“Bouyer …” Custer held up the lantern so the Crow interpreter better saw his face. “I intend to follow that trail straight into hell if I have to. Now, you just ask these boys here about that trail, will you? You ask them if all these other trails that they claimed to see, show the Sioux to be splitting up now that they’ve whipped some white soldiers—or are those trails coming together?”
After conferring with the Crows and getting his answer from young Curley, Mitch turned back to Custer. “The trails are coming together. The Sioux gather on the Greasy Grass.”
Custer clapped his hands and leapt into a quick jig. “By Jehoshaphat! That’s the news I want!”
Bouyer wagged his head. “I don’t think there’s enough time left for me to begin understanding you, Custer. Here you ought to be worrying about all those trails coming together—I mean worrying. Instead you—”
“The only thing that would worry me now, Bouyer,” Custer interrupted the half-breed with a snarl, “is if those trails break apart. That’d mean the village I seek is splitting up. And if the village did that, we couldn’t find the Sioux. At the very least we’d have to chase after them. No, Mr. Bouyer.” He snapped his back rigid and slung the lantern toward striker Burkman. “I’m overjoyed to hear the Sioux are gathering. My prayer is that they not find out about our coming. I pray I find them sitting in their camp on the Greasy Grass when I come riding up at a gallop to do what a soldier does best.”
“What’s that, General Custer?” Bouyer squinted, measuring the soldier-chief in the pale, fluted candlelight, dim starshine splaying down from the dark summer, canopy overhead.
“Why, Mr. Bouyer—a soldier’s job is to find the Indians and capture them.”
“Suppose they don’t want to be captured. What then?”
“I suppose we’ll have to do that other part of a soldier’s job. And that’s kill the ones who resist.”
Without a single word of reply, the half-breed signaled for his scouts to rise and follow him. The seven were suddenly gone from the corona of firelight, drifting away on noiseless moccasins like the summer breezes that nudged their way along the high bluff.
CHAPTER 13
So it was, the mighty Lakota came together for the great buffalo hunt and a celebration of the old life as the great chief Bull had promised.
Lame Deer’s Miniconjou were some of the first to join up. Later the Blackfeet Sioux and the Sans Arc. On and on they came, adding their camp circles and pony herds to that great procession streaming across the plains until they reached the cool waters of the Rosebud, where they would hunt the buffalo in the old way, as in the long-ago days of their fathers’ grandfathers.
At long last summer hung like a whispered benediction over the vast sea of hills and creeks and red people. Moon When Chokecherries Grow Ripe for the Sioux. Moon of Fat Horses for the Cheyenne. June to the white man.
And one more time for the people to offer themselves up to the Great Mystery in thanksgiving.
Along the bubbling snow-melt waters of Rosebud Creek, the Sioux raised their circular arbor of some two hundred feet in circumference, its poles standing better than twenty feet high in supporting the roof beams in their crotches. In prayerful celebration the combined tribes dropped the monstrous center pole in the ground so that it stood more than fifty feet high, reaching in prayer for the sun. Around the pole’s base lay a pile of painted buffalo skulls, their eye sockets open and staring, giving praise to the sun—as would those dancers who came in sacrifice to this place of honor.
Long, long ago … far back into any old man’s memory, the Medicine Lodge of the Sioux was believed to have originated from the ancient Cheyenne people, when the Shahiyena first pushed out of the forests and onto the plains. A ceremony held only when all the bands came together for the celebration of life granted them through the Great Mystery.
A warrior noted for his superior courage in battle and his great generosity to those less fortunate than he would be given the single honor of selecting one of the four trees to stand in each of the four cardinal corners of the Medicine Lodge. After each of the four warriors had chosen his tree, he would strike it with his coup stick four times to signify the killing of an enemy for the mighty Wakan Tanka. Then other warriors chopped the trees down, trimming their branches, assisted all the time by a group of young virgin women.
