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Chapter One

Lieutenant George Hawkins wore no blue uniform when he rode through the arched entrance of Fort Leavenworth. Finished with their questioning of him, the sentries paid him little mind and he turned his mount toward the main parade ground and headquarters.

He rode toward the command post, looking around, remembering the names and faces of men he'd wintered here with when he rode with the Seventh.

A chill raced up his spine, although the temperature was brutally hot. How many of those men were now dead? And why in God's name had he come back?

Duty. He was a soldier. Most of his young life had been spent in that pursuit, or actually wearing the uniform of the United States Cavalry. He had a responsibility to himself, if not to his dead father who'd saved for years to send him to West Point. And George had things to do.

He drew in the reins, dismounted, tied off his mount and stepped into the headquarters building.

"Help you?" a scrawny aide behind a desk asked.

"I need to speak to the commanding officer."

"Do you have an appointment?" the aide asked with self-importance.

"No. I've just ridden in from Kansas City."

"If you came to enlist, you may do so through me."

"I'm not here to enlist." George's voice was hard. "Please tell your commander I'm here to speak with him. It's a private matter."

"Your name?"

"Lieutenant George C. Hawkins, Seventh Cavalry, G Company."

When the aide recovered from his initial shock, he hurried into another room to re-emerge seconds later and show George inside.

George came to attention and saluted the man behind the desk, noting the captain's bars on his shoulders. "Lieutenant George Hawkins, G Company, sir."

"Lieutenant?" the officer asked. "From Reno's G Company of the Seventh that fought at the Bighorn?"

"Yes, sir."

The officer came to his feet. "If that's true, soldier, where is your uniform? And where have you been for the past month?"

"Sir, as I stated, my name is George Hawkins. I was present at the battle against Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse at the Little Bighorn River."

George saw interest in the man's eyes. "I rode with Reno, but in the confusion when the Cheyenne counter-attacked, I became separated."

"Separated?" The officer lifted a condescending eyebrow. "And you managed to stay alive how in this confusion?"

George's heart pounded, but he gave no outward sign of nervousness other than resettling his glasses.

"So many," he whispered, thrust back into the heat of battle. "They exploded from the village, yelling, racing toward us, our death in their eyes. The companies split, we tried to escape, but there were too many. They surrounded most of the men, drove others into a small copse of trees by the river. I managed to make my way from the main body of the Indian force, but was followed by two braves." George took a breath, reliving the scene in his mind. Heat washed through him, sweat broke out on his brow. He rubbed his shoulder, still tender and sore.

"I managed to elude them for a little while. I even found a place to hide--but they backtracked and found me," he said, his throat tight. "I managed to surprise and kill them, but I was wounded, too."

He paused, the story from here on a lie.

"I took one of their horses and rode as fast as I could back toward where I thought Reno was. But I was losing blood. Things became blurred and I passed out."

"And where was that?" the officer asked.

George's mind shouted a warning. He had to be careful; the man was obviously skeptical.

"I don't know where I was. I woke up in a ravine. Everything was quiet and the shooting had stopped.

"I don't remember much after that. I fought a fever, for hours or days, I don't know. The horse hadn't wandered too far. I could see him in the distance and I worked my way to him. Once I got hold of the horse, I started toward what I hoped was civilization." He looked directly into the officer's eyes. "It was days before I came across a small cabin, was taken in and allowed to convalesce for several weeks."

George grew quiet. The officer paced, hands laced behind his back, a perplexing look on his face. Finally, he stopped in front of George.

"I've considered your story, Hawkins. If this is the truth, you're a brave man to survive a battle so many didn't. It's my understanding even those who tried to run were killed. Therefore, you have succeeded where most did not," he added with a note of skepticism.

"It will take me a few days to verify this information. If everything checks out you'll be re-assigned. For now, you may rest. You'll be given temporary quarters until this matter is settled. Peterson!"

The aide rushed in.

"Take this man to the guest quarters. See he's given a decent meal." He turned to George. "As soon as this is confirmed, you'll be back in the saddle, soldier, so don't get too comfortable."

"No sir." George saluted and followed the aide outside and across the parade ground. He surveyed the fort, compared it to others he'd seen. Next to desolate Camp Robinson in the Nebraska Territory and Fort Laramie in Wyoming Territory, this was a veritable paradise. Bustling with activity, Fort Leavenworth was unparalleled in George's mind. Buildings surrounded a large parade ground, a huge treed area at its center where the American flag fluttered in the breeze atop a tall flagpole. Men came and went from the barracks to the left of the main parade and the headquarters building on the right. Smaller trees dotted the road along the walkway, giving the center of the fort the appearance of a well-kept little town. Officers shouted orders while men drilled to the sharp beat of a drum. He heard activity on the Missouri River to the east. And the sounds of the horse stables echoed from above the parade, the smell of freshly turned hay and manure in the air.

A high, shrill voice, rising in a stream of curses, drew George to an abrupt halt. He located the source, curious about the string of colorful expletives.

"You dirty son-of-a-bitch!" the slender figure yelled.

"Now ma'am, wait just a darn minute..."

"Don't you ma'am me. You tried to cheat me. You think because I'm a woman I'm too stupid to realize," she shouted.

