Gibbon set his hat over his thinning hair and swiped the back of a hand beneath his huge nose as he turned to step out the tent flaps.

Terry halted at the doorway.

“Custer, I just may be the last to trust in you.” The general gripped the young officer’s arm paternally. “In fact, this spring it became apparent that not even your old friend Phil Sheridan …”

“I understand fully, sir.” Custer nodded at Gibbon before looking at Terry. “Thank you, General. The Seventh won’t let you down.”

“Find the Indians, Custer. We’ll help you do the rest.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” Custer snapped a smart salute.

Terry and Gibbon walked toward the south bank of the Yellowstone, where a rowboat waited to ferry the officers over to the Far West.

“Cooke!” Custer called into the twilight.

His adjutant trotted up from a nearby camp fire. “Sir?”

“Have trumpeter Voss sound ‘Officers’ Call.’ I want to speak to the men in an hour.”

In fresh paint and their finest outfits, Gibbon’s Crow scouts presented themselves to Custer.

To them the soldier-chief would be known as Young Star, Ihcke Deikdagua. At times they would call Custer the Morning Star. In years to come, none of the Crow would be able to explain to interpreters precisely why he had been given that name.

Young Curley was the first to climb up the bank to Custer’s tent, crunching across the frozen hail to present his hand to the famous pony soldier.

“What’s this?” Custer asked, peering down at his right palm, where Curley had placed a coin with his vigorous handshake.

“It is good luck that you touch his dollar.” Interpreter Mitch Bouyer translated Curley’s explanation.

Though only seventeen winters in age, Curley liked what he saw in the cut of the man. This pony soldier stood tall and slim, broad of shoulder as he thought a warrior should be. Most of all, it was those azure eyes that told Curley, Here is a kind, brave, and thoughtful man.

He had never before seen any man with such eyes.

Custer said, “Curley, is it? Yes—by jigs, I do believe we’ll all be good luck for one another, boys!”

After shaking hands all round with the others, Custer gestured expansively across the entire group. “I have seen most of the other tribes of these mountains and plains except the Crow. And now I see the Crow for the first time. I truly think they are good and brave scouts. I have some scouts here, these Rees. But most of them are worthless to me. I am told the Crows are good scouts, so I sent for you to be part of my command. I myself gave General Terry six hundred dollars for you scouts, and Mitch Bouyer here, to pay for your services.”

He motioned the scouts to sit as Burkman and adjutant Cooke came up with stools and a couple of small trunks. After the Crows had settled themselves, Custer spoke through the half-breed Bouyer.

“I want you to understand I have not called you to go with me up the Rosebud to fight. Instead, you need only track the enemy’s path and tell me where they are. I do not want, nor do I expect, you to fight these Indians we are trailing. You just find the Indians for me. I will do the fighting.”

He turned to his striker. “Burkman, fetch me that pouch I set out on my field desk. The leather one with the fringe down one side.”

With pouch in hand, Custer turned again to Curley. “With this money I am giving you,” and Custer began to pour some coins out of the pouch into the scout’s palm, “I want you to go to the steamboat and buy some paints and new shirts. You must do this now,” he directed while he poured more coins into the palms of the rest. “We leave tomorrow as soon as preparations are made. I want you ready to take me to the Indians who took your hunting land and have long been causing your people many problems.”

Custer suddenly turned to Cooke, struck with an idea. “Lieutenant! I want you to hurry straightaway to the quartermaster and bring me a wall tent for these boys.”

“The Crows, General? A tent?”

“Exactly, Cooke! These boys will stay with me tonight. Eat supper and camp with me … won’t you boys?”

They nodded their heads after Bouyer interpreted the invitation, smiling for the soldier-chief.

“While supper is being readied for us,” Custer motioned for the scouts to stand once more with him, “you go to the steamboat and get your supplies with the money I’ve given you. By jiggers, I feel all the better already about this scout. With good men like you Crows with me … I can’t help but find the Sioux quick and finish them off. Now, come back as soon as you’ve made your purchases, and we’ll have something to eat.”

Custer escorted the group to the south bank of the Yellowstone, where several boats sat on the sand to ferry soldiers to the far shore or the steamboat itself.

As the Crow were about to board the skiffs that would row them out to the Far West, Custer suddenly became drained of his bubbly enthusiasm. The famous smile disappeared from his haggard face.

“I want you scouts to know I understand you don’t know a thing about me yet,” he explained through Bouyer by the lapping waters of the Yellowstone. “I am known far and wide among the tribes as Charge-the-Camp, because I will not hesitate to wade right into a battle myself. You ask about me. Anyone will tell you how I cleaned up a camp of Cheyenne on the southern plains. That was eight years ago, but I intend to do the very thing to these Sioux. And remember the Crow scouts who ride with me—the scouts who lead me to these Sioux I’m hunting—you will share in the horses captured from the Sioux herds.”

Smiles reappeared beneath the greased Crow pompadours as Bouyer translated.

Sioux ponies as an additional reward? What could possibly be better? Curley wondered. Money from this soldier-chief to buy a new shirt for this journey, and some war paint for our faces when we ride down on the Sioux camps. Aiyeee! Now the promise of Sioux ponies as well! This is a great thing in a young Crow scout’ life!

As Custer turned with a wave to them all, crunching back toward his tents across the icy hail melting in slushy patches up the slope, Curley turned to Half-Yellow-Face and White-Man-Runs-Him.

“This Young Star will be a good soldier to follow. He understands Indians. He will not fall behind. I will like fighting for such a soldier. This one will win. This one will bring us victory over our old enemies. Young Star will not quiver and fall back, afraid of the Lakota.”

As the soldier-boatman dipped his oars into the water, dragging the skiff toward the Far West, Curley watched the steamboat’s lights illuminate the tops of the wind-whipped whitecaps.

“It is decided,” Curley said quietly. “I will go with this one wherever he leads me.”

A half hour later Custer sent bugler Henry Voss to blow “Officers’ Call” through camp.

Tom Custer was the first to appear, as was usually the case. “Something’s eating at you, Autie,” he remarked as he strode up, watching his older brother slapping the old rawhide quirt against his boot. “Don’t often see you this worked up. Reminds me of the time Benteen wrote that letter dragging your name through the mud in papers all over St. Louis, Chicago, and New York.”

“Another attack on the Seventh, that’s what!”

“What now? Or should I say, who?”

“That infernal Grasshopper Jim!”

“Brisbin?”

“None other!” He glared testily at his brother with those icy marine eyes, flames from the nearby fire dancing off his reddish blond mustache that all but covered his mouth.

“He still pushing to come along?”

“Tried once more to worm his way in on this scout,” he flared. “This fight is ours!”

“No man will argue that, Autie!”

“He’ll play no part in any of it, not him nor Gibbon! Not even Terry.” He slapped the quirt once more for emphasis as others straggled into the ring of firelight.

“I hope you told that bastard what-for!” Tom said.

“I did just that!” Custer kneaded the quirt handle into his palm. “I told him the Seventh had no need of his

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