Surviving Custer

Up ahead two horses collided, spilling one of the troopers. He was trying to get up when a warrior leaped off his pony, tomahawk in hand. Whomp! Stove in the skull with one blow. The brave went for the scalp as two others started toward me. I spurred Teddy into a straight-out gallop and we flew past the brave’s bloody work. The dead man was Jerry Malloy, a G Troop boy. Charley traded tobacco with him back at Powder River. Louisiana tobacco, it was. Whiskey cured or something.

Teddy quickly made up the ground between us and the others. In front of Jim, Sam was trailing Jake riding so low in the saddle he was no more than a molehill stuck on Scar’s back. Sam caught up to him as warriors started coming closer from the right, firing willy-nilly. Most were painted, and their horses too. Jake had his Colt in his right hand. Every time an Indian rider broke off from the rest and started toward us, Jake raised the pistol, but he only fired once, when one got inside of twenty paces. That one pulled up and kept his distance, at least for the moment. Then a warrior on a chestnut horse, (not a pony), came up on Sam’s left, hollering something loud and wild enough to wake the dead. Sam looked back at him, pulled his Colt and fired. I couldn’t see if he hit him, but the chestnut stumbled, fell back, and veered away.

Up ahead the column veered to the left, hounded by warriors attacking ever more boldly. Too much dust to figure how many rode beside us, letting fly a steady hail of lead with almost no return fire. At first the only braves coming close were coup seekers who made lone dashes toward the ragged battalion. Some troopers tried to drive off these single warriors. They soon emptied their revolvers and their fire slackened, which emboldened the Indians into coming closer in threes and fours, pushing the column steadily toward the left. All the while, I kept my eye on Teddy, watching for any sign he was hit or playing out.

Within the dust cloud ahead, Reno began obliquing toward the timber and seconds later troopers in front disappeared into the trees. That’s good, I thought. The Major had found a place to fort up where we can hold the bastards off until we get support from Custer, if he comes through. And Benteen should get here damn soon.

A minute later we were in the trees. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw I was mistaken. Reno had kept going, tearing through the brush along an overgrown buffalo run, while behind him things had gone from bad to worse. The trees and brush split the column up and the horses charged every which way, some under control, some not, their eyes bulging in desperation as they plunged through the ensnaring underbrush. I spotted an unseated man whose left foot was caught in the stirrup being dragged back toward the open flats by his crazed horse. I tried to help him but Teddy got crowded into the bushes by Gus Steinbrecher on Ernst's mount.

“Out of the way!” Gus shouted. “I go to my men in the front!”

Without thinking I reined over to the side, guessing that Reno was up where the noise of battle was a loud, steady cacophony of yelling, cursing, fiendish screams, the sounds of men fighting for their lives, the clamor punctuated by the irregular tattoo of rifle fire. Adding to the din were the exaggerated grunts and whinnies of horses driven by fear and the madness of men. Spent rounds buzzed over my head. Sam came up beside me, looking worried. We watched Steinbrecher up ahead, beating his way past riders jamming the path.

In the chaos Jake fell behind the others, and then a lone warrior careened out of the dust on his right, coming straight for him. Sacré bleu! The sonuvabitch was staring at him. Jake cocked the pistol and fired. Smoke but no sound. A miss. The Indian raised his rifle and fired. No sound again. The world had gone silent, and everything was moving at a snail’s pace. He saw the Indian’s weapon clearly, a Henry with brass tacks hammered into its walnut stock. The pony lunged ahead, closing on him. Jake couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s face with black streaks on each cheek. He fired the pistol again. Another miss while the Indian levered the next round into the chamber. Jake thumbed the Colt’s hammer back again, just as Scar veered right, straight toward the Indian pony, dumfounding the warrior, startling Jake into losing the pistol, but he threw himself to the side and miraculously snatched it in mid-fall, then pulled himself upright as Scar veered back to the left. His right foot came out of the stirrup and he lost his balance just as Scar brushed past the first tree in a stand of young cottonwoods. The Indian vanished, the pony’s momentum carrying him to the right as Jake pitched to the ground. Unhurt, he picked himself up, pistol still in hand, and watched the ass end of his horse disappear into the brush. Jésus-christ! Remarkably, he could hear again. Gunshots ahead and to the right, men yelling, cursing, hoofs pounding, bullets whizzing overhead, smacking into trees. He looked back, hoping to see another trooper, but there were none, so he looked ahead and decided to make a run for it. Suddenly Scar burst through the willows racing toward him, slowing as he got near. Grabbing hold, Jake half leaped and half yanked himself up and into the saddle.

“You come back for me,” he said, leaning forward to stroke the horse’s neck. “How come you do that?”

“Sam! You seen Ernst?” I asked. I sensed that fear had touched the lad for a moment, triggered by the imploring eyes of a downed M Troop Bay reduced to a quivering, bleating half ton of helplessness.

“Not since the skirmish line,” he replied, scanning the trees for hostiles.

“Reno's heading for the bluffs," I said. It was a guess, but I was trying to dampen his qualms. “We can hold ‘em off all day long up there.”

“Iffen we git thar afore... Giddown!” Jubal yelled as he yanked the reins back and fired at a young brave who appeared suddenly above the brush and fired at Sam who shot back but missed, as did Jubal. The brave disappeared. Sam spurred Blaster into a fast trot, leaving Jubal behind. Prince lunged off the path into a tangled patch of roses and mulberry bushes.

“Damn it, horse!” Jubal cried, pulling the animal around. “Git yer ass back on the trail. We gotter catch up!”

Seconds later a bullet smashed into Prince’s mouth sending him crashing to the ground. Jubal sprung out of the saddle as the horse rolled onto one side, his massive chest heaving, the bulging eyes staring fearfully, maybe ready to glaze up. Jubal looked around for help, but suddenly Prince kicked out, thrashed his legs around and lurched to his feet. Muddleheaded, he stood swaying only a little, seemingly sound except for the crimson bubbles swelling out of his nostrils with each exhalation.

“Thank yew, Horse,” Jubal said, swinging up into the saddle. “I surely ‘preciate yew gittin’ up like thet.” He spurred Prince forward, reloading his pistol as they went.

Elvin realized he was trembling, scared to the bone. Why not? Bullets were flying by close enough to reach out and touch, for Christ’s sake, smacking into the brush and trees close by his head. Indians were everywhere, firing from the woods, even charging into the column ahead, which wasn’t moving anywhere near fast enough. He had Jack Cobb on his left, which was good, because by then most of the shots were coming from that direction. Funny, it felt like he was getting away with something, a lucky break maybe he didn’t deserve, but that was nonsense. It was every man for himself. He hunched down in the saddle and reined his horse ever closer to Cobb, the way a cub stays close beside the wounded she-bear.