J. A. Johnstone & William W. Johnstone

by Bloodshed of Eagles

  Weir laughed. “I wouldn’t make any promises to her of that nature, Dorman. I think she would take you up on it. Then you would have the general upset with you for taking his cook away from him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  June 3, 1876

  Beaver Creek

  It snowed on June 2, and because the snow made trailing harder, General Terry halted the expedition, permitting them to camp the entire day on Beaver Creek. It was a good place to camp because there was water and wood in abundance here. That allowed the troopers to fill their canteens and gather wood, not only for the current fires, but to take with them for future encampments when wood would be scarcer.

  Beaver Creek was not fordable for the wagons here, so a bridge had to be built. That meant that while the main body of the expedition rested, to the engineers it was just another day. They had already built several bridges since leaving Ft. Lincoln, so building another one here was nothing new to them.

  Many of the troopers found things to do to keep them busy, but most played card games to while away the time, while others just slept in order to catch up on a commodity that had been in short supply from the moment they had left Ft. Lincoln. Hunting had been fruitful for the last few days and, for the time being, there was enough fresh game to provide every soldier in the expedition with plenty to eat, and a few expressed the opinion that as far as they were concerned, they could just stay here for a week or two, then go back to the post.

  “Hell, let the Indians wander around out here if they want to,” one of the soldiers said. “What difference does it make anyway?”

  While most of the men appreciated the chance to rest, Custer fumed over it, considering it a waste of valuable time. He also thought that letting the men stop and rest would actually have a deleterious effect on their military readiness. Not one to rest personally, Custer spent a lot of time with the scouts, sometimes even riding out with them. And because he had been on several scouting expeditions without locating any significant Indian sign, he tended to downplay the danger of too many Indians when Falcon and Dorman gave him their report.

  “What about the Gatling guns?” Custer asked. “Did you find them?”

  “Yes, we found them,” Falcon answered. “The Indians managed to get away with one of them, but we spiked the one they left behind. We also destroyed their supply of ammunition, which makes the other one useless,” Falcon replied.

  “Good for you, good for you,” Custer said. He stroked his mustache and looked at the two scouts.

  “You two men had quite an adventure, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, if you call walkin’ till your feet near ’bout fall off the end of your legs an adventure,” Dorman said.

  Custer laughed. “Everything in life is an adventure, Dorman. I’m glad you men managed to get away without getting your scalps lifted. But I wouldn’t worry about how many Indians there are out there. The thing to worry about is whether or not we can catch enough of them together to make a fight of it, or if they will just run away the way they normally do.”

  June 9, 1876

  At General Terry’s invitation, Falcon accompanied Terry down the Powder River to the Yellowstone, where the riverboat Far West was waiting. The boat, with smoke drifting from its high twin chimneys, made a majestic appearance here in the wilds of Montana, so far away from civilization. Captain Grant Marsh was standing at the head of the gangplank as General Terry and Falcon stepped on board.

  “Falcon MacCallister,” Marsh said, smiling as he extended his hand in greeting. “I thought you would be back in Colorado by now.”

  “I thought so as well, but things have a way of taking on a life of their own. Now, I’m acting as a scout for Custer.”

  “Good for you. Custer can always use another good man.”

  “Do you have mail for us, Captain Marsh?” General Terry asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Marsh replied.

  Marsh held up his finger as if telling them to wait one moment. “Jerry!”

  “Yes, sir, Cap’n,” one of his crew answered.

  “Get the mailbag for the Seventh.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll have the mail brought right here to you.”

  “Good, I’ll have someone pick it up and take it back upstream to the troops,” Terry replied. “Is General Gibbon here?”

  “Yes, sir, he arrived about an hour ago,” Marsh said.

  “Have him meet me in the master cabin, if you would. Colonel MacCallister, with me, please.”

