J. A. Johnstone & William W. Johnstone

by Bloodshed of Eagles

  Looking in the direction pointed to by the trooper, Falcon saw that the Indians had set fire to the prairie grass.

  “God in Heaven, they are going to burn us out!” one of the troopers shouted in fear.

  “No they ain’t, Johnny,” another soldier said. “As long as that fire is on the other side of the river from us, it can’t hurt us.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess you are right,” Johnny said, his voice showing his relief. “But what the hell are they doing?”

  It soon became evident what the Indians were doing, because, in addition to the smoke, they also started the women and children milling about, dragging limbs behind them to stir up a large cloud of dust to mingle with the smoke. Within half an hour, the village, which had been easily seen before, was so obscured by smoke that the soldiers could see virtually nothing on the other side of the river.

  “Be on the alert, men!” Benteen called out. “They may launch an attack from all the smoke and dust!”

  For the next hour, the men were tense as they waited apprehensively for the upcoming attack.

  By seven o’clock that evening, though, their worries eased somewhat when they saw thousands of Indians—warriors, squaws, and children—on horseback, being pulled by travois, and walking, along with many more ponies and dogs. The village was no more and the giant procession was leaving the site, winding its way up the slope on the far side of the valley, headed for the Bighorn Mountains.

  “Major, the Indians are gone,” Weir said. “We need to get through to Custer.”

  “No,” Reno replied. “It is Custer’s responsibility to get through to us. I have no orders suggesting I join him.”

  “Maybe not, but you do,” Weir said to Benteen.

  “What do you mean by that?” Benteen said.

  “Trumpeter Martin said that he brought you a note from Custer. May I see it?”

  “The note was for me, not you,” Benteen said.

  “May I see it?” Weir asked again.

  With a sigh, Benteen pulled the note from his shirt pocket and handed it to Weir.

  Benteen: Come on. Big Village. Be quick. Bring Packs. W.W. Cooke.

  P.S. Bring Packs

  Weir read the note aloud, then handed it back.

  “We will wait here for Custer,” Benteen said.

  Reno stayed in position throughout the night, just to make certain the Indians were gone. The next morning, with good water now available and the packs brought up, the men had a decent breakfast of bacon, hard bread, and coffee. Not having heard from Custer throughout the day and the previous night, Benteen and Reno had now come around to Weir’s idea, and were making plans to send at least one troop forward to make contact with Custer. Since Weir had tried unsuccessfully two days earlier, they agreed that his troop would be the one that would push forward.

  “Major Reno, troops are coming!” one of the troopers shouted, pointing to a column of blue approaching from some distance.

  “It has to be Custer,” Reno said.

  “Major, you might want to check this out,” DeRudio said. “When we were on the island, we saw what we thought were soldiers, but it turned out to be Indians wearing uniforms they had taken off the dead.”

  “Yes,” Reno replied. “Yes, you might be right. I need a couple of volunteers to ride out and see.”

  “I’ll go,” Falcon offered.

  “So will I,” Varnum added.

  Falcon and Varnum mounted horses, then galloped out to meet the advancing party. It turned out to be General Terry.

  “Where’s Custer?” Terry asked.

  “General, that’s the same question we were about to ask you,” Varnum replied.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  June 28, 1876

  Custer battlefield

  Approaching the battlefield, the first things Falcon saw were a lot of white objects lying on the ground. At first, he was confused as to what they were. Then he realized he was looking at bodies. Almost to a man, the soldiers had been stripped naked, and their bodies now lay bloating in the sun.

  There was an eerie quiet among the men as they moved, thunderstruck, across the battlefield.

  Jimmi Calhoun was found exactly where he should have been, in position behind his men, who were arrayed in proper skirmish formation.

  Tom Custer was lying on his face. Tom Custer was the most mutilated of all. He had been scalped, his skull had been crushed by war clubs, his body bristled with dozens of arrows, and his heart had been cut out. Keogh had not been mutilated, nor had his crucifix been taken.

  General Custer was found on the highest point of the field, sitting, not lying, between two dead soldiers, his arm resting on top of one of the corpses. Other than the fact that he had been stripped naked, Custer’s body was undisturbed.

  Custer’s command was dead—to the last man.