After the four trees had been dragged back to the Rosebud camp, each was painted with its significant color: green for the east, where the sun arose each new day bringing life; yellow for the south, whence comes the land of summer each year; red for the west, where the sun hurries to bed each night; and blue for the northlands of the Winter Man and his brutal cold.
Beneath this huge arbor the tribes would give thanks, offer their flesh, sacrifice their blood as the sun was reborn again and again and again during the long summer days of dancing. Around and around that monstrous center pole with its ring of death-eyed buffalo skulls, each painted red with blue stripes or yellow circles, the young men would dance, praying for a vision and giving their thanks for another year of abundant life. A life lived in the old way on the lands of the ones gone before.
For each young man offering himself to the sun, the ordeal began by stripping to his breechclout and painting himself with his most powerful symbols. Only then could he present himself to the medicine men for the season’s sacred ceremony.
As he lay in the Sun Dance arbor, the young warrior would have his chest gashed open above each nipple. After the medicine man dug his fingers beneath the pectoral muscles and the blood flowed freely, the shaman would shove a short stick of peeled willow through the wound and beneath that muscle. These small sticks would then be attached to the long rawhide tethers already lashed to the top of that tall pole erected in the center of the Sun Lodge.
Gradually the ropes would be drawn up and tightened until the dancer was forced to stand on his toes, eventually drawing the bleeding, torn muscles of his chest out five inches or more. Between his grim lips would then be placed an eagle wing-bone whistle he would blow upon to draw the attention of the spirits to his prayers.
One after another in that hushed and prayerful sanctuary of the sun, the dancers rose to their feet and began to pull at the rawhide tethers binding them to the center pole they slowly circled, driven by the rhythm of the incessant drums. One after another the warriors joined in that grim, bittersweet dance around that pole, accompanied by the throbbing chant of the spectators and the high, eerie shriek of those bone whistles. With the power of the eagle at his lips, each young warrior raised his private call to the heavens above.
Here they would dance for hour upon hour, staring into the sun as it made its slow, fiery track across the sky. Praise be to the life-giver to all things.
On the afternoon of that second day of dancing and offering, Sitting Bull surprised everyone gathered at the arbor by presenting himself for this mystic ritual of denial and sacrifice. Never before had he taken part in the Sun Dance. While Crazy Horse himself had never participated either, the decision to dance beneath the sun was considered a highly personal matter by the Sioux, and no man was ever criticized for not joining in the sacrifice of his flesh.
But today The Bull stripped naked and stretched himself upon the ground with his back to the center pole as the drums and the singing and high-pitched whistles droned on hypnotically.
His adopted brother tore at Bull’s flesh, in every move as exact as were the great visionary’s instructions. He was to use only a bone awl and a stone knife. No metal implement of the white man must touch his body. And with those tools of old, The Bull directed his brother to take fifty bits of flesh from each arm, beginning at the wrist and climbing to the curve of the shoulder; those hundred bits of flesh were to be placed solemnly round the base of the center pole on the painted buffalo skulls circled in offering to the sun and the greatest of all mysteries … life for the red man himself.
While most of the young dancers eventually struggled against their rawhide
tethers so they might end their agonizing torture and self-mutilation—and escape the pain—The Bull instead danced on and on.
For the rest of that day and into the night. Then a second sun rose and fell, stealing its light from the face of the great Sioux mystic. After another night and spectacular sunrise, The Bull danced on with a strength that no man would know unless he himself had been touched by the greatest of all mysteries.
Blood trickling down his arms and off his barrel chest, Sitting Bull continued to send his prayers heavenward.
“May the People live as they once did, Great One! May the white man let us be!”
Yes, he danced for guidance in leading his people in the old ways. Yes, he danced to plead for wisdom in stopping the white man’s further encroachment on the old lands.
So it was on that morning of the third day that at last he fainted from hunger and thirst and utter fatigue. Sitting Bull crumpled to the hard-packed earth at his feet, ripping the willow sticks from his torn flesh.