"Now Miss Douglas, don't become so upset. I wasn't trying to cheat you," the plump shop owner muttered, wiping shaking hands on his apron.

"Don't you dare chastise me. The proof is right here." She kicked a bag of flour at her feet. A white cloud billowed up and a rock rolled from its center.

She bent over, picked up the rock and tossed it from hand to hand, little clouds puffing up into the air with each throw.

"You mean to tell me this is standard fill for a bag of flour?"

The man sputtered and kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot.

"Now Miss Douglas, I didn't know that was in there."

"No?" she shouted. "Well weren't you the one who raced off to fill my order when I placed it earlier this afternoon? Who else would have put it in there? You seemed anxious enough to take my money, but not to give me the proper goods I've purchased. And how many others of these bags have rocks in them?" Her hand indicated three other sacks in her wagon.

She was shouting again and George couldn't help but grin. She had a right to be mad. He would be too if he'd paid for two pounds of rock in his flour.

"Come, sir. You needn't bother yourself with the likes of her," the aide interrupted. "She's known as a troublemaker 'round these parts. She'll simmer down eventually." Peterson turned George in the other direction.

"I'll get my proper goods!" George heard her say before he was shuffled away by the aide down the sidewalk.

They stopped in front of a small cabin and the aide opened the door. George stepped inside, dropped his pack and surveyed the uninviting room. A cot and a washstand beside the fireplace were all that furnished the tiny cubbyhole. But George didn't care. He didn't plan to be here long. They'd check out his story and learn he'd indeed been in G Company under Reno and that he'd been at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. The rest was all conjecture and no one could prove otherwise. For all concerned, he'd convalesced in a helpful stranger's cabin in the woods somewhere between the Little Bighorn and Fort Leavenworth. Not at White Oaks Farm with the man who'd saved his life at the Little Bighorn--Blue Fox with Two Hearts. His best friend and blood brother. A Lakota Sioux.

"Why won't you listen to reason?" Blue Fox, the half-breed Lakota, shouted. "You know damn well nobody's going to listen to a word you say about the Indians. Isn't it true, ‘the only good Indian is a dead Indian'?" Blue quoted.

George whirled on his best friend since childhood. "No! And I'm going to make them realize it, too."

"You and what other army?" Blue scoffed. "They won't listen, I'm telling you."

"If you're so certain of that, I suppose you won't be going to Washington then?" George challenged. Blue was determined to become a lawyer, to go to Washington and work on behalf of the Indians. Because he was half white and half Sioux and had lived in both worlds, he believed he could make the government better understand the plight of his people.

When Blue didn't answer right away, George poked his friend in the shoulder with his finger. "Well?"

"All right, all right. No. I haven't changed my mind. But the men in Washington are more open-minded than the army..."

George laughed in Blue's face. "More open-minded? You've got to be kidding! Those open-minded men are the ones who sent Crook, Terry, Gibbon and Custer after the Indians in the first place! What do you think would have happened at the Little Bighorn if Custer had waited for the others like he was supposed to? And who do you think gives the generals their orders in the first place? Do you really think you'll have any more success than I will in changing their minds?"

Blue didn't answer and George didn't push further. He stepped up to his friend and took him by the shoulders.

"We both have a difficult task in front of us, Blue. Just because it's going to be tough, doesn't mean I'm going to give up before I even start. And neither are you. Think about it. If we're both hammering at them from different directions maybe, just maybe, they'll listen."

Blue closed his eyes and nodded. "I'm afraid for you, George. I've only just found you again after all these years and now you're riding away. You know you'll be sent back to Indian country. What then?"

"I don't know. Pick at them. Try and change their minds a little at a time. Work from within. But I have to do something. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

Blue nodded again and sighed. "I understand how you feel." His voice was gentle. "I'll never forget the excitement inside me when Yellow Lodge Woman pointed out that because of what I am, I might be one of the few people who could make the men in Washington understand what's happening to my people. My life opened up, as though the pages of a book had come alive and I was the hero. It was then I understood everything my spirit guide had tried to tell me. Then I knew what I had to do."

"It's the same for me," George said. "I had no direction beyond going back to Leavenworth to fulfill my duty as a soldier. I had no idea what was going to happen to me. But now I have a goal. An important one. And I'm going to finish it. Mark my words. I'm going to do this, Blue. Or die trying."

Blue's head snapped up, his cobalt eyes filled with fear.

"That's what I'm afraid of, George. Your ideas will be enough to get a knife in your back. The simple fact you sympathize with the Indians after the Little Bighorn is enough to get you killed. Please. Just be careful." Blue slapped George on his uninjured shoulder, but the jarring caused George to grimace anyway. "Don't go charging out there shouting your cause at the top of your lungs for all to hear. Because if you do your butt is going to wind up either dead or in a stockade. You mark my words," Blue added, his voice hard.

"Don't worry. I'll be careful. But sooner or later, someone is going to listen to what I have to say. To what is the truth."

Their conversation was interrupted when the rest of the family came out to say goodbye to George. Today he was leaving White Oaks to return to Fort Leavenworth.

Sarah, the woman who had taken both he and Blue in as boys when Blue's mother died and George's father needed a place to live, was the first to reach him. She pulled him close and hugged him.

