Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Who the hell are they?” Tom asked.

  “Sioux markings on the tents,” Cooke said, looking through his field glasses.

  “Maybe we’re not so far south after all,” I surmised.

  “There’s trouble down there,” Kellogg observed, adjusting his spectacles for a better look.

  I raised my Austrian binoculars, observing the scene with surprise and a bit of shame. Several Indians lay on the ground, possibly dead. Four white men in crude hunting leather stood about, three with old-fashioned muskets and one with a large knife. Two squaws and an Indian boy were hovering over the bodies. The man with the knife grabbed one of the squaws, a young woman with a very graceful figure.

  “What’s going on there?” Tom asked, standing up in his stirrups.

  “Looks like those buffalo hunters are plundering the Sioux camp,” I speculated.

  “More than plundering. The fat one is ripping off the girl’s dress,” Cooke said.

  “That son of a bitch!” Tom shouted.

  Before I could stop him, Tom was riding full kilt down the hillside toward the camp, drawing his Colt .45 revolver.

  Cooke and I started after him, but Tom’s horse, Athena, was said to be Arabian. Fast as lightning. I might have kept close if I’d realized Tom was going to bolt. Vic was my battle horse, a Kentucky thoroughbred, and fearless in a charge. I’d owned him since taking command of the Seventh in 1866 and he’d never let me down. Cooke’s horse was a little faster than Vic, but not by much.

  “Tom! Tom!” I yelled, but the young gallant’s blood was up.

  Tom could never stomach abuse of a woman, Indian or not. Libbie had taught him that. He emerged from the war a brave man and decorated hero, but rough in his ways. It was Libbie who patiently molded her poorly educated brother-in-law into a gentleman. Of sorts.

  The men in hunting leather turned to see Tom bearing down on them. Two were large, a third not so much, and the fourth short but stocky. All were thickly bearded, dressed warm against the weather. It was the stocky villain who was attacking the young Indian lass, a hand entangled in her long black hair while using a hunting knife to slash her deerskin dress. At first the hunters seemed to feel no danger, but gradually they took alarm as they sensed the approaching rider was not friendly.

  Tom raised his Army Colt and fired from fifty yards away, the first shot missing. His second shot hit one of the hunters high on the shoulder, causing the man to howl in surprise. The other three marauders raised their muskets and fired, the reports echoing off the prairie.

  I couldn’t tell if Tom was hit, but he kept riding right into the camp, shooting another hunter several times at point blank range. The stocky man with the knife pushed the girl backwards and charged at Tom. Tom jumped from Athena and wrestled for the blade. The fourth hunter quickly started to reload, using an antique ramrod to jam a lead ball down the barrel of his rifle. The Indian lass and the older woman took flight for the teepees, dragging a young man with them. The Indian boy stood his ground, watching with curiosity while showing no fear.

  The hunter with the knife was putting up a good fight, keeping Tom’s attention from his treacherous friend. I pulled Vic to a halt and yanked my Remington .50-caliber from its sheath. It wasn’t a long shot, only three hundred yards. Over the years I’d made many a fine kill, a few at five hundred yards or better. More often than not, I’d exaggerated the distance, as sportsmen are prone to do. But I could not afford to miss now. Not with my brother’s life at stake.

  Tom gave the stocky man a solid left hook, knocking him down, and then pounced. The other man finished reloading and took aim at Tom’s back from ten feet away. I drew him in my sight, held my breath, and squeezed off a shot. The hunter’s head exploded in a pink cloud, his arms flung out as he fell. Seconds later, Cooke rode up with his revolver ready and shot the wounded man attempting to reload his rifle. The man collapsed against the wagon, made a feeble attempt to lift his weapon, and then toppled over as Cooke shot him two more times. Tom took the knife away from the last remaining hunter and plunged it into his foul heart.

  “Damn it, Tom,” I chastised, riding in after the fighting ceased.

  “No harm, Autie,” Tom said, wiping a streak of blood off his forehead.