As he lay there beneath the arbor of the sun, The Bull finally received his sacred vision.
Hundreds upon hundreds of enemy soldiers falling into the Sioux camp, headfirst to signify their death before the Lakota people.
And with this mysterious event came the voice of the sun itself ringing in Bull’s ears, telling him:
“These I give you … because they have no ears to hear they are wrong.”
Hours later when Sitting Bull had revived, returning from the land of spirits to tell others of that dream’s great portent, the story was pictured on the smooth sand of a sweat lodge. Crude pictographs showing soldiers careening head down into the Hunkpapa camp. Now the Sioux came to know Sitting Bull had long been right. There was to be one last great fight against the white man. Through the power of the Great Mystery, it was told they would defeat the soldiers who marched against them.
So great was the renewed celebration for this coming fight that inside another sweat lodge three round stones were painted red and set in a row to signify a great victory in war.
Likewise a large cairn of rocks gathered up from the banks of the Rosebud was constructed with the skull of a buffalo bull on one side and the skull of a buffalo cow on the other. The bull was painted red, the color of war, and there was an arrow left pointing at the cow to show all who passed this place that Sioux warriors would fall upon the soldiers like mighty bulls while the white men would run like frightened cows.
And the final offering was placed just outside the Sun Dance arbor itself: four upright and painted stakes upon which this summer’s medicine men stretched a buffalo calfskin that had been tied with strips of bright trade cloth and hung with large beads … all to show that the Sioux understood the Great Powers were granting them a momentous victory over the white man. Even more so this primitive offering boasted that if the white man did not come to hunt the Sioux, the great Lakota nations would themselves hunt down the soldiers and destroy them.
The awesome power of one man’s prophetic vision surged through the veins of all, pumping them full with the fire of fight and courage. Sitting Bull had electrified his people and made them one against that white tide seeking to sweep over their ancient lands.
Their time had come.
There would be no other.
After learning the Crows had discovered the hostiles’ trail leading over the divide, Custer ordered an officers’ meeting, dispatching Cooke to announce the assembly without the use of bugles.
“The general’s compliments,” Cooke said breathlessly as he loped up to a group of friends near Godfrey’s Company K. “He wants to see all officers at headquarters immediately.”
Some of those Cooke rousted had just eased back on their bedrolls to get a fix on some sleep without dreams of their tired, sore asses plastered to sweat-dampened saddles. Others had just dipped their nightly tobacco quid in snuff or trader’s whiskey or even sweet fruit brandy. Still others wanted only to settle back to watch the fireflies or the stars swirling overhead like a slow, blazing pinwheel; they were content to listen to the gurgle of the Rosebud and that growing silence of the Montana prairie.
No moon yet. Still too early this time of the year. So without even that sliver of light overhead to guide their way, Custer’s officers groped their way through the snoring troops and picketed horses, doggedly stumbling upstream toward the general’s bivouac.
“You know, there’s one characteristic I’ll long remember as something that is truly Custer,” Ed Godfrey explained to lieutenants Wallace and DeRudio as the trio crept along the meadow. “His restless energy is back. Pushing, pushing—forever driving without stop. In a way it’s good to have the old man back again.”
“Have him back again?” DeRudio replied with his Italian inflection. The subtleties of the English language continued to elude him.
“Yes, have the old Custer back with us. Seems ever since we hit the Powder, even more since we crossed the Tongue and ran into those burial scaffolds, the old man got more and more distant. Quiet, withdrawn. Not his old self.”
“Tell you the truth, Ed,” Wallace said, “I don’t know which Custer I like best—even if I had a choice!”
“As for me, it’s a blessing to see that restless abandon surging through him once more. Why, after finding that Sun Dance Lodge today and all the rest, I got to thinking hard on it. The general’s mind is right on course after all—straight and true. And that’s just the way Custer’s been able to get things done down through the years, fellas. He keeps his mind focused on one thing, and one thing only.”
“So? You going to tell us what Custer’s got his mind on?”