"You be careful George Hawkins. Do you hear me?" she scolded. "We've only just gotten you back. And barely together, may I remind you? So don't go off and get yourself hurt again." Her voice faltered although she was trying desperately to sound stern. She squeezed him one last time and whispered, "Come back soon."

She pulled away and hurried back to the house, sniffling as she went, skirt billowing around her ankles in her haste.

Sarah's husband, Ben, and George's surrogate father, stepped up and offered his hand. "Take care of yourself, Son. Don't do anything foolish." Ben pulled him close and gently pounded his back, careful of George's tender shoulder. "We're going to miss you."

"Yes, sir, I'll miss you, too. But I will be back." He paused. "You understand why I have to return don't you?" George asked, wary. Ben, after all, had been a soldier and knew all about duty.

Ben sighed and nodded. "I understand, George. Must be something only we men do understand, because Sarah sure doesn't. She's probably inside crying like a baby right now. And she'll worry about you until you ride back through that gate. Just take care of yourself. It's the best advice I can give right now. You alone know what you must do."

The two men shook hands. Ben turned and shuffled back to the house, his head lowered, his hands in his pockets.

George faced Amy, Blue's wife. Tears streaked her cheeks. She hurled herself into his arms. He grunted and gritted his teeth against the pain that shot through his arm.

"Don't you dare do anything to get yourself killed, George Hawkins," she whispered in his ear. "I'll never forgive you if you do. You're my husband's brother, and damn important to him. And me." She pushed away, snuffled in a most unladylike way, swiped the back of her hand under her nose then splayed her hands across her hips. "And I mean it."

"I'll be all right."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good. I'll hold you to it." She stepped back and Blue stepped forward.

George extended his hand, but Blue pulled him to his chest and squeezed.

"My wife has made you promise to be careful, my friend. It's a promise she and I will both hold you to," Blue whispered in George's ear, his voice gruff with emotion.

George smiled and chuckled, pulling from Blue's embrace. "It's nice to know so many people will be worrying about my well-being."

"There will be many my brother-friend. Be safe." Blue stepped away.

George sighed and shook his head. It was time to go. There was nothing left to say. He extended his hand one last time and Blue grabbed it, but before he released it, Blue turned their palms up and pointed to the thin white scars there.

"This, my brother, means I'll always be with you. Don't ever forget it."

George nodded and turned away. He grabbed the saddle horn and carefully swung onto the horse's back. Minutes later, sad yet anxious, he was on his way. He had things to do.

* * *

A week after passing through the gates of Fort Leavenworth, George was back in uniform. The material, stiff and scratchy against his skin, was a symbol of honor yet a constant reminder of the horrors he'd seen. He stood at attention in front of Captain Wildrick, the commanding officer.

"You've been assigned to ride with Colonel Anson Mills, Third Cavalry, attached to Brigadier General George C. Crook, in Indian territory."

A chill went up George's spine. "And what of the Seventh, sir?"

"What few are left of Reno's and Benteen's commands have been scattered for now. Reassigned, as you'll be. You will serve with the Third, Hawkins. Forget the Seventh."

George straightened and pushed the men and memories of Custer's ill-fated cavalry from his mind. "When do I leave, sir? And how will I reach the Third?"

"Immediately. You'll go by rail to Fort Laramie. Upon arrival there you'll join the supply train going to Fort Fetterman where you'll ride with a courier to General Crook's troops. I'll leave it to Crook and Mills to which company you're assigned. Questions?"

"No, sir."

George snapped to attention and saluted. He was being sent to Indian Territory. Since the battle at the Little Bighorn, talk throughout the country had been of nothing but Generals Crook and Terry decimating the Sioux with one swift blow of their mighty army. And he was to be a part of it.

"Dismissed." Wildrick saluted and rounded his desk.

George left the building, his thoughts jumbled. There was no turning back. Now it began.

Chapter Two

August 17th:

George stared at Crook's and Terry's troops, the two armies spread out along the Yellowstone River where it joined the Powder River. After the long, bone-jarring overland journey that left his six-foot frame filthy, his sandy hair in desperate need of a washing, and reminding him too often his shoulder wasn't fully healed, George was completely disheartened by what he saw.

He'd arrived in camp on a fresh mount out of Fort Fetterman from where he and a courier had ridden overland to rendezvous with Crook and Terry.

He stared out over the scarecrow-thin men, their clothing ragged, dirty, and torn. Shoes, what remained of them, were curled at the toes and caked with mud. Most wore scraggly beards, their long hair limp and filthy. Many looked ill.

But what tore most at George's insides in those first minutes of his arrival were the horses. If the men looked like scarecrows, the animals were wraithlike. They appeared more like loose flesh wrapped around a horse's skeleton than living animals. Even when they nickered it was weak and pitiful. They looked as though a strong wind would blow them away.

George stopped the first soldier he came across, while the courier continued on to find General Crook.

"Why are these men and stock so worn down?"

The soldier snorted. "If you been ridin' in nothing but rain and mud for as long as we have, you'd look worn-down, too, Lieutenant," the man said. "No offense, sir."

"None taken, soldier. But the horses. Surely there's enough forage for them along the trail?"