  Falcon followed Terry into the master cabin, which was located on the Texas deck of the boat. There, Terry took out a map and spread it out on a table, holding it down at the corners with whatever he could find to use. After a moment, Gibbon came in. Gibbon was thin-faced, with a hawklike nose and dark, piercing eyes. A native of North Carolina and a graduate of West Point, he had fought, and was twice wounded, for the North, though three of his brothers had fought for the South. A colonel now, he retained the brevet of major general.

  “General,” Gibbon said.

  “Gibbon,” Terry replied. Falcon knew that Terry was upset with Gibbon for not moving quickly enough. This meeting was one week later than he had proposed, but calling his subordinate by his last name, without use of rank, was the only way the soft-spoken Terry expressed his displeasure.

  “I understand that your scouts have discovered a village on the Rosebud,” Terry said.

  “We have, yes, sir.”

  “How large is the village?”

  “I don’t believe it is very large,” Gibbon replied. “Maybe one hundred lodges or so.”

  “You don’t believe? Can’t you be more specific?” Terry asked. “Excuse me, General, but isn’t the purpose of your scouting to be able to provide me with such information?”

  “Yes, sir, I suppose it is. It’s just that I have no real way of telling how large the village is. My scouts suggested that it wasn’t a very large village, but their information was—well—let us say, inconclusive.”

  “Inconclusive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “General, this is Colonel Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Colonel MacCallister? Have we met, sir?” Gibbon asked.

  “No,” Falcon replied. “I’m not a colonel in the regular army, I’m a colonel in the Colorado Guard.”

  Gibbon looked confused. “If you are in the Colorado guard, what—”

  “He is accompanying Custer,” Terry said, interrupting Gibbon’s question. “He is out here to look for Gatling guns that fell into the Indians possession.”

  “Good Lord,” Gibbon said. “Gatling guns in the hands of the Indians?”

  “Don’t worry about it, the situation has been dealt with. Colonel MacCallister found one of the guns and disabled it. He also destroyed the ammunition so, though the Indians have the other gun, they won’t be able to use it.”

  “Uh, that may not be true, General,” Gibbon said with a rather rueful tone to his voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of our wagons broke down and we had to abandon it. At first, we thought the only thing on it was canvas and tent stakes. Later, we discovered that there were three cases of ammunition on board. One of the cases was fifty-caliber rounds for the Gatling gun.”

  “And you didn’t go back for them?”

  “By the time we discovered we had lost them, it was too late. They were too far back.”

  “All right, there’s no sense in crying over spilt milk,” Terry said. “This is what I want you to do.”

  Terry pointed to the map, indicating where Custer was at the moment, and where he thought Crook was—though as he had had no contact with Crook, he could only guess.

  “I’m going to send Custer up the Tongue River, then have him come down the Rosebud. I’ll augment your column with three companies from the Seventh, and have you move up the Rosebud. If the village you saw is still on the Rosebud, we’ll have them trapped in between.”

  “You won’t trap t
hem, General,” Falcon said.

  Both Terry and Gibbon looked at Falcon in surprise. “What do you mean, we won’t trap them?” Terry asked.

  “There are far too many Indians out there for them to be concentrated in a village that small. That was either a temporary village on the way to join one that is much larger—or—the other Indians are coming to join it, in which case it will become much larger,” Falcon said.

  “What makes you think there are that many Indians out there?” Gibbon asked.

  “Have you seen no Indians other than this village?” Terry asked.

  “Well, I did have some scouts encounter a war party that was big enough to prevent them from getting through to Custer. But I only had two scouts out there, so it didn’t require that large of a party. We just haven’t seen anything to suggest that there is a significantly large body of Indians operating out here.”

  “I have seen them,” Falcon replied.

  “Have you now? And where was that, Colonel?” Gibbon asked.

  “Colonel MacCallister and Mr. Dorman recently returned from a very hazardous scout of their own,” Terry explained.

  “I see. Well, I’m sure that to a colonel from the Colorado Guard, any significant body of Indians is apt to look very large,” Gibbon said. “But I wouldn’t worry about it.” Gibbon turned his attention to General Terry.

