Beaver Creek was not fordable for the wagons here, so a bridge had to be built. That meant that while the main body of the expedition rested, to the engineers it was just another day. They had already built several bridges since leaving Ft. Lincoln, so building another one here was nothing new to them.
Many of the troopers found things to do to keep them busy, but most played card games to while away the time, while others just slept in order to catch up on a commodity that had been in short supply from the moment they had left Ft. Lincoln. Hunting had been fruitful for the last few days and, for the time being, there was enough fresh game to provide every soldier in the expedition with plenty to eat, and a few expressed the opinion that as far as they were concerned, they could just stay here for a week or two, then go back to the post.
“Hell, let the Indians wander around out here if they want to,” one of the soldiers said. “What difference does it make anyway?”
While most of the men appreciated the chance to rest, Custer fumed over it, considering it a waste of valuable time. He also thought that letting the men stop and rest would actually have a deleterious effect on their military readiness. Not one to rest personally, Custer spent a lot of time with the scouts, sometimes even riding out with them. And because he had been on several scouting expeditions without locating any significant Indian sign, he tended to downplay the danger of too many Indians when Falcon and Dorman gave him their report.
“What about the Gatling guns?” Custer asked. “Did you find them?”
“Yes, we found them,” Falcon answered. “The Indians managed to get away with one of them, but we spiked the one they left behind. We also destroyed their supply of ammunition, which makes the other one useless,” Falcon replied.
“Good for you, good for you,” Custer said. He stroked his mustache and looked at the two scouts.
“You two men had quite an adventure, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, if you call walkin’ till your feet near ’bout fall off the end of your legs an adventure,” Dorman said.
Custer laughed. “Everything in life is an adventure, Dorman. I’m glad you men managed to get away without getting your scalps lifted. But I wouldn’t worry about how many Indians there are out there. The thing to worry about is whether or not we can catch enough of them together to make a fight of it, or if they will just run away the way they normally do.”
At General Terry’s invitation, Falcon accompanied Terry down the Powder River to the Yellowstone, where the riverboat
“Falcon MacCallister,” Marsh said, smiling as he extended his hand in greeting. “I thought you would be back in Colorado by now.”
“I thought so as well, but things have a way of taking on a life of their own. Now, I’m acting as a scout for Custer.”
“Good for you. Custer can always use another good man.”
“Do you have mail for us, Captain Marsh?” General Terry asked.
“Yes, sir, I do,” Marsh replied.
Marsh held up his finger as if telling them to wait one moment. “Jerry!”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n,” one of his crew answered.
“Get the mailbag for the Seventh.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have the mail brought right here to you.”
“Good, I’ll have someone pick it up and take it back upstream to the troops,” Terry replied. “Is General Gibbon here?”
“Yes, sir, he arrived about an hour ago,” Marsh said.
“Have him meet me in the master cabin, if you would. Colonel MacCallister, with me, please.”
Falcon followed Terry into the master cabin, which was located on the Texas deck of the boat. There, Terry took out a map and spread it out on a table, holding it down at the corners with whatever he could find to use. After a moment, Gibbon came in. Gibbon was thin-faced, with a hawklike nose and dark, piercing eyes. A native of North Carolina and a graduate of West Point, he had fought, and was twice wounded, for the North, though three of his brothers had fought for the South. A colonel now, he retained the brevet of major general.
“General,” Gibbon said.
“Gibbon,” Terry replied. Falcon knew that Terry was upset with Gibbon for not moving quickly enough. This meeting was one week later than he had proposed, but calling his subordinate by his last name, without use of rank, was the only way the soft-spoken Terry expressed his displeasure.
“I understand that your scouts have discovered a village on the Rosebud,” Terry said.
“We have, yes, sir.”
“How large is the village?”
“I don’t believe it is very large,” Gibbon replied. “Maybe one hundred lodges or so.”
“You don’t believe? Can’t you be more specific?” Terry asked. “Excuse me, General, but isn’t the purpose of your scouting to be able to provide me with such information?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is. It’s just that I have no real way of telling how large the village is. My scouts suggested that it wasn’t a very large village, but their information was—well—let us say, inconclusive.”
