parallel. That gave him some hope. They were just a stone’s throw away from each, well within mutual supporting position. Reno glanced to the rear. The only sign that the pack train was following was a distant patch of dust.
Bouyer was riding to the left front of the column, ranging toward the bluffs that were about a mile away in that direction. The columns rode for several miles like that, occasionally breaking into a trot, then Reno noticed Custer gesturing. There was no mistaking it. Custer was directing him over to the north side. Reno felt a tremendous rush of relief. They were rejoining the regiment, at least what they had here.
Reno splashed across the creek. He could see that Custer was standing at a lone teepee. Reno rode up as both columns came to a halt. Custer was inspecting the structure. Reno dismounted and followed his commander into the teepee. A dead Indian lay within. Reno glanced at him-he’d been shot and Ute wound had soured.
Who shot him? Was Reno’s first thought. Had the Indians made contact with some other column of soldiers, or was this the result of infighting between the Indians themselves? Custer still hadn’t said a word. He was simply staring at the dead man, surprisingly subdued for some reason. Then the general turned and stalked from the tent, Reno following.
Reno noticed that Bouyer had ridden up while they were in the tent. The scout was talking to Bloody Knife, motioning at the tent, but Reno couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Burn it,” Custer snapped. The Crows set to that task quickly.
Custer walked up to Bouyer and Bloody Knife. ‘’Who killed that Indian?”
“Hard to say, major,” Bouyer replied.
Custer was fidgeting with his red bandana. His eyes were darting about. He pulled out his watch and checked the time, shaking his head. “We’re wasting daylight.”
Bouyer chuckled. “General, I wouldn’t be worrying about nightfall if I was you.”
“You aren’t me.”
The Ankara scouts were painting themselves for battle. The two columns were milling about when yelling and several shots were heard to the east.
“There go your Indians, brother!” Tom Custer was pointing.
One of the Crow Scouts was on a knoll to the east and he was gesturing back.
“After them!” Custer ordered the Ankara scouts.
Reno watched with amazement as the scouts ignored the general and continued putting on their paint. Custer’s arms flew as he signed at the Arikara, and there was no doubt in Reno’s mind about the threats inherent in those gestures even though he didn’t understand the exact meaning of what Custer was conveying. The scouts began moving.
Custer wheeled about and grabbed his adjutant, Cooke, by the collar and talked rapidly. He then swiftly walked to his horse and mounted.
Reno stood there, still among the action swirling about him.
“It’s begun.”
Reno turned to Bouyer. “Who exactly are you, and why are you here?”
“You ever get caught in a strong stream while trying to cross it?” Bouyer asked, instead of answering.
“What?”
“A strong current that just grabs you and pulls you along. You can’t get out on either side. You fight and fight, but finally the water wins and you just let it take you where it takes you.”
Reno wanted to ask the scout what the hell he was talking about, but Custer’s column began to move as Cooke came over for the second time with more orders.
“You are to move forward as rapidly as possible across the river, and once you are in position, you are to charge the Indian camp from the south. You will be supported by the whole outfit”
“Where is Custer going?” Reno demanded as he watched the other column move to the north.
“We will be on your right We will support you.” Cooke · yelled as he turned to burry after the Seventh’s commander.
CRAZY HORSE
It was a good day to be alive, Crazy Horse thought as he sat under a tree and watched the ponies eat grass. Never had he seen so many horses in one place. There were almost as many in number as the great buffalo herds he had hunted in his younger days. But the big herds were gone now, another legacy of the white man’s encroachment on the land.
Crazy Horse was not technically a chief, nor did he wish to be one. He was a “shirt-wearer,” a renowned warrior. Among his people, bravery was the number-one requirement of a warrior, and Crazy Horse had that in plenty.
Crazy Horse could sense his “brother” approaching from me southeast, which was strange because that was the direction of the Rosebud, and they knew Three Stars had run away, back toward Fort Fetterman.
Crazy Horse could not believe that the white man was still coming. But the reservation Indians who had arrived in the last several days had given conflicting reports of columns of soldiers. Some said they were to the east in the valley of the Rosebud. Others said they were to the north, near the Yellowstone.
Despite the defeat suffered by Three Stars, there were others still coming, and Crazy Horse knew that was the curse for his people. They would always keep coming. And he was on the banks of the Greasy Grass. Where his mother had foretold he would meet his “brother.”
For the last time, Crazy Horse vowed to himself.
There had to be hope, though. There had to be. Crazy Horse was a warrior, but he also knew that if there was no hope, then warriors would not fight well. The fight on the Rosebud had shown them all something. It had been most difficult for Sitting Bull to cajole all the various tribes and war leaders into accepting a common plan, coordinating the activities of all the warriors. Finally, after many hours of pleading, and with the weight of Sitting Bull’s visions and Gall’s rank as war chief, they had managed to get all the warriors to the Rosebud in the middle of the night and positioned.
Crazy Horse had to wonder though, how much his ‘’brother’s’’ arrival with the strange clear skulls had influenced things. Even Crazy Horse knew they were powerful medicine.
