However, unlike Custer, Reno’s war record was not notable in either direction. He served and he did his duty without particular distinction or disgrace. After the war, Reno did not have a good go of it. He managed to antagonize about !very possible person he could while trying to wrangle a good assignment and was banished to Fort Vancouver, Washington, as far away from the mainstream a soldier could be sent and still be in the Army.
Reno thought of it as the bad luck time of his career. Everyone had one. Even Custer had been court-martialed in Kansas and forced to take an unpaid leave of absence for a year not too long ago.
But Reno’s luck had changed in 1869 when he was assigned to the Seventh Cavalry at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Or so he had thought at the time, Reno reflected as he watched the dust cloud from Benteen’s battalion.
So far his tour in the Seventh had not turned out well. Besides having to serve under Custer, of course. Two years ago Reno’s wife had died while he was afield with the Seventh. He’d requested a leave of absence to attend her funeral and take care of family business. Headquarters turned down his request, the cold letters of the reply telegram still vivid in Reno’s mind: ‘’The Department Commander feels it is imperative to decline to grant you leave. You must return to your command.”
My command, Reno thought as he glanced over at Custer still talking to Cooke. This regiment should have been mine, he fumed. Damn Custer and damn those who believed in him! The colonel had gone AWOL, absent without leave, in 1867, an offense Custer himself had punished with summary executions in the field. Reno hadn’t been with the Seventh then, but · he’d heard all about it from others who’d been there.
During General Hancock’s ’67 campaign in Kansas, Custer took it upon himself to leave the regiment while it was in the field and ride to visit his wife. The board had drummed him out and suspended him for one year. But then, because of his connections and his reputation, he was back. And here he was, still in command despite all he had done to flout the rules and regulations of the Army.
Reno watched as Cooke rode toward him. My turn, Reno thought.
“Your orders, sir, are to take your three troops along the south side of this creek. Cross the Little Big Horn, and attack the Indian camp from the south.”
Reno swallowed and looked over Cooke’s shoulder where Custer was. The general was peering to the northwest and signing with some of his scouts.
“Just my battalion?” Reno asked.
The general says that he will support your attack if you make contact.”
‘’Where will the general be?” Reno asked.
“We will be on the other side of the creek … on your right flank … within supporting distance,” Cooke replied with a bit of hesitancy in his voice.
Reno peered in the direction Custer was looking. “It’s quite a way to the river.”
“Ten or twelve miles,” Cooke replied. ‘”The general fears · that the Indians are already striking camp and are on the run.”
“On the run?” Reno repeated dully. He could not believe his orders. Benteen was chasing ghosts to the south, and Custer Was splitting what was left of the regiment once again. Hell, they’d already split from Terry. If this kept up Reno envisioned leading a platoon of men eventually.
Cooke’s voice finned up. ‘’The scouts will go with your command, sir.”
“The scouts?” He could see the half-breed who had just been assigned as a scout coming up behind the adjutant.
“Yes, sir,” Cooke affined.
Reno reached up a hand and touched his forehead. It was blazing hot under the sun and his fingers were drenched with · Sweat. He ran his tongue across his lips. “But what is the · plan?”
Cooke was startled by the question. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t understand the plan,” Reno replied.
“You are to move up the valley and attack the hostiles,” Cooke said. “The general will support you as needed.”
“As needed?”
Custer was waving his hand. Indicating for Cooke to come · back. Custer’s five companies were already moving. Reno shook his head, trying to clear the fog he felt descending through it, slowing his thoughts and muddying them. Cooke turned and started to ride away.
“Just make sure I get the support!” Reno called out. Cooke raised a hand, indicating he heard. At least that’s what Reno thought.
Bouyer rode and half touched his right hand to his forehead in a form of salute. “Major:”
“What exactly does the general want me to do?” Reno demanded.
Bouyer dropped the hand. “He didn’t tell me his orders. Sir, other than to link up with you.”
Reno shook his head. “It makes no sense. The hostiles will be in the valley along the river. Why is Custer riding in the hills?”
In response, Bouyer reached into a large sack tied off to his pommel and pulled out a leather satchel. He extended it toward Reno. “Here you go, sir.”
Reno didn’t take it “What the hell is this?”
“A talisman.”
“A what?”
“Strong medicine.” Bouyer still had his arms outstretched.
Custer was gesturing toward Reno, mouthing something. The major had no doubt that whatever the general was saying, it wasn’t pleasant He grabbed the satchel and looped the leather tie over the hook holding his map case near the left rear of the saddle. There was no time for this nonsense.