  Two of the Indians lying on the ground stirred, knocked down but not killed. A third was dead, his brains bashed in with rifle butts. All three were young, late teens or early twenties. Of the two women, the graceful beauty seemed about eighteen, the other a crone close to fifty. Ancient by Indian standards. They had dragged an old man in the largest teepee, so old his age was beyond guessing. He had been struck over the head and appeared dazed. The Indian boy I took to be six or seven. A sturdy lad with intelligent black eyes. Bouyer rode up, ready to be our interpreter.

  One of the young bucks got up, nursing a wounded arm but determined to be their spokesman. The young woman rushed forward, one hand holding her torn dress together, seeming even more intent on speaking for their party. They argued, silently. The woman won.

  “My name is Morning Star,” the woman said, her accented English easy to understand. “This is my little brother, Slow, and my cousins, Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf. Spotted Eagle’s mother is called Walking-In-Grass, and my grandfather’s name is Jumping Bull. Our lost cousin was Closed Hand. We thank you for saving who you could.”

  Morning Star bowed gracefully. The other Indians merely watched, apparently unfamiliar with a civilized language.

  “You speak well,” Tom said.

  “I spent two years at the St. Joseph school in St. Louis. You’re hurt. Let me wash that cut,” Morning Star said.

  She found a piece of soft hide and dipped it in a water bag. Tom did not resist her ministrations. I motioned to Cooke and Kellogg to take care of the dead buffalo hunters. Bouyer reluctantly helped. The old Indian emerged from the teepee, wearing a headdress with scores of eagle feathers. He had counted many coup in his day.

  “Are we near your village?” I asked.

  “No, we have traveled south for many moons on a vision quest,” Morning Star said.

  “What does your grandfather seek?” Tom asked, taking a second look at the old fellow.

  The ancient chief was my height, about five feet, nine inches. His finely cut rawhide outfit indicated a man of great dignity. His deep brown eyes looked tired, not from exertion, but from too many years of a hard life.

  “Not my grandfather. It is Slow’s vision we seek. Someday he will be a powerful medicine chief,” Morning Star explained. “At first I thought we were searching for a white buffalo, for there are legends of such. Or maybe a white wolf. Now I’m not sure.”

  The boy came forward, first staring at me, then at Tom. I don’t think he’d ever seen a white man before. But neither of us was a white buffalo or a white wolf. He wore a deerskin outfit decorated with red and blue beadwork. Rabbit fur mittens were keeping his hands warm. I gave him a smile, being fond of children. Libbie and I had never been blessed.

  The explanation made sense. The group was traveling light with just the two teepees and a few horses to drag the lodge poles. An old iron pot hung over their fire, a fine stew offering a pleasant aroma. They had sufficient blankets and some supplies, but not so much as they would have closer to home. Having gone on hunting trips with my Ree scouts many times, I was familiar with the resourcefulness of the plains Indians. Nevertheless, these people were a long way from the Missouri River country.

  Bouyer returned from the freight wagon, chewing a piece of jerky, a cured buffalo hide draped over his slim shoulders. It was a large wagon of an older style, like the ones I remembered seeing as a child. It lacked steel springs or a good brake, and the wheels were primitive. My father would never have allowed such a relic to leave his blacksmith shop.

  “Buff’lo hunters were doin’ good, Gen’ral. ’Bout a hundred or so skins. No horse blanket for me tonight,” Bouyer said.

  “We also found several sacks of flour, about fifty pounds of jerky, and six cans of c
offee,” Cooke said. “What should we do with the bodies?”

  “Leave the curs for the buzzards,” I rashly ordered, though I knew we’d have to bury them eventually.

  “And the Indians?” Cooke asked.

  “Once we figure where we are, we’ll find transport for them back to the reservation,” I said.

  “Reservation?” Morning Star asked.

  “Don’t worry, miss. We’ll get you home,” I promised.

