ripped from Romero and the young captive. “Look up on the ridge … over there.”
Custer followed the scout’s arm. Half-naked bodies bristled atop the hills to the south, southeast. Warriors on horseback, gathered in small, angry knots glaring down at the plundered Cheyehne village.
“Some of the defeated warriors, Clark. The few fortunate enough to escape my net.”
“You’re wrong, Custer.”
“Care to tell me who those warriors are?”
“They’re not Cheyenne. More like Arapaho. Some Kiowa. I figure for the next few miles downriver lay more camps than any of us ever counted on stumbling into. More warriors than we could fight in one day.”
“By Judas’s judgment!” Custer laughed. “That bunch is up there to keep us from finishing our job.”
“What job, General?”
“Destroying the plunder … these lodges. And we’ll have to take care of the ponies.”
“Dammit!” Clark’s eyes flashed. “Best you listen to your scouts, General.”
“You boys are becoming nervous old women!” Custer chuckled as he turned away. His laughter drew cackling from the soldiers assigned to guard the captives.
“General, you’ve gone and poked a huge nest of wasps here.” Clark glared at Custer’s broad back. “You hear me?”
The general leapt aboard Dandy without another word.
“General! Dammit! One day you’re bound to have to listen to your scouts! One day real soon!”
Suddenly a detail of blue-tunics whipped their frenzied mounts down the north bank of the Washita and into the icy river without slowing. A handful of soldiers on foot momentarily turned on the bank to return fire into the timber before plunging into the water, terror written on every face.
As the dozen scrambled up on the bank, Moylan whirled up, arriving on the scene beside Custer, both men’s horses sending sprays of muddy snow cascading over some of the drenched troopers.
“Sergeant Johnson!” Custer called to the lead man.
“Yessir, General!”
“What in blazes goes here?” Custer demanded.
“Had to abandon the coats and packs, sir.”
“Abandon them?”
“We was overrun! They rode down on us—”
“Overrun by who?”
“Warriors, sir! Found out where you left us off to guard the packs and coats—”
“Precisely, Sergeant. Your detail was to guard that army property. Those of you who deserted your assigned posts could be subject to courts-martial for the loss of that government property … in addition to abandoning your posts.”
A good portion of Sergeant Niles Johnson’s untried recruits murmured between themselves, angry and fearful. Johnson alone understood that George Armstrong Custer had never once retreated in his entire career.
“I done it to save the men, sir. We was about to be overrun and I didn’t want to sacrifice my command. I knowed reinforcements was here to help us—”
“Save the men? That’s not your department to decide, Sergeant.”
“Sir. Respectfully … it weren’t coward—”
“Begging your pardon, General,” Clark interrupted.
“What is it, Clark? More valuable advice?”
“Dammit, General! They ain’t all Cheyenne breathing down our necks! This little camp ain’t the only village in this valley. I savvy the sergeant’s men were chased off by the same bunch of Arapaho that came boiling after Godfrey’s blood. Maybe the same bunch jumped Major Elliott and his boys.”
Custer stared into the trees across the Washita, then suddenly wheeled on his adjutant. “Moylan, have Benteen’s men go with Hard Rope to bring the pony herd across the river.”
Clark shook his head. “What in devil’s dust do you want with them ponies?”
“Their destruction, Mr.—”
The unexpected roar of more carbine fire rumbled over the frightened shouts of panicked men from the north side of the river. The winter air split with Indian screeches and the sharp cracks of their rifles, just as Lieutenant James M. Bell bounced up from the riverbank on the hard seat of his army freight wagon.
Wide-eyed, Bell hunched over like a bent old woman, whipping his team straight down the sharp incline into the crossing, splashing headlong into the river. On his heels rattled the rest of the noisy freighters, each one driven by grim-lipped, bug-eyed soldiers, every teamster jockeying to be the next wagon into the ford. With the clattering wagons galloped a double fistful of the regiment’s pack mules, bellering hell bent for election through the ranks with brass-lunged
First up the slope into the village, Bell wheeled his wagon hard as he brought his wild-eyed animals under control and leaned all his weight back into the brake. The iron-rimmed wheel protested as loud as any of the screeching warriors at that moment making their colorful appearance on the north bank.
“Lieutenant Bell!” Custer called.
“Reporting, sir!” The older officer trotted up to the general, sloughing red mud over his boots.
“Let’s have your report,” Custer yelled above the bursts of carbines fired at the screeching Indians on the north bank.
“A while back I heard some rifle fire coming from the direction where we left Johnson with the packs and coats, sir!” He was breathless. “Took my drivers to assist the sergeant’s men.”
“Go on.”
“Figured we could help drive off the warriors. But there were more damned redskins around those packs and coats than I ever hope to see again in all my days!”
“Tell me all of it.”
“Headed the wagons ’round the hills and raced down to the crossing near the horse herd.”
“The horse herd?” Custer’s voice rose an octave.
“Yessir.”
Custer waved his arms wildly. “By God’s back teeth, those red buggers won’t get their bloody hands on their horses!” Custer turned back to Bell. “Lieutenant, you’re to be commended for your quick and decisive action in the face of the enemy. I’ll see to it you receive a regimental commendation when we return to Fort Hays. Didn’t lose any men in the run?”
“No, sir. All present and accounted for.”
“Splendid! Have one of your men find Captain Thompson. I’ll have Thompson take a detachment back to find our property.”
“Yessir!”
“Very good, soldier.” Custer clapped his gloved hands together. “I’ve captured their village. Now it’s time for me to crush the spirit of those who escaped my noose.”
CHAPTER 10
WORK continued in earnest pulling Cheyenne property from the lodges. A count to record captured goods had started when shouts cracked the still air, floating across the river. Hard Rope and Romero led the first of the Cheyenne ponies into the Washita. The Seventh Cavalry had the Cheyenne herd.
Benteen’s troops had driven off the warriors and recaptured the ponies. In a brief running fight, his two squads lost a few of the animals but took no casualties. Like milkweed down before a wind, the hostiles had scattered and fled. Then Hard Rope and Romero had showed Benteen’s men how to get that herd moving south onto the river trail.
More than nine hundred prized Cheyenne stock splashed out of the Washita, up the south bank. The ponies burst into the captured village, nostrils flaring, tails held high, fresh dung dropped fragrant on the muddy snow.