Still, for the first time in history, the entire Sioux nation had fought as one and the result had been a victory, sending Three Stars reeling south. But there were still white men coming, and there was still his mother’s vision, which had not been fulfilled.
Soldiers were falling into camp. Crazy Horse stood up and looked about. There was only one direction from which soldiers could fall into camp. That was to the east, on the other side of the Greasy Grass, where high bluffs overlooked the camp.
Crazy Horse shook his head. He knew this land intimately. A force coming from that direction would be channeled into one of several cuts coming down to the river. It would not be wise tactically, although a foe could approach unseen from the land beyond in that direction.
But the white man was not known for his tactics. Maybe tomorrow, Crazy Horse thought. Maybe they will come out of the hills in the morning. If that were the case, then he had better be prepared. Crazy Horse went in search of one of his ponies. He wanted to make a quick scout of the east side of the Greasy Grass to get a feel for the lay of the land.
But first, there was something he must do. Crazy Horse rode through the large encampment until he found the Miniconjous lodges. He saw several boys gathered near one, and he nudged his pony in that direction. The boys all stopped their play as he rode up.
Crazy Horse dismounted. The boys watched him without saying a word. He looked at them one by one. He felt a charge of power when his eyes touched upon a slight boy near the r: ear. The child held an old rifle in his hands. The stock had splintered and was wrapped with buffalo sinew to hold it together.
Crazy Horse crooked a finger and the boy came forward. The warrior held out his hand and the boy gave him the old rifle. Crazy Horse inspected it. Although old, it was well maintained.
“Have you counted coup?” Crazy Horse asked.
The boy shook his head.
“You are Walks Alone?”
>
The boy nodded.
“Can you speak?”
The boy began to nod, but caught himself. “Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
Crazy Horse took the leather satchel off his pony and held It out to the boy. “This is for you.”
Walks Alone took the satchel but didn’t open it, which Crazy Horse liked. “Where is your father?”
“He was killed by the Snakes while hunting.”
Indians versus Indian again. Crazy Horse thought. “Your mother?”
“She died giving birth two summers ago.”
“And the child?”
“Dead also.”
“Who takes care of you?” Crazy Horse asked.
“I take care of myself,” Walks Alone said. He paused. “But e old warriors who stay in the camp when the young warriors go to count coup — they let me enter their fire circle.”
“You listen to them?”
Walks Alone nodded. “I have learned much from listening.”
“And keeping quiet?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Crazy Horse pointed at the satchel. “Do riot open it. But keep it with you no matter what happens.”
Walks Alone nodded.
Crazy Horse mounted his pony. He looked up at the sun. The day was advanced past the mid-point. Perhaps it would not be today. But he felt his “brother’’ closing. He looked down at Walks Alone, the damaged, old rifle in one hand, the · satchel in the other. Everything fell into a shadow for a moment, and he glanced up, expecting to see a cloud passing in front, and he glanced up, expecting to see a cloud passing in front of the sun, but the sky was perfectly clear. A great weight pressed down on Crazy Horse’s heart as he forced himself to ride away from the boy.
He rode across the Greasy Grass and toward the bluffs on the eastern side when it struck him like a white man’s bullet in the chest that by giving the stone skull to Walks Alone he was helping fulfill the prophecy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SPACE BETWEEN
“There’s only one problem,” Earhart said.
Dane Was examining the golden globe set on the pedestal in the center of the power room. “What’s that?”
“We need power to get this thing moving and no one has come back with a crystal skull yet.”
“We have to trust the Ones Before,” Dane said.
“We don’t even know who or what the Ones Before are,” Earhart pointed out.
Dane noted that the surface of the globe was marked. He leaned closer. Thin lines curled around the surface. It reminded him of something he had seen before. He felt a strange tingle in his hands.
“Let’s get going,” Earhart said as she turned toward the tube exiting the power room.
Dane reluctantly turned from the globe and followed her.
EARTH TIME LINE IV
The ship’s engineers and reactor specialists had seemed happy simply to have something to do, although they had at first eyed the crystal skull with disbelief when Frost showed it to them. When he had explained as best he could what he had “seen” and “beard,” their disbelief faded and their interest perked up. They’d been at work ever since.
Word of the activity had spread quickly in the confined space of the submarine. After all, even though the Nautilus was a relatively large submarine, almost two thirds of that length was taken up by the reactor and shielding. By the second day of work, every member of the crew had been by the officers’ wardroom to see the crystal skull and the intricate wire frame the engineers were weaving around it. Although Frost had described what they were building, he’d had no idea why.
One of the engineers had tried to explain, as much as he understood, what they were doing. In essence, they were wrapping copper wire around the skull to help make it a part of a Tesla coil, but unlike one any of the engineers had ever seen before. They weren’t sure what the changes would produce, but they were faithful to Frost’s vision.
“It’s done,” Captain Anderson told Frost as the poet poked his head in the galley for about the fortieth time.
The skull was enshrined in copper wiring, only glimpses of it still visible. A dozen members of the crew were crowded in the wardroom, admiring the work. Captain Anderson seemed much less than happy that the work had been completed, and Frost knew why, because he had already told the captain what needed to be done next.