The man shook his head. "We follow the Injuns. The Injuns burn the grasslands behind them, so the stock has nothing to feed on. No game neither. All been run off by the fires, which don't help us none. It's a poor state of affairs, Lieutenant. A poor state."

"How long you been trailing the Sioux?" George asked.

The man rubbed his furry jaw. "Hell, Lieutenant. Most of us been with Crook since he sent Reynolds to attack Crazy Horse's village back in March." The man chuckled, shook his head and mumbled under his breath. "Blunder that it was. Attacked a village that was supposed to be Crazy Horse's and burned it to the ground. But it wasn't and Reynolds caught hell for that mistake. Didn't make Crook look none too good, neither." He became solemn again. "Sorry, sir. Most of the rest of us was with Crook at the Rosebud back in June. Never made it to the Little Bighorn. Heard enough about it to be thankful we weren't, though. After the Rosebud we bivouacked at Camp Cloud Peak till mid-July before we set out again after them red devils. Best I can figure it's been near to five months we been on the trail of these heathens."

"Five months?" George was taken aback. "What have you boys been eating? Drinking? What about supplies for the men? I don't even see any tents for shelter."

"Pack trains supplied us for a time. But they didn't plan for an army this size, I s'pose. Or for it to take so dern long to catch them rascals." The soldier surveyed the camp. "Only a few tents because Crook wants to travel light. No extras. Most of us have nothing more than our saddles, a blanket and a metal cup for coffee. We're a sorry lot, sir." He snatched off his dirty, ragged hat, scratched his head and snickered. "Welcome to hell, Lieutenant."

The man re-covered his head, stretched and slogged away through the mud and standing water from previous rains.

George watched him meander away, wondering what kept a man going through such privation, hoping he wouldn't have to find out.

It was late afternoon when the steamer, Far East, pulled into shore and off-loaded. Bags of grain were carried off then slashed and spread for the hungry horses, which attacked it with vigor. Sacks of flour, coffee and hard tack were slung over shoulders and hauled onto shore. But the procession of goods lasted only a short time, and George doubted there were enough supplies for the 2,000 men and stock for the long march ahead of them.

Disheartened by the condition of the camp and limited supplies, George clucked his mount forward in search of Colonel Mills to introduce himself and get his orders.

He found Mills, a slender man of average height with dark hair and a mustache, resting along the river.

George drew his horse to a halt, dismounted and snapped to attention. "Lieutenant George Hawkins reporting for duty, sir."

"At ease Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

"You can dispense with the formality, Hawkins. Sit down. Relax." He waved his hand across the damp, sandy ground and raised his face to the sun. "This is the first day I've felt the sun on my face in weeks," he said. "I intend to take full advantage, Lieutenant. I suggest you do the same. The weather, as well as the Sioux, have played havoc with us these past months."

"Yes, sir. What are my orders, sir?"

"Relax until the company receives orders to move out. You see that man over there? The tall, gangly one with the handlebar moustache." Mills pointed toward camp.

George nodded.

"That's Lieutenant Paul. He'll show you to your men." Mills turned his face back to the sun. "Enjoy it while you can, Hawkins. It won't last long. Trust me."

George saluted Colonel Mills and worked his way toward Lieutenant Paul who showed him to his troops. They were a ragged lot, covered with beards, long hair, dirt and mud, who eyed him with suspicion.

"They'll get used to you, Hawkins," Paul said, slapping George on the back. "Just give them some time. For now, pull yourself up a slab of dry ground, if you can find it, and make yourself comfortable. We won't be here long." He turned and walked away, leaving George standing in the middle of a camp of wraith-like strangers.

* * *

The next morning a restless George wandered through camp, even more appalled at the conditions. Crook's men had the barest of supplies, while Terry's men had the luxuries of tents, canned food, mirrors and razors for shaving. Some even had rugs in their tents! How resentment hadn't festered like an open wound between these two armies was beyond George's comprehension.

Throughout the day, most of the men took advantage of the chance to rest and the fact the sun was shining again. They dozed in the sunshine, smiles turning the corners of their lips, while others bathed or wrote letters.

In his wanderings he met a news correspondent, John Finerty of the Chicago Times, a personable fellow with whom he visited for several hours. He was introduced to Frank Grouard, the half-breed scout leading the expedition for Crook. Grouard was gruff and abrupt, but seemed well-suited to find Indian trail. Buffalo Bill Cody, the famous Indian scout, was also listed among Crook's troops, but he was off looking for Sioux between Crook's camp and the Rosebud.

George wandered the camps until late morning when the sun began to disappear and dark clouds moved in.

"God-damned rain. Ain't we gonna have one day without rain soaking me clean to the bone," a heavily whiskered soldier grumbled as George walked by.

"Son-of-a-bitch. One day, just one damn day is all I ask," another almost wept, shrugging himself up under a raggedy blanket when a huge raindrop splattered on his head.

In that instant, George knew it was going to be a long, brutal campaign.

* * *

The days passed and the men continued to grumble. They complained about not finding the Indians. Said they were going in circles. Fretted that neither Crook nor Terry could find a jackass in an open field. When their Shoshone scouts left the expedition because, as gossip had it, they were tired of going in circles, too, the men's spirits sank lower than they already were. Buffalo Bill Cody departed company and morale disappeared altogether. And when a pack train arrived loaded with what was circulated to be barely two day's worth of rations, George feared they would depart without near enough food to sustain such a large army for any length of time.

