“Sir, I pleaded with General Custer not to split the troops, but he assured me you had given the order.”
“That vainglorious sonuvabitch. Good Christ, Hollister…” General Sheridan’s face was a light shade of purple. “You should have come to me,” he muttered. Knowing full well Hollister had not had the time, nor would Custer have allowed him any such action. He would have viewed Hollister seeking confirmation of Sheridan’s orders as an affront to his command.
“Yes, sir,” Hollister said. It was the only answer he could give. This would be made out to be his fault, he was sure. He saw his mistake in physically attacking Custer. If he’d gone through the right channels, gotten Custer’s order on the record, he might have gotten somewhere. Now he was headed for a court-martial at least, a firing squad at worst. And if Sheridan didn’t have him thrown in the stockade, he would have to watch his back now for as long as Custer remained in the army. He wouldn’t let Hollister get away with this, no matter what the official outcome.
Sheridan didn’t say anything else for several minutes. Hollister thought the next words out of his mouth would be an order to surrender himself to custody.
“All right. I’ll deal with Custer. The thing is, Colonel Hollister, I can’t court-martial him or you. I believe you, Jonas. But this story can’t get out, or all of us will be fucked once Sam gets word.” Sam was General Grant, commander of the Army of the Potomac. “Sam can’t stand Custer and he only barely tolerates me because I win, the drunken bastard.”
“I know the skinny, shit-eating little prick wanted to be the one to chase the rebels out of the town and cut them up in the orchard so he could be the hero. And he put your men in the shitter along the way. He’s a pompous son of a bitch and we both know it. But he’s winning his fights. He’s all over the papers, and as much as Sam hates his guts, he likes the good publicity. Grant has the personality of a horse turd and can’t stand talking to the press. So he’s happy to have someone like that cocksucker Custer woo the reporters. If he’s court-martialed the press will crucify us.” Sheridan ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair in frustration. “Jesus Christ, man.”
“So that’s it, sir, he gets my men killed and that’s it? He gets away with it?” Hollister felt the anger welling inside him again.
“Grow the hell up, Colonel. That’s not it, and you goddamned well know it. Are you right? Yes of course, god damn it. But you’re going to take it. Go back to your regiment. See to your men and you leave Custer to me. I’m going to bust you but there won’t be a court-martial. Consider yourself one lucky bastard. Now get your sorry ass out of my sight. Report here at oh five hundred for staff meeting and orders.”
Hollister stood still, seething. He was about to open his mouth.
“Don’t you say a goddamn word to me, Colonel! Get out of my sight or swear to fucking God I’ll shoot you myself!” Sheridan put his hand on his sidearm for emphasis and dismissed Hollister with a wave, returning to his desk.
As mad as he was, he also realized he was lucky. He knew Sheridan thought highly of him, but he had no indication that the General held him in such regard. He was about to voice his thanks, when Little Phil interrupted him, turning back from his seat.
“So help me God, if you open your mouth you’ll be digging latrines until this war is over. Do you understand me? I want you gone, and I mean now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hollister saluting smartly as he left the tent. He worked things over in his mind. The word of the dust-up spread through the camp like the clap. Men whispered and pointed at him as he walked back to his horse. He met no one’s gaze. Some of the men here were firmly in Custer’s corner and wouldn’t hesitate to give him a thrashing if he provoked them. Others knew Custer was dangerous. And as far as they were concerned, his beating had come far too late.
The next day Custer was absent from the staff meeting. Word had worked its way back to Hollister that the yellow-haired general had been unconscious for hours with a broken jaw. When the officers convened at Sheridan’s tent the next morning, no one mentioned the missing general, and Sheridan was his usual brusque self. Hollister had spent the evening writing letters to the families of the men who had died the day before, but as had happened before and would happen again before the war was over, he found there was little time to grieve. Orders were delivered, the battle plan discussed, and they were dismissed. The fight was forgotten for the time being. There was another battle ahead of them and it required complete focus.
The following week, Hollister was transferred to the 4 th U.S. Cavalry. The 4 th was regular army and kept him out of Custer’s orbit, and a little less than a year later, the war was over.
Custer secured his notoriety for chasing Lee to Appomattox Courthouse from the west. He never spoke to Hollister again. Jonas had narrowly avoided a career-killing mistake.
The army shrank rapidly with the war’s end. Hollister reenlisted and stayed in the 4 th. He had no intention of going home. Like most officers who stayed in the regular army after the war, he was reduced in rank to lieutenant and posted first at Fort Laramie. Sheridan was put in charge of the Indian wars and he made sure to keep Hollister away from Custer when it came to assignments. And then came that morning on the plains in Wyoming, where everything went wrong. There were times, as he wrote to everyone he knew during the first year inside Leavenworth, when he was certain his thrashing of Custer had kept some in the army from coming to his defense.
A sharp blast of the train whistle brought Hollister back to the present. He wondered if he would get used to the rickety motion of the car and be able to sleep. The events of the day still tumbled around in his mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind. He had gone from digging holes in Leavenworth to being on his way west on a special assignment in a matter of hours. Then there were Pinkerton and his friend Van Helsing. What odd men they were. And he had dragged Chee along not knowing he came complete with a goddamn giant dog. It was a lot to grasp and he could only think of one thing to say before sleep over took him.
“Huh.”
Chapter Twelve
Hollister had slept in his clothes, which only contributed to his disoriented feeling when he opened his eyes the next morning. Waking up in a new place was something he hadn’t experienced in four years. There was a broad selection of outfits hanging on his cabin wall, much as Chee had found in his quarters, but he left them there and wandered out to the main car and found Pinkerton and Chee seated at a wooden table that appeared to open up out of the floor. The two of them were eating breakfast and another man Hollister didn’t know was spooning eggs out of a skillet onto a plate.
“Ah! Good morning, Major,” Pinkerton said. “Did you sleep well?”
“All right, I guess,” Hollister muttered.
“Have a seat. Dr. Van Helsing will join us shortly. In the meantime, Monkey Pete here is a fantastic cook. You’ll be willing to kill for a cup of his coffee before too long.”
Hollister studied the man with the skillet. He was short and skinny, like he hadn’t had food in weeks or months. Jonas bet he wouldn’t top 130 pounds even if he were holding a ten-pound sack of flour. His shirt was rolled up and his forearms were thick and roped with muscle. A curious expression looked as if it had taken up permanent residence on his face, which was covered with a thick brown beard. Dark eyes peered through a pair of glasses perched on the end of a twisted nose, which looked as if it had been broken repeatedly. He noticeably limped around the table to shake Hollister’s hand, presenting one with twisted and broken fingers. Whoever this Monkey Pete was, he’d been through a couple different kinds of hell. His grip was strong though, and Hollister was amazed at the amount of strength on such a thin frame.
Hollister wondered about his broken-up fingers and hands. At West Point, cadets had been drilled in basic hand-to-hand combat, taught by a Master Sergeant Woodson, who had lost a leg in the Mexican War and could still whip every cadet on the campus. He had taught his students three things. First, anyone you meet in any situation is a potential enemy. Second, look at your opponent’s eyes. They will advise you of a man’s intentions if you learn to read them. And third, look at the hands. If somebody has cut up, scarred, twisted, or broken fingers you are probably in for a tussle. Hands get in that kind of shape from hard living, which usually includes throwing a punch or two. Hollister had never forgotten the lessons. He had studied Pinkerton’s eyes and hands, and the detective’s words and actions had since convinced Hollister that he was no one to be trifled with. Hollister wondered how this