Anderson grabbed a mike hooked up to the ship’s intercom system. He clicked it twice to get everyone’s attention. Then e began. “Men, this is your captain. As you all know, we’ve n doing some special work for Mister Frost. Part of our mission up here. I know many of you have questions as to the exact nature of that mission, as I do,” Anderson looked over at Frost. “We came here because we were ordered to by Naval Command. Those who issued us those orders are dead. Our families are dead. Everyone on the planet other than us is most likely dead, and we will be shortly. That is our reality.
“Mister Frost believes, though, that there are other people who we can help.” Anderson paused. “I’m going to let Mister Frost tell you the rest.” He held out the mike.
Frost took it in his liver-spotted hand. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I” he paused as the captain pointed and whispered. “You have to press the button on the side.”
Frost nodded. He pressed the button and waited until the brief burst of static passed. “Gentlemen, we are indeed doomed. You have all heard the reports and seen the film footage of the strange craft that destroyed our planet’s atmosphere. I believe you will all agree that craft is not of our world. There are others, not of our world, but like us, who are also threatened by those who flew that craft and attacked us. “We can help them. I cannot explain it all. I ask you to have faith in what we must do.”
Frost released the button and took several breaths before pushing it again. “It is an axiom that man is at his best when times are the worst. We are facing our worst time, and I ask you to be your best.”
He released the button and handed the mike to Anderson. “You know what must be done.”
Anderson took the mike. “I need two volunteers. Two men to take what we have made here in the wardroom and bring it into our reactor core.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
BOUYER
“Goddamnit, get your men into line!”
The NCOs were trying to sort out the confusion. Plunging into the Little Big Horn River, thirsty horses and men crowded the ford, vying with each other for water. The three companies resembled a mob, not a military unit. Bouyer’s growing unease seemed to match the growing dust cloud to the north. He felt hollow and loose inside thinking about the numbers it took to make such a cloud of dust. If there was this much confusion now, with no battle engaged, how would it be once they went downstream?
Bouyer looked over his shoulder one more time. First to e right, where there was no sign of Custer or his two battalions. Then to the left, the direction in which Benteen and his battalion had disappeared a few hours ago. Would Benteen believe him, or was he marching hard, out of supporting distance for the coming battle?
“Where’s my support?” Reno muttered next to him, his yes searching in the same directions Bouyer’s had.
Bouyer dug his heels into the flanks of his horse while the noncoms and officers sorted out the mess in the river. Reno followed him. They rode up the west bank of the Little Big Horn and looked to the north, downstream. The valley widened out, with low bluffs enclosing the left and the tree lined river on the right. Reno pulled up his canteen and took a deep swig.
“I’ll take some of that,” Bouyer said, ignoring the surprise on Reno’s face, The major handed over the canteen.
Bouyer lifted it to his lips and took a drink. He almost choked on the brackish water that poured down his throat. Reno laughed, an edge to it that Bouyer didn’t like. They both knew that Bouyer had expected a different liquid. The rumor was rampant in the camp that Reno was a drunk.
“’I’ll suppo
rt you!’ By thunder, that’s what he said,” Reno snapped, controlling his horse with difficulty, the animal sensing the fear in the air. “’I’ll support you!’ Well, where is he?” Reno laughed wildly again, the sound contradicting the words.
Bouyer didn’t say anything. He knew the village was ahead. Any damn fool could see the dust from thousands of horses and the smoke from many fires. Bouyer had never seen so much smoke. He knew Bloody Knife was right. Custer wasn’t going to ride through this. This wasn’t going to be another Washita. Of course, he’d known for many years that this battle was going to turn out differently than Custer expected.
Besides not seeing either of the two other columns, the uncertainty of the space on his flanks bothered Bouyer, and he knew it bothered the major. Reno had been in quite a few fights in the Civil War, and the man had some tactical sense.
The Little Big Horn didn’t run. In a straight line north but meandered back and forth, east and west, opening and closing the valley in width-not good for a man with only a limited number of troops to advance up through.
A deployed battalion of cavalry was difficult to control, especially once the firing started. The only ways to issue orders were by yelling, which didn’t work well once the shooting began, or sending messengers, who had the possibility of getting shot before they got to their destination, leaving their message undelivered. Add in the fear of getting killed, factor it by the physical and mental state of the men and horses, and any tactical maneuver could be a recipe for disaster. Bouyer knew professional soldiers didn’t want to admit it, but pure damn luck played the biggest role of all in battle.
Here, in the valley, Bouyer knew Reno would have to watch his flanks. There weren’t enough men in the battalion to stretch from river to bluffs at the widest parts. Bouyer wondered where the major would post him and the scouts. The command would have to be anchored on the river. If Custer wasn’t behind him, as they both feared, then the general was to the right and Reno had to keep the way open either to support Custer, or as briefed, to be supported by him. And the right was where Bouyer wanted to be. He mew he needed to be close enough to reach Custer at the critical juncture.
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