clothing which could not be loaded in the wagons was to be burned.
“I’ll allow each man one blanket,” Custer said.
Every worn-out horse and mule was shot by the rear guard. Already suffering from many days without proper rations, the soldiers would at least fill their bellies on the stringy horse or mule meat as they readied for battle once more.
That next morning, Tom Custer’s company covered their smoky fires with sodden earth, resuming their march before first light. Before the sun climbed a hand above the horizon, the scouts rode in with the stirring report of finding a recent encampment of some four hundred lodges just ahead.
“Fire pits warm enough to take the chill off a man’s bones,” Milner repeated after Tom waved him over, anxious to hear the news. “Damn big herd of ponies. Them Cheyenne gathering up, young Custer.”
“I bet Autie cheered your news.”
“Part that made him happy was to hear them Cheyenne don’t even know we’re on their tails. He’s sneaking his blue army right up their red asses!”
“How soon?” Tom asked.
“Hard Rope and old Little Beaver told your brother he’d not sleep this night before seeing many Cheyenne.”
“That’s grand news, Joe!”
“Itchy for a fight?”
“You bet I am, you old bastard! Got a score to even with them red bastards for butchering Elliott’s men at the Washita.”
Milner led his old mule back toward the commissary wagons, where he might wangle a mouthful or two of food from the sergeant.
Around noon Custer sent Hard Rope up the trail to a nearby knoll. He was to signal the columns to proceed if the countryside beyond was clear.
“Little Beaver says that’s got to be the valley of the Sweetwater,” Romero said to Custer as they watched Hard Rope scramble up the hill. “Man points his nose northeast, he’d run into the Washita, not far from where Black Kettle was camped.”
“I’ll find those Cheyenne soon, or my name isn’t—”
“Come see. Many horses. Big village. Your eyes see, this time.”
“Moylan, you stay here. I’ll see what Hard Rope’s spotted.”
At the top of the knoll Custer dropped on his belly alongside the Osage, crawling the last few yards to the crest. In the valley of the Sweetwater below grazed a far-reaching herd of ponies, watched over by several young herders.
Hard Rope nudged Custer, pointing out the extent of the herd’s pasture. “Big herd, chief. Means big village.”
Adrenaline warmed Custer’s blood. Nothing like that feeling of impending action. He was ready to have it out with the Cheyenne, done with their lying. Their ponies were nowhere near as poor as they’d claimed. His shrinking net had snared them. Now all he had to do was present them the choice. Give him the girls and return to the reservation—or go to war.
Custer’s attention was yanked to the southeast, down the valley where a young herder burst from the trees, riding bareback atop a spotted pony, whistling his shrill alarm.
“Eagle wingbone!” Hard Rope muttered angrily.
“What’s going on?”
“See yourself, Chief.” Hard Rope pointed. “Your soldiers get spotted by a pony boy.”
Custer caught a glimpse of the head of the blue columns snaking their way up the Sweetwater. The boy rode to warn the villages.
Other herders wheeled, kicking their ponies furiously. Waving blankets ripped from their backs, the boys roused the ponies, starting them for the river, where they forced the leaders down the slippery bank and into the icy water. Screeching their alarm, the herders whirled through the herd, driving the leaders up the north bank, escaping the cavalry’s advance.
Custer spun, dashing downhill under a full head of steam. “Moylan!”
“Sir?”
“Head back to the columns, that direction. Tell them we’ve been discovered. Order them up on the double! I need support for a possible attack!”
Romero eased up. “They can’t tear that village down quick enough to escape, General.”
“But the warriors will come out to engage us while their women dismantle the lodges and retreat. A staying action while the village slips away, then the warriors themselves will disappear.”
“You’re learning ’bout these Indians,” Romero said.
“I know they won’t fight if they can run,” Custer replied as he slipped his boot into an oxbow stirrup. “This is one time we’re going to surround them and take the fight to ’em. You coming, Romero?”
“Hell, this is one ride I wouldn’t miss for all the vermilion in China!”
“Ride with us, Little Beaver,” Custer shouted.
“No.” He wagged his head. “Little Beaver go back, paint his face now. Tie feathers in my hair. Bring out my war shirt before I fight those squaw killers. I want those Cheyenne to see how many Cheyenne scalps decorate my war shirt.”
“Be about, then, old man! There’ll be plenty of fighting for you soon enough.” Custer put spurs to his stallion’s flanks.
Romero rode boot to boot with Custer for better than two miles, racing around the base of a hill, heading for a treeless ridge. For miles in all directions the countryside lay free of ravines and timber which could conceal Indian ambush.
“Ho, General!” Romero grabbed Custer’s wrist, yanking back on his own reins.
“Look ’head of you.” Romero pointed.
Atop a rocky, sandstone formation more than a dozen feathered heads peered at the lonely pair of riders. While Custer brooded on what to do next, Romero counted more than fifty skylined heads.
“Best we get our tails high behind—get out of here while the getting’s good,” Romero suggested anxiously.
Custer twisted in the saddle, squinting into the bright, winter light reflected off the snow and splintering through frost-rimed trees. No sign of his columns yet. He turned, watched the warriors grow braver, milling about, studying the brace of horsemen below.
“We aren’t running, Romero.” Custer said it with the flat sound of a hammer pounding an anvil.
“You’re crazy! These are Cheyenne Dog Soldiers, if I ever saw one! They’d love to pick their teeth with your bones!”
“Stand your ground,” Custer ordered as the scout turned to go. “I’ll have you shot for desertion,” he growled as his pistol cleared its holster, “if I don’t shoot you myself.”
Romero stared into the bore of the hand cannon Custer aimed at him.
“Doesn’t take long for the sight of a muzzle to take the starch out of any man,” Custer said.
“Hell, General. Don’t know what’s the better way to die. Them bloodthirsty bucks up there—or you.”
Custer stuffed the pistol away, grinning. “C’mon, Romero. I’m not about to shoot you. Our days aren’t over yet.”
“Sooner’n you think,” Romero replied. He pointed as a couple dozen warriors mounted and started down the slope.
“I bloody well don’t care if they’re not coming to welcome us with open arms,” Custer said. “What matters is I’ve found the camp where the white girls are held.” He drew a deep breath, checking over his shoulder for his troops. “You remember the bodies of that young woman and her little boy we found in the Kiowa camp on the Washita?”
Romero nodded.
“They were butchered soon as the camps learned soldiers were on the way. I’ve vowed that won’t happen
