returned to their station—”
“What’s the point of this, General?” Custer appealed to Terry.
“Point, Custer?” Gibbon snapped. “The point is there isn’t a man among those soldiers who hasn’t come to regard these Sioux as his very own. Why, we’ve been waiting some five long months to corral and contain these red buggers! By all that’s holy—by all that’s just—I again appeal to you, General. Allow my troops the honor of crushing them!”
“John,” General Terry whispered, the quiet appeal filling the dining room against the backdrop of rhythmic wavelets lapping along the hull. “I’ve already decided, and that decision will stand. The strongest unit I can field will make our attack. The unit that is the most ready for battle will spearhead this operation. The Seventh Cavalry.”
“We are at full strength, Colonel,” Custer jumped quickly to conciliate. “Many of your men and animals are simply worn out. It’s been a long spring for them. Surely, sir—we can bury this hatchet and find a way to restore amicable relations between our regiments once more. I want no glory for myself alone. Instead, I seek only to play what role General Terry designs for me in this campaign. Believe me, I don’t seek to take anything from you or your men. I want only to perform my duty as a soldier.”
“And what duty is that, Custer?” Gibbon inquired.
“To do as ordered, sir.”
“Only what General Terry sends you to do?”
“Exactly, yes, sir.”
“And if General Terry sends you to scout the location of the hostiles? If he orders you to find them first, then
He gulped slightly, adjusting his shoulders nervously. “I am a soldier first, sir.” Custer’s back snapped rigid. “I live as a soldier. I will most certainly die not having forsaken that profession, Colonel.”
“I believe, gentlemen,” Terry yanked every man’s attention back to himself, “that we’ve answered that question concerning Custer. Suppose we proceed.”
“General Terry?” Brisbin bristled, barely containing his disappointment.
Terry looked at the commander of the Second Cavalry under Gibbon. “Yes?”
“Will you take up the matter of Custer’s use of Lieutenant Low’s Gatling guns now?”
“Yes, we will.” Terry nodded, his quick blue eyes a little nervous. “I suppose we should dispense with that consideration as the next order of business.”
“Gentlemen,” Gibbon interrupted, “I suggested to General Terry that if Custer were indeed going to take the lead in this operation, he should at least take along the Gatlings for the safety of his command.”
“I could not agree more, and let the record show my concurrence, sir.” Brisbin smiled. “When you consider that they can fire over two hundred fifty rounds per minute at some nine hundred yards—I can’t imagine any commander trailing such a massive congregation of hostiles without those guns at his disposal.”
“The Gatlings are old,” Custer replied firmly. There arose a quiet gasp from those officers sweating in the room. “Since seventy-two the army has preferred the Hotchkiss gun. But whatever the case, as for me—the Gatlings will slow me down. I’m leaving them behind.”
“Slow you down?” Gibbon, an old artillery officer and proponent of the Gatlings, could not believe what he heard. “You’re on a scout, Custer—intending to find the Indians and prevent them from scattering. That’s all, Custer. But for the sake of your men, I implore you to take those guns. For some reason I’m not all that sure you and your Seventh won’t stumble into more than you can handle keeping those hostiles contained until my troops can come up. With all those estimates we’ve heard out of the reports here this afternoon, why—those Gatlings might just save your notable scalp.”
“I appreciate the concern for my scalp, Colonel. I consider it a high compliment, to be sure. But with respect, those guns are heavy, and I want to be able to move as fast and as light as I can. Those Gatlings would very likely kill me before they’d ever save a single trooper’s neck.”
Terry coughed. “You choose to leave the Gatlings behind?”
Custer studied Terry before answering the general’s question, as if reconsidering one last time. He had thought it over and knew what unknown factors he was heading into, measuring those odds as best he could. He was, after all, a horse soldier. Pure and simple. Being that and that only had served him well in the Civil War and across the plains, from south to north. Custer was a horse soldier. Cavalry. Nothing more than horses and men … and guts.
“Yes, sir. I’ve chosen to leave the Gatlings behind.”
“Very well, gentlemen. This matter of the Gatlings has been decided.”
“General Terry?” Gibbon said, his eyes still locked on Custer.
“Yes, John.”
“Since Custer refuses to take along the guns for an added measure of safety, has he considered my offer of Brisbin’s cavalry to ride along as a means of giving him more strength, yet with that
Terry directed his attention to Custer. “What say you to the offer of Brisbin’s Second Cavalry?”
“At my disposal?”
Terry shifted his gaze to Gibbon with that question unspoken between them. In turn Gibbon looked at Brisbin.
Grasshopper Jim found himself nodding reluctantly. “Yes,” he sighed. “Major Brisbin and his cavalry completely at your disposal, Colonel Custer.”
“I can only thank you for your generous offer, Major. And yours, too, Colonel Gibbon.” Custer smiled again. “However, as you say, we are to keep the hostiles from scattering on us once more. Seems that’s all they’ve been doing to Major Brisbin all spring.”
Custer let the weight of that affront hang in the air. Brisbin opened his mouth, but Gibbon raised his hand, shutting him up, allowing Custer to continue. Brisbin figured Gibbon wanted Custer to hang himself with his ample tongue.
“No, General Terry,” Custer continued. “I don’t think we’ll run into a thing the Seventh isn’t capable of handling all by itself.”
Brisbin seethed in silent fury at the breach of military etiquette.
“Shall we take up this matter of the scouts to ride along with Custer on the reconnaissance?”
Gibbon nodded in resignation. It was his only response to Terry’s question.
Terry continued, clearing his throat. “Very well. Colonel Gibbon has selected six of his finest Crow scouts to accompany the Seventh. To the Crow the colonel is known as No Hip. His most trusted Crow scouts will be ferried across the Yellowstone this evening and presented to your regiment, Custer. They’re to act as a medium of communication between our two commands while in the field. I want to stress this fact—you already have some forty Arikara scouts. Gibbon has but thirty now that these six Crow boys are loaned to you. The Crows are more for our benefit than yours on this exploration of yours up the Rosebud. These six are really for service to Gibbon.”
“How can they be of service to Gibbon if they’re riding with me?”
“Because you’ll use them to communicate with Gibbon’s command. When you locate the Indian encampment, find out where the hostiles are going, their strength, then dispatch one or more of the Crows back to Gibbon with word. Only in that way can we execute this pincer movement that will keep the hostiles from escaping our noose. In fact, Gibbon here is even assigning Mitch Bouyer to you. He’s got a Crow wife. Been living with the Crow for some time. But he’s half Sioux. A good man. Trained under none other than Jim Bridger himself. Gibbon evidently feels you should have the best, Custer.”
“I appreciate that,” Custer answered.
“Very well,” Terry replied with a sigh, staring down at those charts and maps spread across the oak table. “If only we knew what has become of General Crook and his forces.” He tapped a finger down the Rosebud. “Somewhere … down to the south of us … is our third prong. And only God knows where.”
As the rest of the officers leaned in round the table, studying the maps, the commander of the Department of Dakota stood tall and cadaverously thin over his papers, deep in thought. “What I propose to do now is to go over this report by Major Reno’s scout and look over these charts on the Rosebud and Wolf Mountains. We even have some surveyor’s maps given us by the Northern Pacific Railroad.”
“Do any of them show us where General Crook is at this moment?”
