Tom grabbed one cowering bugler hiding behind a horse carcass to blow his horn. Then Custer yanked the other trumpeter to his feet as well.
“Blow ‘Assembly’!” Tom ordered flatly. “Then try ‘Officers’ Call.’ Just keep blowing till I tell you to stop! Blow, goddammit—blow!”
CHAPTER 23
IN a seeping gash along his cheek, the raw wound ached and pinched like puckered rawhide drying under this blazing sun.
Mitch Bouyer had been clipped by a bullet or fragment of one ricocheting off some rock down below him on the long slope to the river. Funny, but the cheek hurt one hell of a lot more than the bullet hole low in his belly.
It’s just a little pain, he told himself. Hurts only when I try to run.
Bouyer laughed wildly, wickedly at that. Only when I try to run! That’s funny for a man to think of—now—isn’t it?
There couldn’t be any running. Not for most of them anyway. But he looked over at Curley and young White-Man-Runs-Him. They were both related to Mitch’s Crow wife. One was her younger brother, the other a cousin or something such.
Perhaps these two boys can make it out … spread the word of what happened in this place.
Calhoun had had it. That much was plain to see from where Bouyer sat. The last few soldiers still up there at the end of this pony-back ridge where Calhoun’s big fight had started were going down, one at a time like canvasback ducks on a high-plains pond diving for their lunch.
Except, Mitch realized, these ducks weren’t coming back up for air … they weren’t coming up at all.
Bouyer knew that wild-man Keogh would just have to hold the screeching Sioux off from the ridge when the warriors came swarming over Calhoun’s position. That was the reality of it all. And that’s when Bouyer knew he had to send the two boys off before they were vulture bait with the rest of Custer’s soldiers.
In Absaroka, Bouyer shouted over his shoulder to get the youngest’s attention—Curley.
Obediently the youth crawled up to sit beside Bouyer as the interpreter casually fired shot after shot with a dead soldier’s carbine, and when it jammed, he crawled off in search of another. The soldiers he took the rifles from weren’t going to be using their Springfields any longer—and besides, their stiffening, stinking bodies served as a shield for him while he fired back at the advancing warriors.
Smack, smack. The dull, wet thud of lead slamming into the lifeless white-soldier flesh—
“Curley,” Mitch coughed, clearing his throat of the dust that threatened to choke him, “this fight does not go well for us.” His Crow was spoken flat and hard, traveling with the speed of a carbine bullet itself. “The soldiers have lost this fight. We have lost this fight too, little brother.”
Bouyer glared right into the young Crow’s eyes. Curley did not flinch. He stared at the aging half-breed Sioux who was saying in his own way they all would be dead soon enough. Mitch, the old scout, his sister’s husband. Curley dipped his fingers in the puddle of blood pooling beneath the half-breed’s leg.
“My belly,” Bouyer explained with a solid gulp of pain he swallowed down like it was some cod-liver oil to be taken, suffered, then gotten over. “That’s why I can’t come with you, my friend, my brother.”
Mitch placed a powder-grimed hand on Curley’s shoulder. “If you can get out of here, do it now. Do it quick. Get out of here before the Sioux have us fully surrounded. Go to the other soldiers up north. On the Bighorn. They are coming down the Bighorn to meet us in a few days. Go to No Hip Gibbon—tell him all of us are killed here.”
“You can go with me,” the young Crow begged with his eyes as well as his words. “I will carry you out of here. For my sister …”
“No!”
Bouyer clamped a dirty hand over the young man’s mouth. “I will not go. This is where I am to die, don’t you see? Old Man Above has brought me here—showing me this is where I am to die. I had many chances to leave Custer, but I came here with him. I can’t go and leave the rest of these men by themselves now. Their souls will remain here. Mine too, Curley. My soul must find its place here, or it will forever wander. You know that.”
“Yes, brother.” Curley nodded, choking on the emotion. “When a man is shown his place to die by the spirits, he must stay there and wait for death.”
Suddenly Mitch crimped with a spasm of pain at the gut wound, and more blood oozed from his mouth, dribbling into his barbed-wire whiskers. Curley lunged forward to help him as Bouyer toppled over to his side. The old scout pushed the youngster away. Always had been a tough little bantam rooster. Even ready to take General Custer on a time or two. And now the half-breed would go out on his own, with no help from any man.