  I saw Yates appear on the hill, the rest of the command not far behind. The night wouldn’t be so cold with the confiscated hides for warmth, and hopefully there’d be enough coffee to go around. All we needed was to shoot a couple of buffalo and our bellies would be full. There was a canvas tent in the freight wagon for my officers, but I decided one of the teepees would serve better as my headquarters.

  “Miss, my name is Tom. Tom Custer. We’re going to make camp downstream. Would your family care to join us?” Tom asked. His cheeks were flushed, and not from the recent battle. I’d not seen that dance in his eyes since his fiancée had suddenly died a year before.

  “Thank you, Tom. We will come after building a funeral scaffold for Closed Hand,” Morning Star agreed.

  “Autie?” Tom said.

  “Sure, Tom. You and Kellogg give them a hand,” I offered, knowing Indian funeral rites were fairly simple compared to Christian burials. And better for it. Maudlin words and empty prayers at tearful gravesides were not to my liking. I’d had enough of that during the war.

  Between Cooke, Bouyer and myself, we had no trouble bagging a few buffalo. Sergeant Butler and Corporal Voss came up with some of the men to butcher the meat, cut some poles for a travois, and drag carcasses down to the river. Harrington still hadn’t caught up with us so I decided to make camp in a tree-lined hollow protected from the freezing wind.

  As always, the first order of business was to take care of the horses. The mounts were checked for injuries, brushed down, fed and watered. A cavalryman without a horse is infantry, and we weren’t going to get out of this perplexing situation on foot.

  I led Vic down to the river myself, scratching him behind the ears and whispering my thanks for many years of loyal service. We’d left my other horse, Dandy, back with the pack train, along with my dogs, so I knew Vic was feeling lonely. A feeling I shared.

  Once the horses were settled, campfires were made, the meat roasting on spits. Several jugs of spirits were found in the wagon. I did not indulge, but there was enough to give each man a splash. I kept Dr. Lord nearby while Tom and Cooke interviewed each member of the command, gathering all the information we could. Kellogg was busy making notes for his newspaper.

  Harrington rode in just after sunset. There was no sign of Jimmy Calhoun, last seen down near the Little Big Horn River, or of my nephew, who had gone with him. Nor was there any trace of Major Reno or Captain Benteen. Wherever we were, we were on our own.

  Our second night on the southern plains was better than our first. Lines were strung between the trees and draped with hides to make shelter for the enlisted men. The tent, teepees and the wagon provided snug quarters for my officers and our guests. There was plenty of driftwood lying along the river bank for our fires.

  It seemed a good time to take stock. The battalion had been smartly attired when we’d left Fort Lincoln on May 17th, before toil and sweat had taken its toll. Most of my men wore dark blue campaign jackets, gray flannel shirts, and sky blue pants reinforced in the seat with canvas. A few wore checkered hickory shirts bought from post traders. Our hats varied from the standard black wool caps to store-bought slouches and even a few straw hats. Each man carried a canteen, coffee cup, field knife, a mending kit, and saddlebags with the basic necessities. Having a pack train is fine, but on a rapid march, it’s always better to be self-sufficient.

  There was one issue that didn’t concern me. As we crossed the divide before going into battle, each soldier had been issued a hundred rounds of ammunition for their 1873 Springfield carbines and twenty-four rounds of .45 cartridges for their Colt revolvers, but most carried more, afraid the pack train wouldn’t keep up. That had worried me, too. At the last minute, I ordered each sergeant and corporal to carry an extra saddlebag. Because Tom and my officers owned repeating rifles, they carried their own supplies. With plenty of ammunition, I wasn’t afraid of an Indian attack. We had enough firepower to ride through anything the hostiles might throw at us.

  I took a brief stroll through the small camps the men had set up, saying a few words of encouragement. Such a gesture from me was rare, so I’m not sure if my boys were reassured or made more nervous. Most were in their mid-twenties, many from foreign lands.

  “Don’t worry, fellows. We’re in good company,” I said. “Bad weather, maybe, but worse at the Washita. Got enough to eat?”

  “Still the Seventh, aren’t we, sir?” Private Torrey of E Company said, looking brighter with a buffalo steak on his tin plate.