Several days later, George mounted Shadow, the sleek black gelding he'd chosen from the stock at Fetterman to replace his own left behind at Leavenworth. The horse reminded him of a dark shadow when he moved, and Midnight, a horse much loved by Ben, Sarah and Blue that had perished in a barn fire several years ago.

The horse appeared ready and anxious for the march. Chomping at his bit and stamping his right forefoot, he was one of the few animals that didn't look ready for the gluepot.

As "Boots and Saddles" exploded the morning silence, George and his newly assigned troop moved out.

With little flourish the Bighorn and Yellowstone expeditions rode south out of camp and down the Powder River, again in search of the elusive Sioux.

* * *

George wiped the water dripping from the brim of his hat off his face. The rain had begun shortly after they left camp two days ago and hadn't stopped. Yesterday, the twenty-sixth of August, Terry and Crook's troops separated, Terry going east while Crook swung south. Word had passed through the ranks the Indians had fired on Terry's infantry still camped at Glendive Creek on the Yellowstone. Terry was off to give assistance, allowing Crook to pursue the Indians along his own path.

Days bled one into another. The men grew weary and irritable, their mounts like sagging, walking sacks slogging under them through the mud and water.

The ragged army followed an old Indian trail toward Beaver Creek. And still it rained. The men walked in the rain, ate what little rations they had in the rain, and slept in the rain, huddled together to absorb what little heat or comfort another body might give.

On the fifth of September rations were cut in half and George began to fear they'd wander this wilderness without shelter or food until Crook's entire army was lost.

"Sir, how are we supposed to keep going on half rations, when there wasn't enough to begin with?" George asked Colonel Mills during their daily officer's meeting.

"Crook's given us several options, Lieutenant. We can give up chasing the Sioux altogether and head to Fort Lincoln, a four or five days' ride from here."

"That's on fresh mounts, sir," another lieutenant said.

"Granted," Mills answered, annoyed at the interruption. "With the condition of these mounts, it could well take us a week."

"Our other options, sir?" George asked.

"We can head back to Terry's camp on the Yellowstone and re-supply, another four to five day trip with barely any rations. Or we can keep going south into the Black Hills, to Deadwood, a trip that would take well over a week."

"On these nags?" Lieutenant Johnson exploded. "We won't make it two days on these plugs!"

Mills scanned the circle of men, his eyes falling on each one. "We will head south--to Deadwood."

"That's almost 200 miles, sir!" George couldn't believe what he was hearing. "We can't make it with these worn out men and mounts."

"Appears Crook believes we can," Mills said. "The order is if it comes to it, we're to eat our horses to survive."

"What?" resounded from every man inside the command tent. George's skin rippled along his back. For those words to be spoken to a cavalryman was worse than telling him he had to cut off his right arm. A man's mount was his partner, his friend, and on occasion, the only thing between him and death. To consider using his horse for food made George's stomach clench like a fist. The officers grumbled in disgust and called General Crook every kind of unflattering name known to man before Mills stopped their tirade.

But knowing the overall condition of the mounts, and realizing the rest of their trip could get even worse than what these men had already suffered, George resigned himself to the fact they might well be forced to eat horseflesh before this expedition was over.

* * *

The detachment rode south, the animals barely able to put one foot in front of the other. And still they saw no Indians.

George gave orders to his newly assigned men and, although they obeyed, it was obvious they resented him.

One of the troopers, a slight fellow the others called Little Pete, sat down beside George in the dim light of the night's smoky fire.

"How are the men doing?" George asked.

"Wet an' cold, but nothing we ain't used to by now," Little Pete grumbled. "At least we're still here. By the grace of God and a little help from Lieutenant Harris, we ain't dead and buried out on the plains."

"Who's Lieutenant Harris?"

Little Pete looked up at the stars then back at George. "He's the lieutenant whose place you're takin'. A fine man well liked among the men. So much that when he died, they all swore revenge. Ever' last one of ‘em."

Apprehension washed over George like a cold shower. These men not only wanted to kill Indians, they had a vendetta to carry out, too. How would he be able to change anything with men like these under his command?

"How did it happen?"

"It was after the Little Bighorn," Little Pete began. "The Injuns were full of themselves in those first days after their big victory. We were on patrol when we were ambushed by fifty or more of ‘em. We managed to scramble into some trees and held ‘em back for a few hours before they overrun us. Come screamin' in like a bunch of wild banshees. We fought hand-to-hand and managed to force ‘em back. Finally, after we got in a few lucky shots and took down a couple of their braves, they rode off. But we lost two men that day. Lieutenant Harris and Private Jones."

He looked around camp. "Most of these men was there. Watched their lieutenant take an arrow in his back. And most of ‘em carry scars from injuries they suffered that day, too."

Little Pete paused and scanned the men again. "Look, there." He pointed. "You see the man with the long, dark beard?" George nodded. "Davis. He was there. Has a scar on the front of his thigh and the back where a bullet went right through. And him," he pointed to someone else. "See his face? Nasty, ain't it?" Little Pete said when George grimaced at the sight of the man's scabbed face.

