looking on and seizing every opportunity of picking off some of those daring riders with their carbines. But does no one think of the welfare of Maj. Elliott and party? It seems not. But, yes! a squadron of cavalry is in motion. They trot; they gallop. Now they charge! The cowardly redskins flee the coming shock and scatter here and there among the hills to scurry away. But it is the true line—will the cavalry keep it? No! No! They turn! Ah, ’tis only to intercept the wily foe. See! a gray troop goes on in the direction again. One more short mile and they will be saved. Oh, for a mother’s prayers!
Will not some good angel prompt them? … There is no hope for that brave little band, the death doom is theirs, for the cavalry halt and rest their panting steeds …
And now return with me to the village. Officers and soldiers are watching, resting, eating and sleeping. In an hour or so they will be refreshed, and then scour the hills and plains for their missing comrades. In a short time we shall be far from the scene of their daring dash, and night will have thrown her dark mantle over the scene. But surely some search will be made for our missing comrades. No, they are forgotten. Over them and the poor ponies the wolves will hold high carnival, and their howlings will be their only requiem.
Custer let the officers suffer his fury in silence as he paced before them.
“This tells the public that we didn’t do everything we could to rescue Elliott.” Tom was the first to speak, protective, even combative in defense of his older brother. “It says the Seventh gave up searching while Elliott was butchered. We didn’t know, dammit! Who was it? Which one of you gutless bastards wrote this—”
“As surely as I’m standing here,” Custer interrupted, pushing Tom back a step, “I know this was penned by one of you. If I ever find out who’s guilty—” He slapped the rawhide quirt against his boot for emphasis, “why, I’ll give him a sound thrashing he’ll never forget!”
His threat hung like stale cigar smoke in the silent tent. The silence was punctuated only by the slap of that quirt he drummed against his boot.
Benteen took a step forward. “May I look at the paper?”
Stunned and speechless, Custer shoved the article toward Benteen, like some loathsome thing contaminated with pox.
For breathless moments, the captain scanned the page, listening as Custer’s breath rose and fell in labored wheezes. The Missourian handed the article back to Custer. He adjusted his holster, freeing the mule-ear from its brass stud, a gesture not lost on a single man in that tent. Least of all George Armstrong Custer. Benteen blinked anxiously, steeling himself for what might come, raking the tip of a pink tongue across his dry lips.
“Colonel,” Benteen began, “you threatened a sound thrashing for the man who wrote that letter.” His eyes flicked to the rawhide quirt, returning dead-level with Custer’s. “Well, sir—be about it, and now. Appears I’m the author of that article you hold in your hand.”
A dangerous electricity sparked between the two men. Tom Custer bolted, lunging at Benteen. His older brother restrained him, struggling to bridle his own anger.
“You wrote this filth?” Custer spat.
Benteen sensed every eye on his back. “No. I wrote a letter to a friend in St. Louis. He has contacts in the newspaper business … St. Louis, Chicago, even the New York
As he watched the color drain from Custer’s face, Benteen straightened himself. “I had no idea my letter would ever wind up on the front page of any paper.”
“You knew damned well it would—you goddamned, two-faced traitor!” Tom Custer shrieked. “Better you resign your commission. It’s unhealthy for you to stay on in this outfit, you lying bastard!”
Having taken about all he could from the younger Custer, Benteen’s eyes snapped to Tom, eyes filled with white fire. “You’re going to make it unhealthy for me to stay on—
If his meaning was not clear enough, he slipped his hand beneath the mule-ear so it rested loosely on the butt of his pistol.
“Benteen?” Custer said savagely. “You wrote this about me, about my regiment?”
“I did.”
“I had no idea,” Custer stammered, confused, not knowing what to say. “No idea any man would step forward to confess …”
Benteen figured Custer had intended to use the article to bully them all, not expecting the real author to announce his guilt. He watched as Custer swallowed hard, his nostrils flaring above that bushy mustache, before his eyes climbed to Benteen’s again.
“I’ll deal with you later, Benteen.” His face turned crimson as he struggled to maintain his composure.
Those gritty words hung in the close, sweaty air as Custer shoved his officers aside and tore from the tent, disappearing as quickly as he had entered.
“You frigging sunuvabitch!” Tom Custer flung his words at Benteen, restrained by two officers.
“Your brother’s feelings are far less precious than a soldier’s life, Lieutenant. Don’t forget that—ever.” Benteen stepped forward. He wasn’t any taller than the younger Custer, but he loomed with the bulk of an ox over the whipcord-lean lieutenant from Michigan. “Damn Custer’s feelings, I say! Your brother can go off on a sulk and suck his thumb, for all I care! Lives are at stake here! His poor judgment is to blame—not that bloody letter I wrote.”
“I understand you all too well, Captain. Mind you, he might forgive you someday. But I never will!”
Benteen stood in the fury of Tom’s rage a moment longer before the lieutenant shoved past the Missourian, blasting from the tent. It was quiet enough to hear boots scraping on the hard ground or a nervous cough. Captain Samuel Robbins came beside Benteen.
“You’ve tackled yourself a real handful there.”
“I can handle either one of ’em,” Benteen growled.
“A real hornet’s nest you’ve stirred up, old boy!” Myers snorted.
“Figured on making some waves,” Benteen admitted. “Want to save some lives next time out.”
“What’ll you do when Custer wants to deal with you later?” Thompson inquired.
“I’m not afraid of him or his horsewhip. I’ll beat Custer at his own bully game. Before he can confront me in private, I’ll force his hand in public.”
“Never advisable to bait that man,” Myers said.
“He’s right,” George Yates agreed. “I staffed for him in the war. Let it blow over, by God. He’s hurt enough.”
“Enough?” Benteen snapped, glaring at Yates. “You Monroe boys stick together, don’t you, Yates?” He glanced out the tent flaps. “I’ll fetch that reporter, Keim. Take him with me when I see Custer. We’ll have it out, once and for all. Keim’ll be my witness. Not like you, Yates—someone Custer can bluff and bully.”
Benteen glared at them all. “I’ll break that arrogant bastard yet—see that never again does he send men off on suicidal attacks then refuses support to those soldiers in their tragic moment of struggle!”
“Captain’s pardon,” Yates said, “but Custer’s not the sort to be cowed by anybody. He’ll never forget your insults.”
“I bloody well hope he doesn’t!” Benteen shouted. “We’re talking about saving lives, stopping Custer from sending men to their deaths to further his career. Can’t any of you see that? When Custer will send any man to his death to further his hunger for promotion and glory, none of us matters anymore.”
Benteen was certain none of them understood a thing he tried to say. At the tent flap he stopped, sickened with bile at the back of his throat. He sucked a deep breath of the cold to still the nausea. He wheeled on them, his passion bubbling, his voice thick with mockery. “Mankind’s just dust in the wind to him. Custer plans his glory and fame to last the eons. Who are we mere mortals to try stopping a man destined to etch his name across those stone walls of eternity itself?”
Benteen jammed the cap down on his head and dove into the cold.
* * *
“Allow me one final sweep of the Territories, General!” Custer demanded, banging his fist on the table in Sheridan’s tent, scattering some coffee-stained maps. “By God, I’ll march south and west from here. You can’t deny me this! If I can’t be in Federal City for Grant’s inauguration—”
“Neither one of us. There’s not enough time,” Sheridan said. “We haven’t finished our task here.”
“So I’ll put our homebound march to good use before calling it quits on your campaign.”
“Use the march for what, Custer?” Sheridan asked.
“Find the most troublesome, bloodthirsty band—the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers under Medicine Arrow.”
