.50–70 center-fire cartridges, comfortably slid in a leather scabbard of its own, Custer pulled on his gauntleted gloves, fringe spilling halfway to the elbow.
The final gracing touch came when he buckled on a pair of shiny gold spurs over his gleaming ebony boots. These were spurs originally belonging to General Santa Anna, president of Mexico, then claimed as spoils of war by an American officer at the end of the war with Mexico in 1848. That same American officer made the unfortunate decision of siding with the Confederacy in 1861. G. A. Custer himself claimed those gold spurs as the spoils of war at Appomattox Wood in 1865 as the forces of the Confederacy admitted defeat.
By noon Thursday, 22 June, a harsh northwest wind scoured the prairie at the mouth of the Rosebud, tugging at General Alfred H. Terry’s hat. He reined up, bringing his staff to a halt beside Colonel Gibbon’s officers.
That same stiff wind tousled the fringe worn by Custer’s buckskinned officers in emulation of their beloved commander: Tom and Boston both, in addition to family favorites James Calhoun, Myles Keogh, and Billy Cooke.
The tormented guidons snapped like parching corn in the raw wind as Custer pranced up atop the blaze- faced, white-stockinged sorrel named Vic, shoving his hands into his yellow buckskin gloves. Mark Kellogg rode on his heels.
“Mr. Kellogg!” Colonel John Gibbon hollered in that characteristically gruff bullfrog voice that years ago had struck mortal fear in the heart of plebe G. A. Custer at the United States Military Academy. Gibbon indicated a place at his right hand. “Please do me the honor of standing beside me during the review.”
Kellogg glanced at Custer anxiously. With his sapphire eyes twinkling, he nodded with a wide smile that seemed to assure Kellogg that both of Custer’s superiors were aware the reporter was destined to ride up the Rosebud with the Seventh. Custer himself came to rest at Terry’s left hand, watching with a heart-swelling pride as twelve companies, more than six hundred troopers, rode past—backs ramrod straight, lips clenched in determination, and eyes held dead ahead for the hunt at hand. Following the troopers marched a motley procession of some forty scouts: Arikara and Crow with half-breed Mitch Bouyer included, while the regimental band, which would be staying behind at the Rosebud to await the Seventh’s triumphant return, stood on a nearby knoll blowing out the merry strains of “Garry Owen” before they dived into the sentimental favorite of the older veterans, “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
The to the west we bore away,
To win a name in story,
And there where sits the sun of day,
There dawn’d our sun of glory.
Both blaz’d in noon on Alma’s height,
When in the post assign’d me
I shared the glory of that fight,
Sweet girl I left behind me.
“Twelve noon, gentlemen!” Custer roared, and saluted first General Terry then Colonel Gibbon. Unexpectedly he nudged Vic out of formation to stop beside James Brisbin.
“Major.” Custer presented his hand to Terry’s surprise. “Wish me luck?”
A smile eventually cracked Grasshopper Jim’s face. “Good hunting, General! And good luck to all your men!”
“Thank you, Major,” Custer replied as he tugged his glove back on the right hand. “That means a lot to me, it does.”
Custer sawed Vic’s reins to the left, stopping in front of Terry for a moment, their eyes on the column-of- fours, each troop accompanied by its own twelve pack mules. As they watched, some of the mules began fighting their loads, resisting the cargoes and kicking up heels. The general watched Custer grimace, his cheeks reddening as the men struggled with the mules.
A bulldog trotted past, loping off behind the departing troopers heading south into history. Major Brisbin whistled, then whistled again, until the bulldog was out of sight.
“That’s not one of your hounds is it, General Custer?”
He shook his head. “Not mine, Major. Must belong to one of the men. Tramping all the way from Fort Abraham Lincoln. Appears he’s not about to be left behind!”
“A grand sight, Custer!” Terry cheered, something of a chill like January ice water nagging at the base of his spine.
Custer cleared his throat, turned, and lifted his cream-colored hat from the reddish bristles on his head. “Gentlemen! Until I see you next!”
“In a few days, Custer!” Terry reminded, smiling professorially.
“See you then.” Custer tapped Vic with those gold spurs, and the big mare spun away.
“Now, Custer!” Gibbon suddenly piped up, standing in his stirrups. “Don’t be greedy. Wait for us!”
Custer slapped the big hat back on his head and pranced Vic round in a tight circle before he brought the anxious mare under control.
“I … I w-won’t, sir!” his stammer floated provocatively on the stiff, chill breeze.
In Terry’s next heartbeat Custer jabbed the sorrel with those golden spurs and set off at an astonishing gallop, kicking up moist clods of dirt and grass as Vic sped him along the squeaking, jangling column of cavalry and mules, disappearing into the distance, his back to the superiors he was leaving behind at the Yellowstone.
The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning.
But should I ne’er return again,
Still worth thy love thou’lt find me;
Dishonor’s breath shall never stain
The name I’ll leave behind me.