Reno shouted orders, getting his three companies, A, G and M, in line and moving. He had eleven officers and about a hundred and twenty-five troopers. He also had the scouts, which he found out of the ordinary. Even Bloody Knife was with his column. Strange of the general to part with his favorite scout, Reno thought He also had a surgeon, Henry Porter, an assistant surgeon, James DeWolf; Fred Gerard, the colonel’s personal interpreter, which was also strange; and Isaiah Dorman, the only black man in the entire outfit, a scout with much experience on the plains. And he had Bouyer, the half-breed and his medicine in a bag. The only scouts staying with Custer were Lonesome Charlie Reynolds and four Crows. That fact made Reno wonder that he might indeed be the main thrust and Custer would support him. But years of working with the general told Reno that that simply couldn’t be. Custer would never delegate himself to a supporting role m an event as big as what this was looking to be. Maybe Custer was simply tired of the death chants of the Arikara scouts.
Reno galloped to the front of his column. He could look to his right across the small creek and see Custer’s command riding in parallel. That gave him some hope. They were just a stone’s throw away from each, well within mutual supporting position. Reno glanced to the rear. The only sign that the pack train was following was a distant patch of dust.
Bouyer was riding to the left front of the column, ranging toward the bluffs that were about a mile away in that direction. The columns rode for several miles like that, occasionally breaking into a trot, then Reno noticed Custer gesturing. There was no mistaking it. Custer was directing him over to the north side. Reno felt a tremendous rush of relief. They were rejoining the regiment, at least what they had here.
Reno splashed across the creek. He could see that Custer was standing at a lone teepee. Reno rode up as both columns came to a halt. Custer was inspecting the structure. Reno dismounted and followed his commander into the teepee. A dead Indian lay within. Reno glanced at him--he’d been shot and Ute wound had soured.
Who shot him? Was Reno’s first thought. Had the Indians made contact with some other column of soldiers, or was this the result of infighting between the Indians themselves? Custer still hadn’t said a word. He was simply staring at the dead man, surprisingly subdued for some reason. Then the general turned and stalked from the tent, Reno following.
Reno noticed that Bouyer had ridden up while they were in the tent. The scout was talking to Bloody Knife, motioning at the tent, but Reno couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Burn it,” Custer snapped. The Crows set to that task quickly.
> Custer walked up to Bouyer and Bloody Knife. ‘’Who killed that Indian?”
“Hard to say, major,” Bouyer replied.
Custer was fidgeting with his red bandana. His eyes were darting about. He pulled out his watch and checked the time, shaking his head. “We’re wasting daylight.”
Bouyer chuckled. “General, I wouldn’t be worrying about nightfall if I was you.”
“You aren’t me.”
The Ankara scouts were painting themselves for battle. The two columns were milling about when yelling and several shots were heard to the east.
“There go your Indians, brother!” Tom Custer was pointing.
One of the Crow Scouts was on a knoll to the east and he was gesturing back.
“After them!” Custer ordered the Ankara scouts.
Reno watched with amazement as the scouts ignored the general and continued putting on their paint. Custer’s arms flew as he signed at the Arikara, and there was no doubt in Reno’s mind about the threats inherent in those gestures even though he didn’t understand the exact meaning of what Custer was conveying. The scouts began moving.
Custer wheeled about and grabbed his adjutant, Cooke, by the collar and talked rapidly. He then swiftly walked to his horse and mounted.
Reno stood there, still among the action swirling about him.
“It’s begun.”
Reno turned to Bouyer. “Who exactly are you, and why are you here?”
“You ever get caught in a strong stream while trying to cross it?” Bouyer asked, instead of answering.
“What?”
“A strong current that just grabs you and pulls you along. You can’t get out on either side. You fight and fight, but finally the water wins and you just let it take you where it takes you.”
Reno wanted to ask the scout what the hell he was talking about, but Custer’s column began to move as Cooke came over for the second time with more orders.
“You are to move forward as rapidly as possible across the river, and once you are in position, you are to charge the Indian camp from the south. You will be supported by the whole outfit”
“Where is Custer going?” Reno demanded as he watched the other column move to the north.
“We will be on your right We will support you.” Cooke · yelled as he turned to burry after the Seventh’s commander.
CRAZY HORSE
It was a good day to be alive, Crazy Horse thought as he sat under a tree and watched the ponies eat grass. Never had he seen so many horses in one place. There were almost as many in number as the great buffalo herds he had hunted in his younger days. But the big herds were gone now, another legacy of the white man’s encroachment on the land.
Crazy Horse was not technically a chief, nor did he wish to be one. He was a “shirt-wearer,” a renowned warrior. Among his people, bravery was the number-one requirement of a warrior, and Crazy Horse had that in plenty.