  “General, how soon do you want me to start up the Rosebud?”

  “Not yet,” Terry said. “I think perhaps I’ll send a scouting party, in strength, to scout the Powder River to its forks, then to the head of Mizpah Creek down to its mouth, then by Pumpkin Creek to the Tongue River.” Terry pointed out his plan on the map. “It just doesn’t seem likely to me that there can be that many Indians operating out there, but I am not going to totally disregard the information given me by Colonel MacCallister. I want to find out just what is in front of us. Obviously, any Indians out here are going to be by one of the rivers in order to take advantage of the water.”

  “General, you know what will happen if you send Custer at the head of that scout, don’t you?” Gibbon asked. “If he does find any Indians, he’ll turn the scout into an opportunity to attack on his own.”

  Terry stroked his long, luxurious beard for a moment, then nodded. “You may be right,” he said. “All right, I’ll send Reno.”

  June 10, 1876

  “I don’t understand why Terry sent Reno instead of me,” Custer complained as he watched Reno leave at the head of six companies. “There is no way Reno is going to find something, and if he does, he won’t have the slightest idea what to do about it. This whole scout is a waste of effort and a waste of time.”

  “Why worry about time?” Benteen asked. “We aren’t on any kind of schedule out here.”

  “Oh, but we are, Colonel,” Custer replied, using Benteen’s brevet rank. “We are most definitely on a schedule. The twenty-seventh is fast approaching.”

  “The twenty-seventh is approaching? I don’t understand, General. What is significant about the twenty-seventh?” Benteen asked.

  “There is no particular significance about that date, Colonel Benteen. It would just be ten days over a month since we took to the field, is all.”

  Falcon knew that Benteen was aware of the Democratic convention being held on the twenty-seventh of June, because he had heard him talking about it in relation to Custer’s ego.

  Custer turned toward Falcon. “Thank you for bringing the mail to me. I had a letter from Libbie.”

  “I thought you might appreciate that,” Falcon said, appreciating the change of subject.

  Custer pulled the letter from his jacket.

  “Listen to this,” he said, as he began reading:

  “The servants are doing very well. We are raising chickens. We have forty-three. So many cats about the garrison keep the rats away. The weather is very hot, but the nights are cool. The lights about the hills and valleys are exquisite. The river now is too high for sandbars to be seen.

  “About a hundred men with John Stevenson in command have gone to the Black Hills. Nearly twenty-five teams have passed by.

  “Carter has returned and is chief trumpeter. He really sounds the calls beautifully. But his long-drawn notes make me heartsick. I do not wish to be reminded of the Cavalry.”*

  Custer lowered the letter.

  “Doesn’t Libbie write well?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Did you know there are actually people who believe that she writes my articles for Galaxy Magazine?

  Falcon had heard such rumors, but he didn’t respond.

  “You aren’t the only one who got mail,” Tom Custer said with a broad smile. “Listen to this one, from Lorena.

  “I watch Libbie go about her day-to-day business, facing the world so bravely, knowing that her husband is now in the field and could, at any day, be engaged in the most terrible battle.

  “I don’t know how she maintains such courage. She is married to the general—you and I are but recent acquaintances, and yet, I can’t help but feel that there is something deeper and more promising yet to be discovered between us. And it is that feeling that causes me to feel such anxiety about your well-being that, I fear, I cannot hide it as well as does your sister-in-law. I can but only pray for your safe return.”

  “That’s a very nice letter,” Falcon said.

  “Did you get one from her?” Tom asked.

  “No,” Falcon replied. “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, well, it wouldn’t have bothered me if you had gotten one,” Tom said. He held the letter up and smiled broadly. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious which one of us she has chosen, don’t you think?”

  “Captain, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Falcon replied.

