They both turned to find a soldier hurrying up, a guidon flapping in his hand.
“What you have there?” Mills demanded.
“Private William J. McClinton, C Troop, sir,” the soldier huffed. “Found this in a lodge while I was … was —”
“Finding yourself something to eat, Private?” Seamus asked in interruption.
McClinton eyed the Irishman sheepishly. “Some meat, yeah. Then this caught my eye.”
“Mine too,” Donegan said, taking hold of the edge of the guidon, turning to Mills. “From Custer’s bunch at the Little Bighorn.”
Grabbing the guidon, Mills said, “Bloody damn! It confirms this bunch helped destroy the Seventh.”
“I’d be proud to give you it, Colonel,” McClinton said effusively.
“You’re sure, Private?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Thank you! Thank you, soldier,” Mills responded. “Go finish getting yourself something to eat, then get back on the skirmish line. That’s where I need every last man.”
“I’ll do just that,” the private said. “We’re having a hot time of it, ain’t we, Colonel?”
“What do you make of that, Mr. Bourke?”
“Don’t know, General.”
John squinted into the misty distance while he reached back for his saddlebag and pulled out the field glasses. Training them on the distant objects that bobbed and swam like dark insects behind sheets of hard rain, he slowly spun the adjustment wheel.
Crook waited patiently beside him as the others came to a halt behind them. “More hunters?”
“I can’t be sure,” Bourke began. “But—it doesn’t appear to be warriors. No feathers.”
“Let me have a look,” George Crook said.
That morning at breakfast there wasn’t enough grease to fry their ration of horse meat, so the lieutenant had broiled both his and the general’s at the end of a stick held over the fire. No coffee left them to wash it down. Only gritty water the color of buttermilk.
In a cold downpour that began at dawn, the company commanders had inspected their men, cavalry captains counting what half-dead horses still remained in service. These were formed up, and what troopers had been put afoot fell in behind their scarecrow comrades mounted on the bony animals. It didn’t take long for the column to string itself across the hills. Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Carr’s Fifth Cavalry was assigned that day to close the file and bring up the stragglers. Because of the plodding pace of the rest of the command, the Fifth hadn’t yet been given orders to mount up, much less to move out. They were still in camp almost an hour after Crook and his headquarters staff had set off.
After making no more than five miles Crook and Bourke had halted briefly at a creek they were attempting to identify from their obscure maps.
Perhaps the South Fork of the Grand, suggested one of the staff.
No, said another. Must be the North Fork of the Owl or Moreau River.
That’s when Bourke and the rest caught sight of the two riders.
“They’ve seen us!” Walter Schuyler shouted.
“And they’re coming in,” John added, watching the pair through the field glasses as the two horsemen put their animals into an uneven, labored gallop. “They’re white men, General.”
Crook mused, “Couriers from Mills?”
“Could he have run across something, General?” Wesley Merritt asked.
“Let’s go find out,” George Crook said, putting heels to his horse’s flanks.
For the better part of the next ten minutes they moved ahead, watching the approach of the pair, one a packer, the other a ragged soldier.
“General Crook! General Crook!” the civilian hollered, repeating it several times as he drew close enough for the soldiers to hear his words.
“George Herman, General!” he rasped when he came to a halt.
Crook asked, “You’re one of Tom Moore’s men, aren’t you?”
“Served you since Arizona, sir.” And he took a big gulp of air.
Bourke watched the soldier at Herman’s side, tight-lipped, his eyes filled with dread. “Are you coming from Mills?”
The packer nodded. “Lieutenant Bubb asked that scout Jack Crawford to carry this, but he refused to come. So Bubb give us the best two horses he had,” and Herman stuffed a hand inside both his coat and shirt to pull out a crumpled piece of folded paper he presented to the general. “But we was both ready to come on foot if these here horses give out, General.”
“This is from Mills?”
“Bubb, General.” As Crook tore the paper open and read, the civilian continued, explaining to the other officers, “Colonel’s gone and captured a village of Sioux. He ordered Lieutenant Bubb to send you the word that he’s took the village but he ain’t sure he can hold on to it.”
“Can’t hold on to it?” Crook snarled as his head snapped up. “What’s he gotten himself into, Mr. Herman?”
“Forty-one lodges they counted,” Herman answered. “Got a pony herd surrounded, and they’re holding off the warriors best they can, General. Red devils acting like they want the village back real bad, and they got our boys surrounded pretty good. But we’re putting up a hot fight of it.”
“Where exactly?”
Twisting atop the bare back of his played-out horse, the packer pointed. “South of here along the buttes. Maybe eighteen, no more’n twenty miles.”
Now for the first time the soldier spoke up, his eyes animated. “Damn, but we figured we’d have to ride all day before we come on you, General. Lieutenant Bubb reminded us you said you was keeping the whole column in bivouac.”
“Thank God I didn’t!” Crook grumped as he raised his eyes from the hurriedly written dispatch in his hands. “Says here that Grouard states it’s a village commanded by Roman Nose—a Brule. Says the place is filled with supplies.”
“That’s damned good news, sir!” Merritt cheered. “These men could use a change of diet.”
The soldier courier pressed, “Colonel requests you hurry reinforcements, General.”
Schuyler asked, “Has Mills taken any casualties?”
Nodding, the trooper responded, “Lieutenant Von Leuttwitz, and another, I think a corporal.”
Royall shrieked, “Von Leuttwitz—killed?”
“Wounded, sir,” the courier answered. “Pretty bad, though. But the corporal’s dead.”
“Damn,” Crook muttered, folding the paper up and stuffing it inside his wool coat. “Mills doesn’t have near the ammunition he’ll need to hold on to that village if the enemy makes it hard on his men.”
“I pray we can get there in time with these played-out horses,” Merritt complained.
Crook stared into the distance a moment longer, then turned to his officers. “We won’t get there in a hurry like this, gentlemen. We must send only our best—push ahead as fast as they can march.”
“Our best?” Royall inquired.
“I want each of your battalions to strip itself for a forced march,” Crook ordered. “Only those horses and men capable of making the race to save Mills.”
“General! Looks as if there’s another rider coming in!” Schuyler called out.
They all twisted in their saddles, watching the distant speck galloping their way.
“Let’s just pray this isn’t news that Mills has been overrun,” Merritt murmured almost under his breath.
“Yes, General,” Crook agreed. “Let’s pray your reinforcements can get there in time to save those men.”
Chapter 39