  “Got coffee and a fire. Don’t need no more,” Corporal French added, a fine young lad from Portsmouth.

  I could tell that many of my young recruits thought it strange we were camping with Indians, but I’d shared many campfires with Rees, Arikara and Crows. My best scout was Bloody Knife, a half-blood Sioux. Bloody Knife and I had shared many trails over the last eight years. After the Montana campaign, I expected to take him with me to Philadelphia for the Centennial celebration. Maybe even to Washington, if I decided to run for office someday. I wondered how he fared. The last time I saw him, he was riding down the Little Big Horn Valley with Reno.

  I returned to my teepee, finding furs laid out near a quiet fire. Though the Indians would be sharing the other teepee, Morning Star and Slow were visiting with Tom. They had been generous with their blankets, a way of saying thank you. Dr. Lord was sleeping in the back, so I kept my voice low.

  “Warm in here,” I said, dropping my hide covering near the door and sitting cross-legged next to Tom.

  “These teepees are amazing. I wish the quartermaster would order some for the regiment,” Tom said, handing me a thin metal plate filled with roasted buffalo slices. There was a silver fork in my saddlebags, but I ate with my hands so as not to embarrass our Indian hosts.

  “It’s a blessing,” I agreed, sorry the pack mules had not followed us more closely.

  “Hot food has the men feeling better. We should make good progress now,” Tom happily said.

  “Progress to where?” I asked.

  “To wherever you take us, Autie. Hell, we’ve been in worse spots than this,” Tom answered. He was trying to keep my spirits up, which was very annoying.

  “I guess we’ll muddle through,” I said.

  “We do not see many white men this far west,” Morning Star said, sharing a bowl of rabbit stew.

  “You must live in a remote village, miss,” I replied, finding the young lady charming. “From what my Indian friends tell me, the plains are swarming with too many white men.”

  “You have many friends among the People?” Morning Star asked.

  “Not among the Sioux. I have been blood brother to the Arikara,” I replied.

  “There are times I think Autie wants to be an Indian,” Tom said with a laugh, almost lighting a cigar before seeing my frown.

  “That’s not quite true,” I disagreed. “I’m proud of the white race, but pride is not an excuse for breaking treaties or cheating the Indians on the reservations. Whenever I reflect on what the Grant Administration is doing, it makes me angry.”

  “I have not heard of these troubles,” Morning Star said, confused.

  “Then your village must be very remote,” I said.

  “White men have strange ways. They do not respect the land. They do not revere the spirits,” Slow said, his words thoughtfully measured. It was his way of calling us a bunch of barbarians. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized the boy even knew English.

  “I’ve known white men who can’t be trusted. Known Indians who couldn’t be trusted eithe
r,” I said. “But I think more people value the truth than not. I still remember the oath I took as a plebe back at West Point almost twenty years ago—‘A cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do’. I may have earned more demerits than any other cadet in West Point history, but that is one oath I’ve never broken.”

  Slow took a sip of water from a hide bag without further comment. I had the impression he didn’t believe me.

  * * *

  I did not understand Wakan Tanka’s vision. My mind was suddenly younger, more hopeful, but troubled by a strange journey. My older sister and cousins, long since dead, now lived once more. We were far to the south of our hunting grounds searching for a white buffalo, or a white wolf, but instead we found a white man. A bitter enemy of the People. In what manner could this be a good thing?

  Chapter Two

  Encounter on the Rio Grande

  The next morning, I decided it was time to reorganize the command. A company of U.S. cavalry generally holds sixty men and several officers, but we were under strength even before reaching the Little Big Horn. Now we had even fewer. Just after dawn, Corporal Voss trumpeted officer’s call.

  “Gentlemen, we need to make some adjustments,” I announced, standing under a gray leafless tree outside my teepee. Each of my officers held a cup of coffee while Walking-In-Grass served fried trout for breakfast. The young Indian boy sat on a blanket, watching from a distance.