  The next day General Terry sent Custer out—not on a lengthy scout such as the one Reno was taking, but a shorter, more specific scout to find a trail that would enable the wagons to pass. Custer did so, and wrote of it to Libbie that night.

  June 11

  Mouth of the Powder River

  This morning we left camp, I again acting as guide. General Terry had been in great anxiety for the wagons. He had ridden to the mouth of the Powder and he and those with him had expressed a fear that the wagons would not make it in a month, on account of the intervening Bad Lands. He came to my tent early this morning and asked if I would try to find a road.

  The men had only rations for one day left. One company had been sent out the day before, but had not returned. Sure enough, we found them. We have all arrived here safely, and the wagons besides.*

  Chapter Seventeen

  June 21, 1876

  Mouth of the Rosebud

  With Reno absent on his scout, General Terry moved the rest of the column to the Yellowstone, where they were able to set up their bivouac alongside the Far West. Custer was getting more and more anxious, and he started agitating Terry to let him go on his own to try and join up with Reno, then to strike at the Indians wherever they might be found.

  Terry held him back, but on the afternoon of the nineteenth, he finally received a dispatch, by courier, from Reno.

  We have advanced to the mouth of the Rosebud. We have found no Indians, but have found a very large trail with many hoofprints and lodge pole tracks leading to the valley of the Little Bighorn.

  “What is Reno doing at the mouth of the Rosebud?” Custer asked. “I thought his orders were to examine only the Tongue and the Powder Rivers.”

  “They were,” Terry said. “He has exceeded his orders.”

  “And put the entire operation into jeopardy,” Custer said angrily. “I told you, you should have sent me.”

  “Custer, are you trying to tell me that if you hadn’t found Indians on the Tongue or the Powder, you wouldn’t have gone on to the Rosebud?”

  “I may have,” Custer agreed. “But it’s different for me.”

  “How is it different?”

  “I have experience with the Indians,” Custer said. “If I had encounter
ed them, I would have known what to do. I think we should all be very thankful that Reno did not find them, for if he had, the courier might have been bearing the message that his entire command was wiped out to the last man.”

  “Oh, come now, that’s a rather harsh appraisal, isn’t it?” Terry replied.

  “Are you saying that you don’t think it possible for an entire command to be massacred?” Custer asked.

  “No, one only has to recall the Fetterman experience to know that it is possible. But Reno’s command is much larger and more mobile. And there are three columns out here in pursuit of the Indians. So I think any talk of the loss of an entire command is a bit too much.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Custer asked.

  “We now know where the Indians aren’t,” Terry replied. “We just aren’t that certain where they are. They aren’t on the Tongue or the Powder, so they have to be on the Rosebud, the Little Bighorn, or the Bighorn. I want you to cross the Tongue, find Reno, then come back to the Far West.”

  “I’ll go find Reno and bring him back,” Custer said. “But you should have sent me after him three or four days ago. We’ve lost a week with Reno’s blundering. In fact, you should have sent me in the first place.”

  “Yes, Custer, I am well aware of your opinion on the matter,” Terry replied wearily.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, June 21, General Terry held a conference in the master cabin of the Far West. Present were Terry, Gibbon, Custer, Major Brisbin—who was the commander of Gibbon’s cavalry—and by special invitation, Falcon MacCallister.

  Custer took the first seat at the table, as if it were his due, even though Gibbon outranked him. Gibbon and Brisbin also had seats at the table, and though Terry offered to have a chair brought in for Falcon, he declined, and chose to lean against the wall with his arms folded across his chest as he looked on.

  Again, Terry had the map laid out on the table, held down at the corners with an ink bottle, a paperweight, a canteen, and a pistol.

  “Gentlemen, we know that General Crook is in the field, but we don’t know exactly where he is. I wish we could coordinate our efforts with him, but that is impossible. In fact, it is going to be difficult to even coordinate our own efforts, but let us hope that our timing is good enough that we can converge in such a way as to prevent the Indians from fleeing, and to convince them to return to the reservation.”