It was late June, but it was still cool at night here in the northern territory of Montana. Bouyer had reached the Seventh Cavalry two days ago much farther up the Rosebud, not far from where it ran into the Yellowstone. He found it interesting that no word of what had happened to Crook had yet made it to this column.
Remembering Bouyer from Washita, Custer had been eager to sign him up, not as a hunter this time, but as a scout. Custer had pressed Bouyer for word of what was happening to the south. Bouyer had answered honestly-the last he had seen of Crook’s column was that it was camped along the Rosebud.
The silhouette of a man wearing a cavalry forage cap walked by him, standing out against the stars. Bouyer recognized the C Company first sergeant.
“What’s going on?” Bouyer asked, getting to his feet. He estimated it to be about three in the morning. He had spent the previous day and into the evening scouting ahead and had reed back, made his report to Custer, then tried to get some sleep while other scouts moved forward to take his place.
He noted that there were some fires, which was a change. They were traveling hard and they were traveling fast. Custer wanted to catch the Indians before the other columns, everyone in the regiment knew that. It affected each man differently according to his own wants. For many it brought thoughts of medals and glowing newspaper reports. For most of the enlisted men it meant an end to the hard riding through empty grasslands and a return to post.
“Lieutenant Varnum and some of the scouts are going to some place called the Crow’s Nest to take a look-see,” the first sergeant said. “The general’s been riding about camp.
“Other scouts just came in,” the first sergeant continued. The man spit a wad of tobacco juice. ‘’Not good. Then red-faced fellows-” the sergeant paused as he remembered who he was talking to—“meaning no disrespect, say there’s Sioux, all around and we might have been spotted.”
It never ceased to amaze Bouyer how word of every little thing could spread so quickly through the regiment. Often the thing could spread so quickly through the regiment. Often the word.
Bouyer looked up at the hills where Varnum would be going to take a look. He could just make out their dark masses against the night sky. The Crow’s Nest. He’d been there be. When hunting with Bridger. It was a good place to look far.
Bouyer knew Custer wasn’t going to be happy about perhaps being spotted. The plan Custer had sketched out for the officers the previous evening had called for a day of rest for he tired men and horses after crossing the divide before the regiment thrust down into the Little Big Horn valley where the scouts said the Sioux were camped.
“Where’s the captain?” Bouyer asked. Tom Custer, the younger brother of the regimental commander and winner of two Medals of Honor during the Civil War, was the C Troop commander.
“He’s with the general.”
Bouyer had learned much about the Seventh Cavalry in the past two days. There were twelve troops or companies in the Seventh Cavalry, lettered A through M. Under strength, with just fifty to sixty men in each. The regiment’s current role call was about 675 men, and most of those men were spread out over the rocky ground trying to get some much-needed sleep.
Bouyer was used to being in the saddle. But even his body felt the ache of the last several days’ ride. God help the poor recruits, he thought. He knew that wasn’t exactly one of Custer’s concerns, but it was for some of the junior officers who spent more time among the men. The Seventh was made up of almost forty percent recruits who had received only minimal training in the basic skills of the cavalry, particularly riding and shooting. There had been no time during the forced march they’d endured the last several weeks for any additional training to be conducted. If trouble came-and Bouyer knew it would from the signs he had been seeing, not to mention his visions — the new men were going to have to learn in the heat of battle.
The first sergeant spit out some chew. “Guess r d best get the boys ready to move. The general won’t let us sleep if there are some Indians about.”
Bouyer regretted having gone to sleep. He should have stayed with Varnum. As one of the few who spoke several Indian languages present, Bouyer was now one of the interpreters between the Indian scouts and the Anny officers.
Bouyer went to his horse and saddled it. He pointed the animal’s nose toward the hills and moved out into the darkness, allowing the horse to pick the way. It took a good forty-five minutes to get near the top. He found a cluster of horses tied to some scrub and added his to them. He went the rest of the way on foot, his worn moccasins making no noise as he went uphill.
Lie found Varnum and the rest of the scouts on top of a large boulder, black silhouettes against the dark. sky.
“God damn, God damn,” Lieutenant Varnum was muttering, trying to look through his binoculars.
The Crow scout Bloody Knife acknowledged Bouyer’s arrival with a nod. Streaks of black paint covered the Indian’s face-his death mask. Bouyer had talked with Bloody Knife briefly the previous day and was not surprised to hear the Crow’s belief that he would be dead soon. Bouyer had given him one of the crystal skulls, with the admonition to keep it hidden, but close by. Bloody Knife had taken it without protest or question, accepting it as he accepted that he would die in battle shortly.
Bouyer still had four skulls left, and he wasn’t sure how he Was going to be able to get them to who he knew was supposed to have them. He looked about the mountaintop. He’d heard two different stories from Bridger about how the location had received its name. One was that crows did indeed nest there. The second was that the mountaintop had been used by Crow Indians as an observation point when conducting horse-raiding parties into Sioux territory.
The Seventh Cavalry was not alone out here, Bouyer knew. Besides Crook’s column, Colonel Gibbon had left Fort Ellis to the west on April 1 and linked up with General Terry at the mouth of the Rosebud on the Yellowstone. The Seventh had been with General Terry until three days ago, when they had been sent south to scout along the northern part of the Rosebud, then swing over into the Little Big Horn and come downstream.
Gibbon and Terry were to slide farther down the Yellowstone, then come upstream on the Little Big Horn and link up with Custer along that river, catching the hostiles in between them. The date for the link-up was the twenty-sixth, and it looked like it was all coming together as planned, Bouyer thought as he peered out into the darkness. Terry’s column would be a sight for the scared eyes of some of the men, but Bouyer knew Custer would prefer to strike before the higher-ranking Terry and his troops met them. The more senior officers involved in any action, the more diluted the glory and honor. It always amazed Bouyer that men who claimed to be far-sighted were usually those who saw so little of reality. There were rumors that Custer wanted to run for president in the next election and that he wanted a great victory quickly so he could telegraph the news back to Philadelphia where a grand centennial celebration was to be staged the next month. Custer was looking to the White House when he couldn’t even see what was waiting for him in the next valley.
Still, Bouyer knew, the Seventh Cavalry, twelve companies strong, was a potent fighting force despite the high percentage of recruits and low force level. Bouyer had heard that Custer had even turned down some additional companies from the Second Cavalry and a battery of Gatling guns that Terry had offered before they split off at the Yellowstone.