“Are these soldiers devils?” Skin-Head asked of Left Hand.
“Truly, the soldier chief himself has no soul.”
CHAPTER 11
NEAR midafternoon on the thirtieth, Moses Milner spotted a band of horsemen emerging from the gray oak timber a mile below. Barely two days ago, Custer had dispatched Milner and Jack Corbin to ride north to Camp Supply with word on their victory for General Sheridan. Now, on their way back to rejoin Custer’s column, it appeared their return might be in doubt.
“We got company, boy,” Milner barked.
“I see ’em,” Corbin replied. “And lookee yonder.”
“Brownskins. Damn!”
A handful of feathered warriors burst from the timber a mile to their left.
“More visitors over ’long the creek.” Corbin pointed to the right.
“Hostiles?” asked Ed Guerrier, a courier sent by Sheridan to ride back to Custer’s Seventh Cavalry with Milner and Corbin.
“Time we made ourselves scarce, fellas,” Joe said.
“Don’t have to tell me twice!” Guerrier replied.
Corbin was first into the trees. He reined up and slid from his horse before it completely stopped. “We almost made it, California Joe.”
Milner spit mud into the snow. “Them red niggers’ll pay dear to raise this ol’ scalp, they will.”
Guerrier joined the pair after tying their horses back in the darkened timber. “I count three bands of ’em.”
“They’re tracking somebody,” Corbin said.
“Can’t figure why we ain’t run onto the general and his troops by now,” Milner hissed. “It don’t fit that we run across this war party first.”
“Lookit that, Joe,” Guerrier said.
“Well, I’ll be a mother’s son,” Milner whispered.
Down below in the meadow the central party of horsemen had reined up. One of the figures held something to his face for some time. Meanwhile, the handful of Indian horsemen rode in from the left flank. A moment later riders came loping in from the right.
“If that don’t beat all!” Milner said, scrambling to his feet. “It’s Custer his own self. C’mon, Ed. We’ll introduce you to the boy.”
Back in the saddle, the trio cleared the timber. Once free of the trees, Milner spurred Maude to a gallop, tearing his old sombrero from his shaggy head. Back and forth he waved it at the end of his outstretched arm. “Whoooop! Hep-hawwww, ol’ gal,” he shouted to the mule.
Custer bounded ahead of his columns alone, his arm held high above his buffalo cap. He reined up and waited once he recognized Milner’s wild cheers. All three scouts rode up abreast, bringing their army mounts to a snow- spray halt a few feet in front of Custer.
“Afternoon, General!” Corbin sang out every bit like a boy just returned from a romp in the hills.
“General!” Milner saluted in his own lazy way, then spit a brown stream of tobacco juice to the snow. “Mighty glad to see it’s you and your soldier boys.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Joe—you think we’re a war party out to relieve you of your sizable scalp?”
“I counted on you being soldiers when I first got my eyes fixed on you until I saw two Injuns in your squad. Forgot about all them Osages come along. Damn—General! I’m powerful glad to see your face again!”
Custer turned to Guerrier. “I suppose you riding in with these filthy renegades bodes good news, eh?”
“Can’t keep a thing from you, can we, General Custer?”
“I take it you fellas got to Camp Supply and General Sheridan with my report?” Custer inquired.
“In the flesh!” Milner grinned.
“You were right again, Joe. I wanted to send a whole squad with you boys.” Custer smiled.
“A fancy notion that’d been, General. Always a heap better to have just two for the journey. More can be done by a lot of dodging and running than we can do by fighting.”
“Two sprightly men can do far better than twenty, Mr. Milner. I congratulate you both!”
Milner beamed proud as a boy given a shiny penny. “Why, I was some happy to see Little Phil my own self! He was monstrous glad to see me back so soon too. Say, did I ever tell you I used to know the general when he was a second—or was it a third?—lieutenant? Post quartermaster back to Yakima country in Oregon years ago?”
“Sheridan a lieutenant? That was before my time! Well, Jack—what’s word from the general?”
“He turned us near right around, riding south with a packet of orders, dispatches, and letters for the men. Sheridan was damned happy to hear your fight was a success. Spent near four hours stomping up and down, in and out of his tent. Reading your report over again. Asking us questions about the Indians.”
Milner jabbed a hand half-covered with a threadbare mitten inside the flap of his greasy mackinaw coat to bring forth a leather pouch. From it he pulled a piece of foolscap folded and sealed with a dollop of blue wax. Nudging his old mule forward two steps, Milner handed it over to Custer.
The soldier ripped open the notice, his eyes flying over the familiar Sheridan scrawl. The general’s words to his field commander were brief and to the point, the way Sheridan was in person.
“Splendid!” Custer cheered. “Lieutenant Moylan, have the officers form the troops for review in that meadow ahead.”
Custer watched his adjutant gallop away, heading back along the columns. Not until the companies began marching into the wide meadow did he turn once more to the three scouts.
“How far are we from Camp Supply?”
“You’ll be there by this time tomorrow,” Corbin answered.
Custer slapped his right thigh. “By glory, back home with our victory, gentlemen! What say we share this good news with the regiment?”
Custer nudged Dandy into a showy hand gallop as he tore into the meadow where the troops had gathered for review. With Milner, Corbin, and Guerrier at his side,wagons behind him facing rows of weary soldiers, and the Osage trackers scattered around the captives, Custer began his speech.
“I have most welcome news for the gallant and courageous men of the Seventh Cavalry: the finest cavalry the world has ever known!”
He waited a moment as the cheers and shouts died among the ranks. A hard knot of sentiment clotted in his throat.
“Moments ago we received word from General Philip H. Sheridan, who most eagerly awaits our arrival at Camp Supply. Almost as much as you look forward to getting there yourselves!”
Another spontaneous cheer mingled with hearty laughter. The tension of a cold march and bloody campaign drained at last from weary shoulders.
“In this dispatch handed me moments ago”—he waved the sheet high in the breeze—”General Sheridan sends his highest compliments and praise to the officers and men who comprise the finest horse soldiers on the face of this—or any other—continent!
“The General says:
“The Battle of the Washita River is the most complete and successful of all our private battles, and was fought in such unfavorable weather and circumstances as to reflect the highest credit on yourself and regiment.
“The energy and rapidity shown during one of the heaviest snowstorms that has visited this section of the country, with the temperature below the freezing point, and the gallantry and bravery displayed, resulting in such signal success, reflect the highest credit upon both the officers and men of the Seventh Cavalry; and Major-General commanding,while regretting the loss of such gallant officers as Major Elliott and Captain Hamilton, who fell while