"Most of these men are chasing these red devils because they want revenge. They need to pay back the Injuns for killing the lieutenant, Custer and all those men." Little Pete took a deep breath, as though to stifle a sob. "When I think on how they mutilated them boys at the Little Bighorn the way they did--"

"I was there," George said.

Little Pete's jaw dropped and his eyes grew round.

"You was there? With Custer?"

"I was with Reno. We were the first ones into the Cheyenne camp that day." George took a deep breath. A cold chill washed over him. Several other men slid into the light of the fire beside he and Pete.

"Well, don't stop now," someone said. "Tell us."

George shook his head and sighed. These men wanted him to glorify Custer. But he couldn't. Wouldn't. He'd been there. Seen too much. Knew what really happened.

"Come on, Lieutenant. Tell us."

George sighed and began his story.

"We were engaged with the Cheyenne at one end of the Indian camp when Custer rode into what he thought was the opposite end. He was going to flank them and close in around them. But it wasn't the end of the camp, only the middle. And there were thousands more Indians than Custer thought. But instead of admitting his mistake and retreating, Custer and his men rode straight into them like a bunch of damn fools." George shook his head and let out a long sigh.

He let the men think on his words a few minutes before he said, "Get some rest."

He lay down and curled up on his blanket, while the men badgered him to say more. For ten minutes they pestered him. But George refused. He was not going to make Custer into something he wasn't. They didn't want to hear what really happened: That had Custer waited for Terry and Gibbon like he was supposed to, hundreds of men might not be dead. But in his thirst for glory he'd ridden to his own destiny and taken all those men with him.

He wouldn't tell them those men's bodies were mutilated because of the Indian's belief that if their enemy didn't have their eyes or hands or ears when they reached the afterlife, they couldn't see or hear or raise a bow to hurt them anymore. And that Custer's body was left alone because they didn't want to "catch" his stupidity for attacking such a large village with so few men in the first place. They thought he was an idiot.

"Get some rest," he finally shouted. "That's an order! You'll wish you had when the sun rises."

* * *

The following morning dawned with the first sunshine in days. The men ate the last of their now soggy hard tack before setting out, crossing the rain-swollen Heart River and traveling ever south in search of the ghostly Sioux.

But as the day progressed the sun deserted the sky, replaced by another ugly bank of black clouds that brought more rain. It poured down in sheets and later turned to a dense, soupy fog. Mud caked thick on the men's boots and showed no favorites as it clung dark and runny all the way up the horses' haunches.

George shivered in the growing darkness. There was little food left. No game and no forage for the men or animals, burned away by the Indians in their retreat. And no more grain.

The pop of a rifle made George jerk Shadow to a halt. He knew what it meant, but wished he was wrong. He prodded Shadow forward toward the sound of the shot. He drew up short when he came upon one of the men, sobbing, peeling slabs of meat from the hide of his dead horse, handing them out to hungry men who grabbed at them like they were strips of gold.

George's stomach roiled. In that instant he realized how desperate this army had become. He had to take a deep breath to keep from throwing up his insides as the men descended on the fallen beast, grabbing slices of it's flesh, sucking the juice out then gnawing on it until it could be swallowed. Shouting for more.

George whirled Shadow away, unable to watch.

He closed his eyes that night with a hollow stomach and a bad feeling. The worst was yet to come.

* * *

The morning of the seventh of September was bright beneath clearing skies. The men took to their horses but were quickly afoot, yanking the reluctant mounts to make them move in the thick quagmire. The animals were playing out. And many more would fall before the day was done.

The echo of each rifle drove a fresh wedge through George's heart. Each new report meant another horse had perished.

Even Shadow, although heartier than the rest, was showing signs of failing under the brutal conditions. The animal stumbled often, blew and snorted as though disgusted with the mud that covered him from head to toe and the men that made him keep going.

Men straggled for miles, as worn out as their animals. They sat along the side of the trail, mumbling to themselves, talking to their played-out horses.

George passed one such man, the words the man mumbled making George want to cry.

"Come on, baby." The soldier tugged on the animal's reins. Tears ran down his cheeks. "We been through too much for you to give up now. Don't you want to get back home so you can be put out to pasture for all the hard work you done these past months?" he cried. "We're gonna make it. We're gonna whip those Injuns and get home. Just think of all the grain and green, green grass you can fill your belly with," the man sobbed.

But the animal just raised its head a fraction, snorted then dropped back to the ground. The soldier fell over the horse's neck and wept like a child.

George prodded Shadow forward, unable to watch the pitiful sight any longer. He noticed other men lying in the mud, curled into balls until one or two of their comrades coaxed them to their feet or physically lifted them up to trudge forward with the rest of the column.

The day wore on. The clear sky faded. And once again the heavens opened to unleash its merciless vengeance upon the disheartened men.

Saddle-weary and rain-soaked to the marrow, George was ready to promise his soul to the devil for just one night in a dry bed.

Regardless of the relentless rain and desperation of the men, when they stopped late that afternoon on the Grand River, somehow they'd managed to travel another thirty miles toward the Black Hills.

That night while the troops set up bivouac, General Crook called an officer's meeting.

