Still, most of those raw privates had heard repeatedly of Custer’s reputation from the Seventh’s lifers. They had heard the ring of confidence in those older voices telling them Custer wasn’t a man to let them down in battle. It was as easy for a man like Mark Kellogg as it was for a green recruit to believe that all Custer had to do was flex his military muscle, making a quick charge or two, and any Sioux warriors fighting under the fearsome Crazy Horse would turn tail and scamper off over the sagebrush. Straight back to the reservation.
Confidence ran high in that morning’s camp at the mouth of the Rosebud, fueling expectation of a quick and stunning victory to add to the Seventh Cavalry’s laurels.
John Burkman laid out Custer’s clothing according to the general’s request.
Above his buckskin britches and those polished black boots that hugged his knees, Custer donned a gray flannel army blouse over which he pulled his new buckskin jacket. Complete with a large falling collar and sleeves rippling with dancing fringe, the jacket sported two large patch pockets decorated with short fringe and a double row of five brass buttons running down the front.
To top it all he would pull on his cream-colored, wide-brimmed felt hat. He had rolled the brim up slightly on the right side so that he could more easily sight his sporting rifle from horseback. Around his neck he tied that famous oxblood neckerchief. Custer wanted his troops to recognize him in the powder-smoked madness of battle, to know where he was, certain that their leader rode with them into the thick of it. That bright crimson tie, flowing like blood itself from his neck—telling one trooper and all that Custer himself did not cower behind the lines but galloped with them into the fray.
In addition to his field knife stuffed down in a beaded, fringed scabbard, Custer buckled on a pair of English self-cocking, white-handled Webley pistols, each with a ring in its butt for a lanyard. The general refused the English custom of wearing the lanyard round his neck to prevent the loss of a pistol during the heat of battle. This belt that carried both scabbard and holsters was a canvas-loop regulation-issue cartridge belt that he preferred to the more cumbersome leather version. Taking his favorite Remington sporting rifle with an octagonal barrel, chambered for .50–70 center-fire cartridges, comfortably slid in a leather scabbard of its own, Custer pulled on his gauntleted gloves, fringe spilling halfway to the elbow.
The final gracing touch came when he buckled on a pair of shiny gold spurs over his gleaming ebony boots. These were spurs originally belonging to General Santa Anna, president of Mexico, then claimed as spoils of war by an American officer at the end of the war with Mexico in 1848. That same American officer made the unfortunate decision of siding with the Confederacy in 1861. G. A. Custer himself claimed those gold spurs as the spoils of war at Appomattox Wood in 1865 as the forces of the Confederacy admitted defeat.
By noon Thursday, 22 June, a harsh northwest wind scoured the prairie at the mouth of the Rosebud, tugging at General Alfred H. Terry’s hat. He reined up, bringing his staff to a halt beside Colonel Gibbon’s officers.
That same stiff wind tousled the fringe worn by Custer’s buckskinned officers in emulation of their beloved commander: Tom and Boston both, in addition to family favorites James Calhoun, Myles Keogh, and Billy Cooke.
The tormented guidons snapped like parching corn in the raw wind as Custer pranced up atop the blaze-faced, white-stockinged sorrel named Vic, shoving his hands into his yellow buckskin gloves. Mark Kellogg rode on his heels.
“Mr. Kellogg!” Colonel John Gibbon hollered in that characteristically gruff bullfrog voice that years ago had struck mortal fear in the heart of plebe G. A. Custer at the United States Military Academy. Gibbon indicated a place at his right hand. “Please do me the honor of standing beside me during the review.”