“He’s not thinking of another damned thing but finding and crushing those Sioux.”
“Still,” Wallace sighed, “something about the way he’s acting keeps nagging at me.…”
“You still haunted—still believe he’s going to be killed?”
“Now more than ever, Ed. The man’s got death written on his face, dripping from his every word.”
Ed stopped, grabbing hold of Wallace’s arm and hauling him up short. He whispered harshly, “Mind what I say, for your own good. Just don’t let any one of his inner circle hear you say anything like that. You best keep that kind of talk quiet.”
At that point they recognized the booming voice of Myles Keogh mixing with the high, contagious laughter of Tom Custer. Rounding the next clump of bullberry, Godfrey spotted a solitary candle lantern and the hulking shadows of officers gathering for Custer’s meeting.
“From all that the scouts have told me,” the general began, pacing before the assembly, “the Sioux are gathering in the valley on the other side of these mountains above us. We’re almost there, by jiggers!”
Godfrey saw how worked up Custer was, perhaps more so than at any time since leaving the Yellowstone.
“Fellas, what I’ve come up with is that we’re going to march as far as we can this evening, pushing up as close to the crest of that divide as possible. I want to find out where that Indian camp is … determine its size and strength. Only then can I formulate a plan of attack. While I work that out, the regiment will conceal itself for the next day and night. Then attack at dawn on the twenty-sixth and catch the Sioux between us and Gibbon’s forces when they run.”
Custer slapped his hands together, rubbing them. “We’ve got to hope Terry and Gibbon got off as planned, boys. If not, that’ll put our attack for the twenty-sixth in a totally different light. If the Sioux try to flee north, and Gibbon’s not yet in position …”
As Custer’s voice dropped off in contemplation, Captain Myles Moylan stepped forward into the soft candlelight.
“General, what did the Crows tell you about the strength of the village? How strong is it?”
He turned to his former adjutant. Moylan was not all that popular among his fellows, something that had to do with the man’s Civil War record and a reenlistment under an assumed name. But Custer had taken Myles under his own wing at the beginning, when the Seve
nth Cavalry was formed, recognizing that Moylan had the makings of a good officer. The dark-haired Irishman never once let Custer down during that long winter campaign in Indian Territory.
“Myles, the Crow confirm we might meet fifteen hundred warriors at most. Seems they’ve found evidence of about four hundred lodges now. In their count they’re including the young warriors bedding down in wickiups. All that’s on the fresh trail heading over the divide.”
“So, boys!” Tom Custer leaned forward. “Are we gonna whip ’em?”
“Not a question of whipping ’em, little brother,” Custer chuckled in that bray of his. “Merely a question of keeping them from running on me before we can attack. Now remember what we’ll do—go over the divide and reconnoiter tomorrow, laying the regiment in wait until dawn of the twenty-sixth. Then we can hammer these Sioux for brother Tom here!”
“Goddamn right!” Tom cried. “Hammer Sitting Bull and finally head back to that wonderful summer holiday-land called Fort Abraham Lincoln!”
Godfrey had to laugh. He always laughed at Tom Custer’s humor down through the years. There was much to admire about the general’s younger brother. Always the joker. Charming and witty, forever having his way with the ladies. The life of any party, or any campaign into hostile territory.
“We won’t go back until we’ve told the world about our victory,” Custer added quickly. “Not until the world knows we’ve defeated the mighty Sioux of Sitting Bull!”
“Are we going to get close enough to the buggers that they won’t be able to run on us?” Keogh growled darkly. “I’m ready for a good, dirty scrap of it, myself—so I don’t want none of ’em scooting out on me!”
“Precisely what we’re going to make sure of, Myles,” Custer answered. “The Crows speak of a high spot on the mountains up ahead, some sort of rocky prominence that will allow a man to view the whole valley of the Little Horn. From there they tell me we can see the rising of smoke up and down the entire valley. And that smoke will confirm the location of the Sioux village.”
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