"Colonel Mills?" Crook said.

"Sir?"

"You're to select fifteen of the healthiest men from each of your companies and the stoutest mounts among them to ride. This will be done immediately and without question.

"You will proceed to Deadwood, or whatever other points you may deem necessary, to restock our supplies and purchase quinine at the cheapest price you can find for our sick.

"Quartermaster Bubb and packmaster Tom Moore will accompany you with the best remaining mules and fifteen packers. Grouard and Crawford will scout the way.

"The rest of the troops will remain here for one day, then set out upon your trail."

George's skin pricked with excitement.

"I want your unit ready to depart tonight, Colonel. Once the men and horses have been selected, you will assemble here. Dismissed."

The officers disbursed. George ran to where his men were huddled around small, hissing fires, the wood so damp it barely burned.

"Men!" he shouted. "I need fourteen volunteers to ride tonight for Deadwood with Colonel Mills and a hundred and fifty of his best men. You'll ride what are our best horses to re-supply the remainder of the troops, which will follow our trail a day later."

Several hands went up, but not fourteen.

"This will be a grueling, hard, fast journey. I need men who can stand up to more of what we've already faced. Do I have fourteen men who'll ride with me?"

George waited. Slowly, twelve men stood up.

"I need two more," he shouted. "Two more hearty men willing to bring back supplies to the rest of the troops."

Little Pete stood up. The scrawny man spit then wiped his hand across his mouth. "Just give me a good horse and I'll follow you Lieutenant."

"Are you up to it Pete?" George asked, glad for the man's company.

"Sure. I may be skinny as a used up mop, but I got more fight to me than most. You just get me a good mount an' I'll be right there with the rest. Count on it."

"One more. That's all I need. Do I have a volunteer?"

George waited until a brawny private finally stood up.

"I'll ride with you Lieutenant. Better'n waiting around here in this slop."

"All right then. Go among the animals and pick out a mount. The strongest you can find. It doesn't matter whose it is, take it. We'll meet over there in an hour." George pointed to a small clearing.

Later that evening the men awaited departure. General Crook stepped up to Colonel Mills's horse and grabbed the bridle. George, mounted close to Mills, leaned forward in his saddle to hear what the men said.

"Should you run across a village, Colonel Mills, you're ordered to attack and hold it until our arrival. However, you must remember your main assignment is to re-supply these troops. If you determine it is too risky to try and take the village, go around it in order to complete your mission."

Colonel Mills saluted. "Yes, sir."

The general stepped back and returned the salute. "God be with you and your men."

At nine o'clock that night a hundred and fifty men, including Lieutenant George Hawkins, sixty-one mules, fifteen packers, an assistant surgeon, and two newspaper men, departed for Deadwood.

Chapter Three

The sky hung so low above George he wanted to reach up and grab it, wring out all the water and leave light, fluffy clouds to guide their way through the darkness. He heard the constant plop and suck of hoof and mud all around as the horses plodded through the thick mire that at one time must have been solid ground. George could see no more than a foot in front of him. And still it rained.

The troops slogged on into the darkness, each man following only the sound of the animal in front of him. Near midnight, using only the light from matches, the scouts found signs of an Indian trail. Mills sent two of them ahead, mindful of running into a village of Sioux in the dark.

Two more long, exhausting hours passed, bringing with it harder rain and more darkness. Finally, after nearly eighteen miles under brutal conditions, Mills called the column to a halt.

George had plenty of time to think during that cold, miserable night when he bedded down. Although his mind and body were wearier than he could remember after the long, grueling days on the trail, he couldn't sleep. Couldn't relax enough even to doze. Instead, he thought.... How could he use Crook's own orders to persuade Mills to turn away from a village, should they come upon one? Could he remind the colonel the main mission must be their first priority and get him to swing wide of any village?

Rain spattered George's face and he curled deeper inside his soggy blanket. Slowly, he relaxed and drifted into a murky dream-world. Men shouted orders he didn't understand. The words seemed buried deep in mud, the sounds penetrating a thick layer of ooze before it reached his ears.

He jerked upright, aware the orders were real and being shouted all around him. The sky was still dark, but a tinge of orange touched the eastern ridges.

Again, with no food in their bellies, the men mounted and rode out.

Later that morning Colonel Mills called the column to a halt and summoned the officers.

"Grouard has spotted a village three miles south of here," the colonel began.

George's spine went rigid. A village?

"There are thirty to forty lodges. Looks like it might be a hunting camp." Mills turned to the scout standing to his right. "Is there somewhere between here and there we can hide all these men until we're ready to attack?"

"Attack?" George had spoken out loud and all eyes turned toward him. But one pair of eyes caused a ripple of ice to slide down his spine. Second Lieutenant Richard Johnson. George looked away, feeling the lieutenant's contempt like a living, breathing thing.

"Sir, with due respect, I thought our main mission was to re-supply the remainder of Crook's troops," George said, pushing Johnson from his mind.

"It is," Mills said, a stern look in his eyes. "But we've also been ordered to attack any village we come upon. This is our first opportunity to strike and, by God, that's exactly what I intend to do."

"But we have no idea how many are out there," another lieutenant said. "Might look like forty lodges, but there could be eighty, or a hundred spread out without our seeing them--just like at the Bighorn."