Kellogg glanced at Custer anxiously. With his sapphire eyes twinkling, he nodded with a wide smile that seemed to assure Kellogg that both of Custer’s superiors were aware the reporter was destined to ride up the Rosebud with the Seventh. Custer himself came to rest at Terry’s left hand, watching with a heart-swelling pride as twelve companies, more than six hundred troopers, rode past—backs ramrod straight, lips clenched in determination, and eyes held dead ahead for the hunt at hand. Following the troopers marched a motley procession of some forty scouts: Arikara and Crow with half-breed Mitch Bouyer included, while the regimental band, which would be staying behind at the Rosebud to await the Seventh’s triumphant return, stood on a nearby knoll blowing out the merry strains of “Garry Owen” before they dived into the sentimental favorite of the older veterans, “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
The to the west we bore away,
To win a name in story,
And there where sits the sun of day,
There dawn’d our sun of glory.
Both blaz’d in noon on Alma’s height,
When in the post assign’d me
I shared the glory of that fight,
Sweet girl I left behind me.
“Twelve noon, gentlemen!” Custer roared, and saluted first General Terry then Colonel Gibbon. Unexpectedly he nudged Vic out of formation to stop beside James Brisbin.
“Major.” Custer presented his hand to Terry’s surprise. “Wish me luck?”
Damn it all, Terry thought to himself watching Custer. If this doesn’t beat all!
A smile eventually cracked Grasshopper Jim’s face. “Good hunting, General! And good luck to all your men!”
“Thank you, Major,” Custer replied as he tugged his glove back on the right hand. “That means a lot to me, it does.”
Custer sawed Vic’s reins to the left, stopping in front of Terry for a moment, their eyes on the column-of-fours, each troop accompanied by its own twelve pack mules. As they watched, some of the mules began fighting their loads, resisting the cargoes and kicking up heels. The general watched Custer grimace, his cheeks reddening as the men struggled with the mules.
Not quite the grand embarkation Custer was dreaming of, Terry brooded, sympathetic for the Seventh’s young commander. Yet he’ll soon be on the trail, where there will be little to dampen his spirits. He gazed at the shimmering waves of heat rising round that plodding column of blue and gray and yellow heading into the hills bordering the Rosebud.
A bulldog trotted past, loping off behind the departing troopers heading south into history. Major Brisbin whistled, then whistled again, until the bulldog was out of sight.
“That’s not one of your hounds is it, General Custer?”
He shook his head. “Not mine, Major. Must belong to one of the men. Tramping all the way from Fort Abraham Lincoln. Appears he’s not about to be left behind!”
“A grand sight, Custer!” Terry cheered, something of a chill like January ice water nagging at the base of his spine.
Custer cleared his throat, turned, and lifted his cream-colored hat from the reddish bristles on his head. “Gentlemen! Until I see you next!”
“In a few days, Custer!” Terry reminded, smiling professorially.
“See you then.” Custer tapped Vic with those gold spurs, and the big mare spun away.
“Now, Custer!” Gibbon suddenly piped up, standing in his stirrups. “Don’t be greedy. Wait for us!”
Custer slapped the big hat back on his head and pranced Vic round in a tight circle before he brought the anxious mare under control.
“I … I w-won’t, sir!” his stammer floated provocatively on the stiff, chill breeze.
In Terry’s next heartbeat Custer jabbed the sorrel with those golden spurs and set off at an astonishing gallop, kicking up moist clods of dirt and grass as Vic sped him along the squeaking, jangling column of cavalry and mules, disappearing into the distance, his back to the superiors he was leaving behind at the Yellowstone.
The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning.
But should I ne’er return again,
St
ill worth thy love thou’lt find me;
Dishonor’s breath shall never stain
The name I’ll leave behind me.
BOOK II
THE STALK
CHAPTER 8
FOR better than a hundred fifty summers, the Sioux had journeyed to Bear Butte with the short-grass time. Bear Butte, close by the east slope of their sacred Paha Sapa.
Every summer the great pilgrimage to the Black Hills had traveled from the four winds, to meet in celebration of their ancient way of life. Summer after summer the mighty Teton bands gathered until their combined herds numbered thirty thousand gnawing at the rich grasses along the forks of Bear Butte Creek.