Struggling to his knees, Mitch wrenched himself up and raised the carbine to his shoulder, teeth gritted against the hurt of it all. After he had fired two more shots at some Sioux down in a thicket of sage who were inching a mite too close for his comfort, Bouyer gazed into Curley’s eyes one last time.
“That man over there …”He pointed at the top of the hill where Custer sat propped up against the body of a dead horse, officers kneeling all round him as a horse was brought up for brother Tom. Custer was lifted, slung over the horse in preparation for some movement along the ridge.
Probably running north, Bouyer brooded darkly, cursing Custer.
“That man Custer will stop at nothing. We warned him. But he has no ears to hear his scouts. We came to help him. No Hip saw to that. But this Peoushi does not want our help. Instead, he wanted only to attack the villages, the biggest damned camp any of us have ever seen on the face of the Great Mother. And now those villages spread at our feet will be the last thing any of us sees in this life.”
His dark eyes studied the pained expression on Curley’s face. “Except your eyes, little brother! Go now while you can escape,” Bouyer ordered. “Go! Tell the world what happened at this place.”
Without a word of reply, nothing more than a grave, watery look in his eye to betray his unspoken love for this Mitch Bouyer, Curley leaned over and hugged the aging half-breed. With that embrace he turned to leave his brother-in-law.
In all the maddening, swirling confusion, Curley’s pony had been driven off by some Cheyenne scaring away the horses from Calhoun’s position. As the young scout twisted and turned, wondering how to flee without his pony, a Cheyenne warrior began a ride up the hill toward the troops breaking loose from the end of Calhoun’s hill. A sudden volley of carbine fire from the hilltop blew that young warrior into glory.
Curley was on his feet before the Cheyenne even smacked the ground.
Dashing through tall grass and around silver sage, the young Crow scout raced down the slope after that riderless Cheyenne pony. Bullets kicked up spouts of dirt near his heels. Arrows hissed past his bear-greased pompadour. With one desperate lupge Curley grabbed for the end of the rawhide lariat looped round the mustang’s neck and held on for all he was worth, jerking the animal around, stopping it from running off.
Curley lay in the tall grass, catching his breath. Just moments ago he had discarded his dirty carbine because it had jammed. Tearing the army cartridge belt from his waist, Curley belly-crawled back uphill toward the dead Cheyenne, poking his head up every now and then from the sage to check his bearings.
Making it to the crumpled warrior’s body, Curley took the old Winchester ’73 and the Cheyenne’s half-empty belt of cartridges. Better this than nothing, and those cavalry carbines were as close to nothing as a man could get.
He pulled in the rawhide lariat tied to the pony until the animal grazed almost directly above him. Lucky that the Sioux could not pick him out through the dust and smoke … probably thinking the pony was merely grazing on the field of battle.
Curley glanced to the south and east. Unless he moved now, the end of the ridge would be surrounded. Hundreds upon hundreds swept up the Medicine Tail like maddened ants. He had to go now!
With one swift, smooth leap, the young Crow scout sailed onto the an
imal’s back from the tall grass. He twisted the rawhide rein round one hand, urging the animal up and over the spine of the ridge while Cheyenne warriors howled in anger and utter dismay at the Sparrowhawk’s escape aboard one of their own ponies.
“White-Man-Runs-Him!” Bouyer shouted in Crow as many soldiers turned to watch Curley gallop over the top of Calhoun’s hill, through the soldiers and warriors and into the valley beyond.
“It is your turn, White-Man. Take one of the army horses that looks fresh enough to run. You have done all that you said you would do when No Hip hired you. I will tell your people in the land beyond how brave you are, but you must go back to the pack train now. Save yourself to tell this story. We are all dead men now.”
White-Man nodded, a trace of confusion on his young face. He began to rise and dart away but was back in the next instant, grabbing Bouyer’s collar, dragging him uphill toward the soldiers preparing to retreat north along the ridge.