  “I’ve found all the officers, but one,” Weir said. “General Custer, Tom Custer, Keogh, Cooke, Calhoun, Reily, Crittenden, Smith, Porter, and Sturgis. Also young Boston Custer and Autie Reed.”

  “Who’s missing?” Reno asked.

  “Harrington. We haven’t found him.”

  “Keep looking, he has to be here somewhere.”

  “There are a few horses still alive,” Weir said. “But all are wounded.”

  “Shoot them,” Reno ordered.

  Weir relayed the orders to a couple of troopers, and they wandered around the battlefield, shooting the wounded horses. Then Falcon saw one of the horses wandering aimlessly around the battlefield. The horse was weak, his halter was hanging under his chin, and it was apparent he had been wounded several times.

  “Wait!” Falcon called out. “Isn’t that Comanche?”

  “Yes, it is,” Lieuteant Nowlan said. “Major, I ask you to spare Comanche.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Reno replied. “Why let the creature suffer?”

  “Let me look at him.”

  Nowlan was the field quartermaster and he and Falcon went over to examine the horse. The horse, recognizing them, began to nuzzle them.

  “Seven,” Nowlan said to Falcon. “He has seven bullet wounds, but none of them are fatal.”

  “Do you think he can survive?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes, I think he can.”

  “I think he can, too.”

  “I know I would certainly like to give him a chance,” Nowlan said.

  “Major Reno,” Falcon called. “Let us bring the horse back. I think he can survive.”

  “For what purpose, MacCallister?” Reno replied, a little irritated by the request. “It’s going to be all we can do to get the wounded troopers back. We have no time nor room for a horse.”

  “Major, think about it,” Nowlan said. “If we can save Comanche, he will be the living representative of what happened here.”

  “Bring the horse back,” General Terry said, speaking before Reno could answer.

  “Thank you, sir,” Nowlan said. He reached up and patted the horse on its face, then spoke soothingly into its ear. Comanche nodded his head, then followed Nowlan off the battlefield.

  “Get them buried, and draw a map so we know where they are,” General Terry ordered.

  As the burial detail went about its sad and grisly task, Falcon returned to the site of Reno’s Redoubt. There, he saw the men busily constructing litters for the wounded. Fifty-two men had been wounded in the two-day fight and there was but one doctor left alive to treat them. Dr. H.R. Porter was a civilian and Dr. De Wolf had remained with Reno’s battalion when Custer divided his command. Dr. De Wolf had been killed trying to climb the bank when the battalion retreated from its first position, leaving Porter alone to deal with the wounded.

  “We have quite a few miles to cover,” Reno said. “I think we should construct travois. It would be faster and easier than having to carry them.”

  “Have you ever ridden on a travois, Major?” Falcon asked.

  “No, I haven’t. But I have certainly seen the Indians use them.”

  “A travois
is fine if you are going over smooth, level ground,” Falcon explained. “But if you are traveling over rough and rocky ground, like the ground we passed over on the way to this point—it can be a very rough ride. And for a wounded man, it can be extremely painful.”

  “All right,” Reno said. “I see no need to subject these men to any further discomfort. We will use stretchers.”

  June 29, 1876

  Far Westat the mouth of the Little Bighorn

  After a long, slow, and difficult march, the remnants of the Seventh Cavalry, carrying their wounded on stretchers, finally reached the steamboat Far West. But because General Terry had sent a dispatch rider ahead, by the time they arrived, preparations were already under way to receive the wounded.

  Long grass had been pulled from the banks of the river and laid to a thickness of several inches on the deck of the boat. Heavy tarpaulins were spread over the grass to create one large mattress, and on that mattress, the wounded soldiers were carefully and gently laid in rows, leaving enough separation to allow Dr. Porter to move through them. Comanche was placed in the stern of the boat, and a couple of troopers were detailed to look after him.

  As preparations were being made to get under way, Major Reno and Captain Benteen asked Falcon to come to Reno’s tent. Reno had already established himself as the new commander, having marked his tent with the regimental flag. He had also reissued sabers, and both he and Benteen were wearing them when Falcon answered the summons.

  “Mr. MacCallister,” Reno began.

  It did not escape Falcon’s notice that Reno had called him mister, instead of colonel.

  “Captain Benteen and I have talked it over, and we think it would be better if you returned to Ft. Lincoln on the steamer.”