Crazy Horse could sense his “brother” approaching from me southeast, which was strange because that was the direction of the Rosebud, and they knew Three Stars had run away, back toward Fort Fetterman.
Crazy Horse could not believe that the white man was still coming. But the reservation Indians who had arrived in the last several days had given conflicting reports of columns of soldiers. Some said they were to the east in the valley of the Rosebud. Others said they were to the north, near the Yellowstone.
Despite the defeat suffered by Three Stars, there were others still coming, and Crazy Horse knew that was the curse for his people. They would always keep coming. And he was on the banks of the Greasy Grass. Where his mother had foretold he would meet his “brother.”
For the last time, Crazy Horse vowed to himself.
There had to be hope, though. There had to be. Crazy Horse was a warrior, but he also knew that if there was no hope, then warriors would not fight well. The fight on the Rosebud had shown them all something. It had been most difficult for Sitting Bull to cajole all the various tribes and war leaders into accepting a common plan, coordinating the activities of all the warriors. Finally, after many hours of pleading, and with the weight of Sitting Bull’s visions and Gall’s rank as war chief, they had managed to get all the warriors to the Rosebud in the middle of the night and positioned.
Crazy Horse had to wonder though, how much his ‘’brother’s’’ arrival with the strange clear skulls had influenced things. Even Crazy Horse knew they were powerful medicine.
Still, for the first time in history, the entire Sioux nation had fought as one and the result had been a victory, sending Three Stars reeling south. But there were still white men coming, and there was still his mother’s vision, which had not been fulfilled.
Soldiers were falling into camp. Crazy Horse stood up and looked about. There was only one direction from which soldiers could fall into camp. That was to the east, on the other side of the Greasy Grass, where high bluffs overlooked the camp.
Crazy Horse shook his head. He knew this land intimately. A force coming from that direction would be channeled into one of several cuts coming down to the river. It would not be wise tactically, although a foe could approach unseen from the land beyond in that direction.
But the white man was not known for his tactics. Maybe tomorrow, Crazy Horse thought. Maybe they will come out of the hills in the morning. If that were the case, then he had better be prepared. Crazy Horse went in search of one of his ponies. He wanted to make a quick scout of the east side of the Greasy Grass to get a feel for the lay of the land.
But first, there was something he must do. Crazy Horse rode through the large encampment until he found the Miniconjous lodges. He saw several boys gathered near one, and he nudged his pony in that direction. The boys all stopped their play as he rode up.
Crazy Horse dismounted. The boys watched him without saying a word. He looked at them one by one. He felt a charge of power when his eyes touched upon a slight boy near the r:ear. The child held an old rifle in his hands. The stock had splintered and was wrapped with buffalo sinew to hold it together.
Crazy Horse crooked a finger and the boy came forward. The warrior held out his hand and the boy gave him the old rifle. Crazy Horse inspected it. Although old, it was well maintained.
“Have you counted coup?” Crazy Horse asked.
The boy shook his head.
“You are Walks Alone?”
The boy nodded.
“Can you speak?”
The boy began to nod, but caught himself. “Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
Crazy Horse took the leather satchel off his pony and held It out to the boy. “This is for you.”
Walks Alone took the satchel but didn’t open it, which Crazy Horse liked. “Where is your father?”
“He was killed by the Snakes while hunting.”
Indians versus Indian again. Crazy Horse thought. “Your mother?”
“She died giving birth two summers ago.”
“And the child?”
“Dead also.”
“Who takes care of you?” Crazy Horse asked.
“I take care of myself,” Walks Alone said. He paused. “But e old warriors who stay in the camp when the young warriors go to count coup—they let me enter their fire circle.”
“You listen to them?”
Walks Alone nodded. “I have learned much from listening.”
“And keeping quiet?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Crazy Horse pointed at the satchel. “Do riot open it. But keep it with you no matter what happens.”
Walks Alone nodded.
Crazy Horse mounted his pony. He looked up at the sun. The day was advanced past the mid-point. Perhaps it would not be today. But he felt his “brother’’ closing. He looked down at Walks Alone, the damaged, old rifle in one hand, the · satchel in the other. Everything fell into a shadow for a moment, and he glanced up, expecting to see a cloud passing in front, and he glanced up, expectin
g to see a cloud passing in front of the sun, but the sky was perfectly clear. A great weight pressed down on Crazy Horse’s heart as he forced himself to ride away from the boy.
He rode across the Greasy Grass and toward the bluffs on the eastern side when it struck him like a white man’s bullet in the chest that by giving the stone skull to Walks Alone he was helping fulfill the prophecy.
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