“No!” Mitch barked, twisting painfully against the bullet hole gaping in his gut, a bubble of intestine protruding, puffy and purple. “I am done for. I go now to meet my people. Leave me to die here on this spot!”
Gently, almost as if Bouyer were a baby, White-Man lowered the half-breed Sioux down among the tall grass and touched Bouyer’s hand where it lay drenched in blood oozing from the belly wound.
“Your people are my people now, Uncle,” he told Bouyer. “I will see you again one day, in a valley not far from here. Remember this now, the journey you go on will not take long. The trail is easier than any trail you have ridden before. All your friends are there. Mother and father too. I will see you in that valley one day, brave one.”
Then White-Man was darting uphill in a rooster crouch, heading for some horses held together by a grim bunch of recruits hunkered near Tom Custer’s command. From what Bouyer could see over his shoulder through the swirling dust, the Crow scout fast-talked one of the recruits out of a horse and leapt aboard just as George Yates hollered out a warning.
Tom Custer whirled, yanking up his service revolver. Down the end of the muzzle he aimed at the scout’s broad back but never pulled the trigger as the rider disappeared into the smoke and dust, galloping east as fast as the army horse could carry him.
Tom slowly stuffed the pistol in its holster before he dashed back to his brother’s side.
Those high, clear notes sailing on the dry air, like cottonwood down lifting over the ridge and the villages below, brought most of the warriors to a staggering halt for a few precious moments.
Soldier trumpets!
Their murderous fire slackened … shrieking cries died off.
Even some of the army horses near that hilltop acted as if they recalled something in their past, some tatter of memory stirred on this dusty slope by those brass horns.
From behind the trees and clumps of grass the old men, women, and young boys peeked to see just what was taking place with the pony soldiers up the hill.
Surely, this blowing of the shiny horns must be some powerful magic these soldiers are performing.
“This is no medicine!” Cheyenne warrior Old-Man-Coyote screamed bitterly. “We sing out our battle songs, the soldiers do the same with their death songs now! We have them beaten, brothers. They are singing in death. Join me now! Come spill their blood this fine day!”
First a handful, then a wave of Cheyenne and Sioux swept up Calhoun’s hill behind Old-Man-Coyote.
Raggedly, grimly, the soldiers fired back. Not in volleys this time. Independent. More frantic now as the enemy tide swept upward.
The big horses reared. More broke free of men scrambling into the stirrups.
All of them headed for the river below.
Calhoun’s troopers held—staying behind as the others scattered along the ridge, running north.
L Company laid down a destructive fire into the charging warriors, doing the best they could with the men they had left. Careful aim from a kneeling position—then plopping down behind the tall grass to reload and perhaps to struggle with the carbine’s shell ejector. The shells they kept inside the leather pouches or on the cartridge belts were coated with a sticky verdigris that acted like a cement inside the superheated chamber of the Springfield carbines. Sometimes all the ejector did was to rip off the base of the shell from its tubing, leaving the soldier with a useless, army-issue club. Silently they fought a knife into the jammed breech beneath the trapdoor, in utter frustration breaking off the tips of knife blades.
Cursing as the Sioux worked their way closer up L Company’s hill … ever closer.
The old ones hit a warrior near every time. Yet more came on—more still on painted, wide-eyed ponies looming out of the blue powder smoke and yellow dust like demons in a ghost charge. Some even rode the big army horses now instead of their Indian ponies. Better to lose a soldier horse to the soldiers’ bullets than a prize war pony or buffalo runner. Most of these daring warriors wore the bloody blue tunics or gray shirts of Reno’s dead.
A warrior wearing a tunic or blouse and riding an army horse found he could gallop that much closer to the hilltop positions before he was discovered and shot at. Slowly, inexorably—the warriors tightened the noose.
The bugle calls ended. More troopers darted like wild men along the ridge, following the general’s body, following Tom Custer.
A retreat? No, the Sioux and Cheyenne watched these men running for their lives … running to steal a few more precious minutes of life.
A handful of those staying behind fired their carbines with one arm from the hip as they dragged wounded friends up the hillside until they reached the top, where Calhoun stood like a steadfast oak, bellowing orders all round, shouting encouragement.
He could afford to be courageous now, Jim Calhoun could.