Here the seven circles of the mighty Lakota nation raised their lodges like bare brown breasts uplifted to the sky in praise, thanksgiving, and celebration of life.
But for the past two summers, the Sioux had been driven from their ancient land where the great Wakan Tanka ministered to His people’s needs. Bear Butte lay within shooting distance of the obscene mining camp called Deadwood Gulch, Dakota Territory. Really nothing more than a collection of saloons, sutlers’ tents, and prostitutes’ cribs.
Yet stain enough still on this holy place, enough to force the Sioux away. No more could the Lakota gather to celebrate with thanksgiving at Bear Butte. Not while the white men tore greedily at the Mother’s dark breast, searching voraciously for the yellow rocks that made white men crazy.
So the great council of the Teton Sioux tribes had declared their move to the Rosebud this summer to be good. With the coming of the first snows of last robe season, word had spread from camp to camp, across the agencies and reservations—announcing that the clans would steer far from their Paha Sapa.
This summer, farther west. Not on the Powder. No, not on the Tongue either.
The great summer joy would gather to celebrate under Sitting Bull along the Rosebud.
In the Sore-Eye Moon of last winter, those of Old Bear’s band of Northern Cheyenne who had survived Red Beard Crook’s attack on their snowy camp huddled in the darkness in the hills above the headwaters of Pumpkin Creek. Below them soldiers set fire to lodges and robes, clothing and dried meat, while some of the brave young warriors slipped in and stole back their fine herd of Cheyenne ponies from Colonel Reynolds’s young, foolish soldiers.
“Hush,” Monaseetah cooed to her boys, shivering in her one blanket.
“I am hungry,” Sees Red snapped. He was seven winters now and had learned that when he wanted something, he had to demand it like a young warrior.
His mother stroked his black hair. “We will eat soon.”
“When?” he demanded.
“Soon,” she whispered, hunkered down in the scrub oak and cedars with knots of other survivors who had fled from the soldiers. She held her two sons against her body, staring down the long slope at the bright fires. Fires glowing warm and inviting now. Fires that were once their lodges, their lives, in this winter valley.
She was reminded of a camp along the Little Dried River in the southern country when she was but a girl of thirteen summers, a camp where white soldiers butchered and defiled her mother. Then she remembered Black Kettle’s village along the Washita in the southern territories as well, when she was seventeen winters. A camp where the soldiers killed her father.
“How long will we stay here?” Sees Red asked.
“You ask too many questions.” She pulled him closer. “Why can’t you be like Yellow Bird? He is content to sit here with his mother, watching the fires, and wait for the others to begin our long walk.”
“Yellow Bird is not like us, Mother,” Sees Red said darkly.
She gazed down at the quieter of her two sons, stroking his light-colored hair. Hair not at all like his brother’s. “He is your brother.”
“Others tell me that we truly are both your sons but with different fathers.” Sees Red sniffed, feeling arrogant again. “I am Shahiyena, Mother.”
“Yes, you are Cheyenne.”
“He is not.” Sees Red jabbed a dirty finger at his little brother.
“He is Cheyenne,” Monaseetah protested, shivering. “From my body … Yellow Bird is Cheyenne.”
“No, Mother. He is white, like the soldier-chief who is his father. My father was a Cheyenne warrior.”
“Yes, Sees Red. But Yellow Bird’s father was also a great warrior.”
“No! He was white—an earthman!”
She nodded. “It is true, Yellow Bird’s father is white, but he is the greatest of all soldier-chiefs—a powerful warrior among his people.”
Sees Red pouted a few moments, glaring flint arrow points at his little brother in his sixth winter now. “He is not like me or my friends. Not like us, Mother.”
“Hush,” she replied, beginning to rise. “Come, now. The others are going.”
“Going where, Mother?” Yellow Bird spoke for the first time since he had been yanked from his warm bed and dragged from the cozy lodge to the safety of this hilltop.
