enemy before the Cheyenne reached the South Platte, Carr steadfastly clung to his need to resupply his command before coming in contact with that enemy.
“But if you’re suggesting that I have no other choice, Major North—then I’ll order a forced march with two battalions. The rest I’ll leave behind to await the supply train.”
“We’ve got to move now, General. That village finds out we’re back here,” the younger Luther North grumbled, “they’ll bolt on us. And we’ll be left with nothing but feathers—instead of capturing the whole goose.”
After grappling with his dilemma, Carr finally decided. To the North brothers and his officers he explained, “This is simply a gamble I have to take. I can’t push ahead recklessly, what with the certainty that I will scatter that village full of bloody-eyed warriors to the four winds … and have them bump into my supply train out there, somewhere, rolling in here with an inadequate escort.”
“You fail to put this command on the march right now, you might be missing the greatest opportunity of your career,” Frank North grumbled.
“Yeah,” brother Luther agreed. “General, what do you think Custer would do if he had that village of red bastards within reach?”
Such transparent goading clearly angered the distinguished Civil War veteran. Carr was bristling as he finally squared his jaw and glared back at the two North brothers. Shad admired the soldier all the more as the soldier’s words came out clipped and even, but with the ring of a hammer on a cold anvil.
“Major, and Captain—I’ll note your exception for the record of this campaign. Know this now, so that you do not find yourselves attempting to bait me in the future. Eugene Carr will let others rush in for the glory: George Armstrong Custer and those like him. And while this regiment is under my command, our rear guard and all civilian teamsters in my employ will be protected. I’ll not have their deaths on my conscience for the sake of personal glory. By Jupiter—there won’t be a single Major Joel Elliott abandoned by the Fifth Cavalry!”
Shad watched Carr stomp away, his adjutant hurrying behind in the major’s wake.
“He’s still saddle-raw over last winter’s campaign,” Cody said quietly as he stopped beside Sweete.
“I heard your outfit came up empty-handed.”
Cody nodded. “Busting snow, saving Penrose’s brunettes, starving ourselves and killing our horses in a prairie blizzard—while all the glory for Sheridan’s campaign went to Sheridan’s favorite fair-haired boy.”
“Custer?”
“He jumped a small village on the Washita, ran off the warriors, and captured some squaws. Then turned tail and skedaddled—as I hear the tale of it—leaving Major Elliott and eighteen men to get chewed up by the warriors from the villages camped farther upstream.”
Sweete said, “If I found Carr was the kind of commander what left any of his own behind—then I’d be the first nigger to pull up my picket pin and leave this campaign to the rest of you.”
Cody nodded. “Likely, I’d be pulling out with you. But Carr ain’t a Custer.”
Two hours past midnight on the morning of 11 July, he had them up in the gray, waning light of moonset. No fires were lit. No coffee was brewed. Only the cold leavings of last night’s supper and a daily ration of hard-bread were allowed as the men saddled and counted cartridges. By four A.M. the major had his column moving out in light marching order.
This was to be the day Major Eugene Carr’s Fifth U.S. Cavalry hoped to chip away the last shreds of Tall Bull’s lead.
Theirs had been a gallant, courageous effort already: more than 150 miles covered in the past four days of endless, torturous march—driven to the point of utter exhaustion by the man who had stared, and stared some more at those tiny boot prints in the sand days back.
Once again Shad stood amazed at the hardiness of these youngsters as they grumbled back and forth through the darkness, at least until they were ordered to horse. Once in the saddle and moving out beneath the last of that summer starshine, the column fell silent. No sound but the squeak of prairie-dried leather, the chink of bit and crupper, the slap of carbine On a sling against a McClellan saddle: horse soldiers about their deadly business of bringing war to the Dog Soldiers who had for too long cut a bloody swath through the far- flung settlements of white families staking out new lives for themselves on the ancient buffalo feeding grounds.
The red man was in his time of the yellow leaf. And the soldier was come to hurry the final day.
By the time the night weakened its grip on this high prairie, holding morning in temporary abeyance above this tableland in far-eastern Colorado Territory, the Pawnee rode back to the head of the column to report that they feared the Cheyenne were breaking up into three bands. North delivered the bitter news to Carr, gloating a bit as he did.
“Thank you, Major—but Bill Cody already surmised as much.”
A gray cloud passed over Frank North’s face. “With your permission, General: I’m suggesting you put out a reconnaissance in force, in three parties.”
Carr turned to his young scout. “Mr. Cody here believes the Cheyenne will be regrouping before going into camp.”
“They’re breaking up—and you’re going to let them slip right through your fingers, General!” North said, his voice cracking in anxiety.
Can glanced at Cody, perhaps experiencing some self-doubt. “How can you … how can we be so sure the Cheyenne won’t escape?”
Cody’s eyes flicked at Sweete.
“Go ’head, Bill. Tell the general what you and me talked about early this morning.”
Cody squared his shoulders. “General, Mr. Sweete and me figure Tall Bull is a cagey old bastard—just splitting up to throw you off his track. We’ll bet the farm that village already knows your pony soldiers are hot on their trail.”
A look of panic crossed the major’s face. “Then you’re agreeing that the village is splitting up.”
The young scout shook his head emphatically. “Even if he is splitting up the village to throw you off, in the end Tall Bull’s still in the same boat we are.”
Carr’s brow bunched in confusion. “Which is?”
“His people gotta have water.”
“And that means something to us?”
With a nod Cody answered, “They’ll have to regroup by the time they reach the Platte.”
“The South Platte?” Carr inquired, gazing into the glimmering, sunburned distance. “That means we’ve penetrated Colorado Territory.”
“That’s right, General,” Shad spoke up. “It’s time you pushed this outfit, dragged the last these men and animals can give.”
“Bound where, Mr. Sweete?”
But Cody piped up, “For the platte, General.”
“You get your outfit there first,” Shad emphasized. “Have your men between the river and that village when it re-forms and comes up for water.”
“And if we don’t get there before Tall Bull does?” Carr asked.
Sweete shook his head. “Those Dog Soldiers will get their families across the Platte and you’ll be eating their dust from here all the way to the Laramie Plains.”
“We miss ’em at the river, General,” Cody pleaded his case. “We’ll never catch ’em.”
“I take exception with these two, General Carr,” Frank North broke in. “What’s to guarantee that village is moving toward the Platte? No, General—I say if you don’t follow all three of those trails, you’ll lose everything this campaign was sent out here to do.”
Carr contemplated his dilemma, looking from Sweete to Cody, then to North, and finally peered over his men and animals behind him, that long, dark ribbon stretched out across the fawn-colored terrain, sweltering beneath the same sun that he had hoped would bring him the destruction of Tall Bull’s Dog Soldiers.
“All right—Cody’s and Sweete’s advice to the contrary, I’ve decided to divide the command into three wings
