The bad omens hadn’t ended there, as Custer pushed the column hard to follow the trail. The other night Custer’s personal flag, two crossed sabers on a red and blue field, had been blown over by the wind. It had been picked up and stuck in the ground again, only to blow over once more. A bad wind. Bloody Knife knew. A wind of ill spirits was blowing across the entire command. The white men pretended to worship a god, a god the priest at the post had tried to get him to believe in, but Bloody Knife thought they lied. If they couldn’t appreciate the power of an evil spirit blowing down their flag, how could they worship a good spirit?
The Son of the Morning Star had dismounted and begun talking back and forth, when suddenly he stopped. “Let’s move forward and get to this Crow’s Nest I’ll see for my· self.” Bloody Knife fell in behind the commander.
Bloody Knife caught the glances several of the staff officers gave him. For all they knew. There were Sioux all around, perhaps even waiting in ambush. Never bad any of me scouts seen so many signs. Bloody Knife kept his face impassive. There was no safety riding with the regiment or riding ahead.
Bloody Knife remembered the time Custer had left the command by himself to hunt buffalo. The general, chasing down a bull, had shot his own horse in the head accidentally d been on foot, all alone, out in the middle of the plains. Fortunately, the regiment’s course of march had come upon the dismounted general. From that point on, Bloody Knife had ceased to respect a man who could be so foolish.
Bloody Knife looked at the regimental camp as they left it. The noise made Bloody Knife grimace. Many of the bluecoat soldiers were inexperienced. Some could hardly ride their horses, and the blistering pace Custer had set the last several days since parting from General Terry’s column on the twenty-second had made matters worse. Horses and men were tired. That made for poor thinking and poorer action, Bloody Knife knew.
The Sioux up ahead would not be tired, that he also knew. He could clearly picture the camp in his mind. Bloody Knife’s father had been a Sioux; his mother an Arikara. He’d spent his childhood among the Sioux, living as one of them, but it was not a happy childhood, as the Sioux despised the Arikara.
Bloody Knife was a handsome man, standing five feet, seven inches tall with black hair and brown eyes. His features were finely formed with a broad forehead and sharp cheekbones and nose. His complexion was that of dull copper. A surly twist to his mouth marred his good looks. Bloody Knife Was not above talking down to white men, a custom that Custer treated with amusement at times in a camp full of sycophants.
Given the childhood he’d had, Bloody Knife had sworn to himself to never again look up to another man. He had earned his place here in the Seventh Cavalry, much more so than most of the soldiers now blundering their way around in the dark. If no one else would tell Custer the truth, he would.
Bloody Knife leaned back on his horse and stretched his neck. He looked to the northwest, into the growing light. Out there were many Sioux, among them people he had known as a child. If the Sioux were preparing for war, Bloody Knife was sure Gall was out there. Gall had killed Bloody Knife’s two brothers’ years before and dismembered their bodies, leaving them for the animals to feed on. Bloody Knife’s hand slipped down to the razor-sharp blade strapped to his belt. If nothing else, he hoped he ran into Gall. There was blood to be paid.
“I don’t see it,” Custer said. Mitch Bouyer could see relief flood Lieutenant Varnum’s face. The fool would rather be right about not seeing anything than bothered that his scouts were telling him there was something out there and he see it.
“Well, they’re there, general,” Bouyer said. “At least you can see the smoke,” he added.
“I can see that,” Custer said testily.
Bouyer knew that even Lieutenant Varnum could now see the smoky haze that hung above the dark line that was the Little Big Horn. But whatever was below that smoke they couldn’t make out.
“Obviously there are some Indians there,” Custer said. his voice less harsh.
‘’There aren’t just some Indians there, general.” Bouyer felt like he had one time in the mountains when his horse had slipped on a steep slope covered with snow and both of them had been carried down, not able to stop until they got to the valley floor. Whatever was going to happen was already set in motion, and nothing anyone said was going to make a difference today. He could feel the powers in the air.
Bouyer knew this terrain well from his time with Bridger. Besides the obvious trail, he had spotted numerous campsites bordering the trail. In one he had counted the spaces where more than four hundred lodges had been set up. That alone indicated eight hundred warriors. And that was only one of five abandoned campsites he’d scouted.
“There are more Indians out there than 1 have ever seen in one place,” Bouyer said.
Custer’s face flushed red. The general’s famous long locks had been cut short prior to leaving Fort Lincoln. And he was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket and trousers. Under the jacket was a broad-collared blue shirt, and around his: k was a scarlet cravat. He wore a wide-brimmed white hat that Bouyer thought., along with cravat, made him an easy target.
When Custer didn’t respond Bloody Knife spoke. “Turn around, general. Ride away as fast as the tired horses will carry you. If I am not speaking the truth, you can hang me.”
That brought a slight smile to Custer’s wind and sun-beaten face. “I don’t think I’ll be hanging you.” He had field glasses and was looking to the northeast. “I still don’t see it.” he muttered. Custer stood. ‘’Lieutenant Varnum, remain on watch here until you see the regiment enter the valley, then join the command.”
Bouyer followed as Custer walked back down to the horses and remounted. They rode down in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. A horseman was coming up slope toward them and Bouyer recognized him: Tom Custer.
As Tom drew near, Custer spurred forward, Bouyer following. “We got them, Tom!” Custer called out.
“Bad news.” Tom doused his brother’s enthusiasm. “Last night some breadboxes fell off a mule and we sent back a detail to police it up. They came across some Indians at the boxes. Fired a couple shots and drove them off, but we’ve been detected.”
Custer drove one fist into the other. ‘’They could be breaking camp right now if they know we’re here.”
“I do not think-” Bouyer began, but Custer had put the spurs to his horse and was heading to the camp, leaving Bouyer and Tom Custer to follow as well as they could.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I have been one acquainted with the night.” The words were barely a whisper, spoken from memory. Frost tried to remember which book of his poetry that line had been published in, · but the recollection failed him. Nor could he remember the title of the poem. There was too much else pressing in on his consciousness. He rose, picked up the box containing the crystal skull and with one step was across the small wardroom and in the corridor.
The ship was never silent. There was always the sound of air moving through ventilators and the noise associated with the nuclear power plant. One of the crew, on the trip north, had told Frost that the only time this ship would go silent is if it went down in deep water. Other than the mechanical noises though, there was scarcely another sound.