  “You are in command, Major,” Falcon replied. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Because Falcon had agreed so readily, no further explanation was necessary, but Reno felt that it was.

  “It’s just that—well, Custer always referred to you as a colonel, and while you are a lieutenant colonel in the Colorado Guard, you have no authority or military standing within the Seventh Cavalry,” Reno said.

  “Nor have I ever assumed as much,” Falcon replied.

  “I’m not saying you have,” Reno said. “But many of the men heard Custer referring to you as a colonel and they might not understand the nuances. We have been through a very difficult campaign. I cannot afford to have the troopers confused as to who is in command.”

  “What the major is saying is, he feels his authority would be threatened by your presence,” Benteen said. “If you are on the boat, that won’t be a problem.”

  “I understand,” Falcon said. “Of course, I will be more than pleased to return on the steamer.”

  “And perhaps you could do something else for me,” Benteen said. He took an envelope from his pocket. “In going through the mail, I found this letter from General Custer to Mrs. Custer. It is going to be very difficult for her to receive this letter after her husband is already dead. You know her—perhaps it would be easier for her to get it from you.”

  “Yes, I think it might be easier for her,” Falcon agreed. “That is very thoughtful of you, Captain.”

  “I think it is well known that I did not like Custer,” Benteen said. “But I hold no animosity toward his widow.”

  Falcon accepted the letter; then, with a nod toward the two officers, he left the headquarters tent to look up Lieutenant Varnum. He found Varnum overseeing the reshoe-ing of one of the horses.

  “I’m going back on the boat,” Falcon said.

  “I’m not surprised,” Varnum replied. “I overheard Reno and Benteen talking about it.” He chuckled. “I wish they felt as threatened by me. I wouldn’t mind an easy ride back on the boat.”

  June 30, 1876

  On board the Far West

  Dawn had just broken when Captain Grant Marsh gave the order to cast off the lines. Falcon overheard General Terry tell Marsh to use every skill at his command to make the trip back to Ft. Lincoln as fast as was humanly possible.

  The boat was draped in black, and the flag was at half-staff as Captain Grant Marsh blew the whistle and started downstream. With steam pressure at the maximum, he pushed the boat over growths of water willows, around sandbars, and through dangerous rapids for fifty-three miles to the mouth of the Bighorn, where it emptied into the Yellowstone.

  Late that afternoon, the boat reached the Yellowstone, where it had to lay over until late in the afternoon of July 3 in order to ferry Gibbon’s command over to the opposite bank of the river. By this time, fourteen of the wounded men had recovered enough to be able to leave the boat and finish the journey with Gibbon’s command.

  At five o’clock, the ferrying duty was completed, and Marsh gave orders to push away and start downriver.

  “Cap’n, seein’ as it’s soon goin’ to be dark and we’ll have to put in anyway, don’t you think we’d be about as well off waitin’ till mornin’ to start out?” Ben Thompson asked. Thompson was Marsh’s second in command.

  “We aren’t going to put in,” Marsh replied. “We’re going to run all through the night.”

  “Cap’n, we can’t do that. There sandbars, islands, and such, to say nothin’ of havin’ to follow the channel,” Thompson protested.

  “The moon will be full tonight,” Marsh replied. “It’ll be bright enough if we pay attention. We can do it. I mean, look at these poor men we’re taking back. We have to do it.”

  Captain Marsh and his other pilot, Dave Campbell, took turns at the wheel, working in four-hour shifts. Below, in the engine room, firemen disregarded fatigue and soreness as they fed wood until the boat was quivering with steam pressure that was high enough to keep the needle at the red mark in the gauge.

  The boat raced downriver at twenty miles per hour, its whistle echoing and reechoing off the cliffs that framed the river. Sometimes, the Far West would hit a snag, or some other object, with such force that Falcon would have to grab onto something to keep from being thrown down.

  At eleven o’clock on the night of July 4, the Far West tied down at the wharf in Bismark, within sight of Ft. Lincoln. It had made a journey of one thousand miles in just fifty-four hours.

  Falcon walked up to the wheelhouse where Marsh and Campbell were both sitting down on a cushioned bench.

  “Captain Marsh, Mr. Campbell,” Falcon said. “What the two of you have just done will go down in the history books to be remembered forever.” He pointed to the deck, where already arrangements were being made to take the men off the boat and get them to a hospital. “These men owe you their lives, and America owes you its respect.”