“I do not know, my sons. But,” she gazed back over her shoulder at the blazing twinkle of many fires lighting the snow, reflecting red orange on the low clouds overhead, “we no longer belong here.”
She cried silently that Black Night March, tears freezing on her cheeks as she shuddered with more than the cold. Time and again she stopped, rewrapping the one wool blanket around them all, the one blanket she had to share with her two sons. Reminding herself it had been right to leave the Indian Territories of her people, to live with her cousins among the northern bands where she could be free. With the hope still burning in her breast that one day her husband would find her.
Through the deep snow and darkness of that long winter night, Old Bear’s Northern Cheyenne struggled on, guided by stars and the wind that hurried them along the ridges of that icy country, carrying only what they had on their backs. They told each other to keep moving. Those who stopped too long would not be with them when the morning sun reached into the sky.
Near daybreak some of the young warriors appeared on the hilltops, signaling with their blankets and robes.
“They ride ponies, Mother!” Yellow Bird cried. “Ponies!”
“Yes …” Monaseetah cried too, with silent tears.
Down from the gray slopes, the young men drove their recaptured ponies, leading the mustangs into the scattered remnants of Old Bear’s band. First the old ones were lifted out of the snow and set atop the strong young backs of the Cheyenne ponies, clutching manes and thanking the young brave protectors of the helpless ones.
Then the women and children.
“Now! We ride to The Horse’s camp,” shouted White-Cow-Bull, an unmarried Oglalla warrior from Crazy Horse’s village who had been visiting friends among Old Bear’s people when Crook and Reynolds attacked.
He directed the rest of his Oglalla brothers and some of the Cheyenne warriors to ride as sentries along the far ridges, searching the land for sign of more soldiers as he led the survivors in the line a bee would take to its hive. Once their noses were pointed north, White-Cow-Bull galloped back along the ragged column of stragglers. He reined up beside the beautiful Cheyenne woman.
“You are warm?” he asked.
“I am.” She did not take her eyes off the broken, trampled snow beneath her pony’s nose.
“And the boys?”
Monaseetah held them both in front of her on the pony’s back. “Warm too.” She knew the handsome Oglalla warrior had eyes for her alone.
He waited a long, aggravating moment, as if searching for something more to say to the woman who did not want to talk to him.
“We ride to The Horse’s camp now, Monaseetah. You will survive. Your sons will survive as well. We have strong ponies between our legs now, and the Cheyenne have always been a strong people. You will survive—and you will remember the night the soldiers burned your village!”
White-Cow-Bull suddenly yanked his pony away from the slow march, leaving the woman behind. He hammered his heels against the pony�
��s ribs as he galloped toward the front of the column, kicking up a spray of snow into the new red light emerging at the edge of the world.
“Ride, Shahiyena!” the Oglalla shouted down the line. “Follow me to freedom!”
For three days the Cheyenne marched before coming to the camp of Oglalla chief Crazy Horse. There the Sioux took in their friends, giving them clothes to replace the frozen, tattered remnants of what they had carried away on their backs from Old Bear’s winter camp.
Empty, gnawing bellies were filled from the store of dried buffalo and antelope put away for this winter season by the Oglalla. Old Bear’s people warmed themselves around Sioux fires, talking about the Black Night March they had survived. After three days it was decided that together Crazy Horse would lead them all to join up with Sitting Bull’s Hunkpapas.
When at last all three bands would camp together, they could decide how to defend themselves from the soldiers who had come to force them back onto their reservations.
Three more suns rose and fell before they found The Bull’s Hunkpapa village along the Creek of Beavers, nestled for protection against the late-season snows beneath the Blue Mountains.
After many hours of council, it was decided the survivors of Red Beard’s attack could travel with the Sioux. The three formed an alliance for the protection of those Northern Cheyenne of Old Bear. After all, the tribes agreed, the soldiers had attacked a Cheyenne village. Not the Sioux. The soldiers had not burned and plundered an Oglalla or Hunkpapa winter camp.
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