Most of the men were throwing aside their useless Springfields and grabbing others, or pulling out their revolvers. The Indians inched close enough for pistol work now. Almost close enough for hand-to-hand—close enough that a man could hit them with chaw spit if his mouth hadn’t gone dry.
Those wounded and dragged uphill cried out as they bounced over sage, yanked toward the spot where Calhoun’s L Company remained behind to cover Custer’s retreat down the ridge.
“Just hold ’em back, goddammit!” Calhoun hollered, his eyes straining to catch a glimpse of where his brother Fred had disappeared in the dust. “We’ve gotta hold the bastards off and buy our boys some time—goddamn sonuvabitch!”
Calhoun watched the corporal’s brains splatter across the front of his checkered shirt but did not stop to wipe off the blood and gore. Jim sensed himself growing more numb with every click of the hammer on his pistol. Around him drew the last shreds of his gallant command. Crittenden was nowhere to be found.
Probably one of the many bodies I had to leave down the slope, he brooded, slamming cartridges into the cylinder. Sergeants Mullen and Bender and Cashan—all gone now.
Their bloodied bodies littered the thirsty soil just outside a ring of horses atop the knoll. Three veterans who had gone out to drag others to safety sacrificed their own lives in the process.
Try as he might, Calhoun couldn’t locate Sergeant Findeisen through the smoke and dust that lent the hilltop an opaque, daguerreotype look. Nowhere in the blur could he see chevrons.
Doesn’t matter much anyway. Calhoun already knew who he was going to choose for the ride. First Sergeant James …
“Butler!” Calhoun bellowed like a castrated calf, his left arm aching horribly where a bullet had raked a furrow along the elbow. Blood dripped off the hand. The arm hung useless now, swinging like a beef quarter, raw meat suspended lifeless from his big shoulder.
“Sir?” Butler crawled on his knees and hands, crabbing up. His leathery face was smudged with burnt powder and other men’s blood.
“You’re the last one left,” Jim hissed breathlessly above the noise.
“Last, sir? Sergeants—oh … yes, sir. I’ll rally the squads, sir.”
�
��Shuddup and listen to me, Butler!” Calhoun said it more softly than he had expected. “A horse—not hit yet. Find one. Make the ride out of here. Save yourself if you can do it. I’ll give you what cover fire I can. Ride south—off that way—yonder to find Benteen … the pack train. Just—get—somebody.”
“Ride, Lieutenant?”
“Ride, Butler! Goddammit—like you never have before!”
“Yesssssir!”
Butler appeared to come alive of a sudden, slapping a salute against his bloody, hatless brow and wheeling to find a mount. When he had one of the sorrels captured, he stuffed two extra pistols in his belt. Leaping atop the bloody McClellan saddle, the sergeant found the stirrups cinched much too short. A small man. Maybe one of the boys. But no matter.
He spurred back to Calhoun.
“Lieutenant—I’ll bring ’em back, sir!” Butler shouted above the ear-splitting noise of battle and men dying.
Butler nearly brought the weary horse over on one haunch, yanking hard on the reins and kicking savagely at the animal’s flanks. Probably figuring there was one last, mad dash left in the horse and nothing more. Tufts of yellow dust erupted from its flying hooves as Sergeant Butler sped away, butt in the air, head down along the animal’s lathered neck. Like a jockey, reins clutched inches from the bit.
Off the spine of grassy ridge, right down into Two Eagle’s Sans Arc warriors he rode, surprising hell out of the Sioux with his crazy courage.
Calhoun fought back the stinging tears of frustration and grief. Perhaps saddest that he would never again hold his dear Maggie.
Sweet, sweet Maggie Custer. Funny, he thought, swiping the hot sting from his eyes, funny that I still think of her as a Custer and not a Calhoun. But—that woman will always be a Custer. She might’ve taken my name to wear for all the world to see, but beneath Maggie’s freckles she remains a Custer through and through.
He had lived for her, Jimmy Calhoun had. And now, he would die for her. For her brothers. For the general.
Jim just hoped Butler would be in time to save Keogh, Smith and the others up there … strung out along the ridge like dry beans scattered across his mother’s floor back home.
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