  Marsh sighed. “That’s all well and good, Falcon, but right now I would trade it all for a bunk and a pillow.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  June 25, 1927

  MacCallister, Colorado

  Falcon was quiet for a moment, letting the impact of his story sink in.

  “If I may,” Libbie said, “I would like to take up where you left off and finish the story.”

  “Yes, please do,” Zane Grey said.

  “As you remember, the day before had been Independence Day, and we had a gala celebration on the post. The band played patriotic songs, fireworks were set off, and we had a dance, which, as the commander’s wife, I attended, even though my heart was not in it, because as you know, I had the most terrible premonition throughout the entire time my dear husband was on the scout.

  “As Falcon said, the Far West docked at Bismark at eleven o’clock on the night of July fourth. At the time, I was blissfully unaware of the fact, but I know now that at two a.m. on July the fifth, Captain McCaskell, who was then in command of the post, called in Dr. Middleton, the post surgeon, and his executive officer, Lieutenant Gurley, to tell them the terrible news.”

  July 5, 1876

  Ft. Lincoln, Dakota Territory

  It was seven a.m. and Libbie, her sister-in-law Maggie, and her houseguest Lorena were havin
g breakfast when the maid told Libbie there was someone in the living room wanting to speak to her.

  “Goodness,” Libbie said, picking up the napkin and dabbing at her lips. “Who wants to talk to me at this hour?”

  “No doubt some soldier’s wife with a problem that she thinks only you can solve,” Maggie said.

  “Don’t be that way, dear,” Libbie said. “We are all in the same boat out here. Especially now.”

  “You’re right,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry.”

  Libbie smiled. “No need to apologize. I know you didn’t mean anything hateful.”

  The smile was still on Libbie’s lips as she stepped into the living room, but when she saw Captain McCaskell, Lieutenant Gurley, and Dr. Middleton, all standing together, the smile disappeared.

  Libbie took a gasping breath and put her hand to her heart. She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat.

  “Mrs. Custer,” Captain McCaskell said. He cleared his throat and started again. “Mrs. Custer, I—uh—am sorry to have to tell you this.”

  “Oh,” Libbie said, her face now twisting into an expression of horror. She put her hand over her mouth.

  “Libbie, what is it?” Maggie said, coming into the living room then.

  Libbie reached out and took Maggie by the hand, squeezing it tightly.

  “Please, Captain,” Libbie said. “Go on.”

  “I have a dispatch that I received from General Terry last night. It might be best if I just read the report.Clearing his throat again, he began to read.*

  “It is my painful duty to report that on the 25th of June, a great disaster overtook General Custer and the troops under his command. At 12 o’clock of the 22nd he started with his whole regiment and a strong detachment of scouts and guides from the mouth of the Rosebud; proceeding up that river about twenty miles, he struck a very heavy Indian trail, which had previously been discovered, and pursuing it, found that it led, as it was supposed that it would lead, to the Little Bighorn River. Here he found a village of almost unlimited extent, and at once attacked it with that portion of his command which was immediately at hand. Major Reno, with three companies, A, G, and M, of the regiment, was sent into the valley of the stream at the point where the trail struck it. General Custer, with five companies, C, E, F, I, and L, attempted to enter about three miles lower down. Reno forded the river, charged down its left bank, and fought on foot until finally, completely overwhelmed by numbers, he was compelled to mount and recross the river and seek a refuge on the high bluffs which overlook its right bank. Just as he recrossed, Captain Benteen, who, with three companies, D, H, and K, was some two (2) miles to the left of Reno when the action commenced, but who had been ordered by General Custer to return, came to the river, and rightly concluding that it was useless for his force to attempt to renew the fight in the valley, he joined Reno on the bluffs. Captain McDougall with his company (B) was at first some distance in the rear with a train of pack mules. He also came up to Reno. Soon this united force was nearly surrounded by Indians, many of whom, armed with rifles, occupied positions which commanded the ground held by the cavalry, ground from which there was no escape. Rifle pits were dug, and the fight was maintained, though with heavy loss, from about half past 2 o’clock of the 25th till 6 o’clock of the 26th, when the Indians withdrew from the valley, taking with them their village. Of the movements of General Custer and the five companies under his immediate command, scarcely anything is known from those who witnessed them; for—”