"We'll be sure how many there are." Mills glanced at Grouard, who inclined his head slightly.

Lieutenant Johnson stepped forward, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "If we surprise them, charge them on our mounts, they'll scatter like bugs," he said. "They won't stand up to our attack."

George's skin crawled. He had to turn Mills's mind away from attacking that village. It could be another massacre for both the Indians and soldiers. He had to try and stop it.

George took a deep breath.

"Sir, when I rode with Reno at the Little Bighorn and we raced into that Cheyenne village we thought all we had to do was surprise them and they'd scatter, too. But they didn't. Instead they counterattacked and beat hell out of us. And as for Custer, he thought he was riding in behind the village, but instead ran smack into the middle." George knew he wasn't convincing anyone, except those who already felt the way he did.

"Besides, sir, we have our mission to purchase supplies. If we engage in this fight many of our men could be wounded or, worse yet, killed."

"For now the decision has been made and will only be changed if I get other information," Mills said.

"Should we send a courier to Crook?" another lieutenant asked.

"No!" Mills shouted. "We can handle what's ahead of us without aid from Crook. Besides, he's at least two days ride behind us. The nags their riding couldn't possibly have kept up with us after leaving a day behind us."

George's heart pounded. He wondered if his men even had the strength to fight hand-to-hand, and he didn't trust that their played-out mounts would have the strength to charge the village.

Mills dismissed the officers and the column was moved into a ravine to wait while he and Grouard rode out to scout the Indian camp.

George's mind whirled. He knew what was coming. At dawn's light they'd rush in on another unsuspecting village and kill everyone in it. His stomach flipped, this time not from the hunger of the grueling trip, but the sickness that took hold of him every time he thought about what was going to happen to the Indians.

He settled down in the cold darkness to prepare for daylight. And the battle it would bring.

* * *

Men clustered in small groups. Some talked, some cleaned their weapons to a high sheen while others just stared up at the sky. Few slept.

George closed his eyes, but didn't find respite on the cold, sodden earth. He listened to the men talk around him, some certain they were all going to die, just like Custer and his men, others anxious to rush into battle to avenge Lieutenant Harris, Custer and the rest.

After what seemed like an eternity of trying to sleep and not being able to, someone shook George's shoulder.

"Time to go," the sergeant whispered.

George stood up, stretched his back and roused his men. "Saddle up."

His breath formed little plumes in the air as he saddled Shadow. His hands shook from the cold that had descended, as did every other man's near him. At least he had a fair amount of clothing on his back, he thought, whereas most of these men wore mere rags from so long on the trail. The weather was changing, moving toward winter, and if Crook didn't end this campaign soon--one way or another--the weather would.

Quiet and solemn the troops headed toward what Grouard called Rabbit Lip Creek where the slumbering village was located.

Apprehension washed over George like a drenching, cold rain, like what they'd ridden in for the past weeks. He didn't want to attack this village. Didn't want to kill. Didn't want to see women and children racing away from heavily armed cavalrymen who swept down and bludgeoned them with the butt of their rifle or killed them with one well-aimed shot to the heart or head. Well-armed soldiers who would destroy every possession those people owned, including taking their lives, then burn what was left of their village to the ground.

The column stopped after about a mile and the officers joined Mills for instructions.

"The time has come for us to take revenge on the savages who decimated the Seventh at the Little Bighorn," Mills began.

George wanted to shout they had no way of knowing if these Indians had even been there. They could attack a tribe who knew nothing about that battle. But Mills's mind was made up. George knew he couldn't change it.

He was given orders to take his men up a ridge and wait until sunrise when a mounted unit would ride down on the sleeping village and drive the Indians from their lodges. That accomplished, George and his men were to attack.

And finish the job.

* * *

Little Pete crawled up beside George.

"Ready to take some vengeance on these heathens, Lieutenant?" he asked. "‘Bout time we made ‘em pay for Custer and them poor boys they mutilated." He shook his fist at the cluster of lodges in the distance. "We'll make ‘em pay, all right. Yes we will," he whispered.

George looked away, afraid of what he might say until the high-pitched, frightened shrieks of horses drew his attention.

George scooted to the ledge and looked over the ridge to see what was happening. The Indian horses were racing away in the opposite direction of the village.

The pony herd! Someone must have frightened them and they were stampeding. The Indians would know someone was here! Perhaps even give them a chance to escape.

Men scrambled around him, awaiting his direction.

"What do we do?" one man shouted. "Do we go in or abort the attack?"

George tried to think. The only thing he wanted to do was leave this place. Not because he was a coward, but because he was tired of the killing and destruction.

"Charge!" a lieutenant from a nearby unit screamed, the only signal the men needed to sweep down on the village.

Indians cut through the backs of their lodges in an effort to save themselves and their families. Women and children raced away as the braves fought to hold back the intruders. Rifle fire reverberated all around and the terrified shrieks of horses echoed in the distance.

Seconds later a unit of mounted men exploded into the center of the camp. George saw most of the Sioux women and children were well ahead of them, running toward the bluffs and ravines to the north to hide in the nooks and ledges.

George fired high as he worked his way into the village.

A brave charged him, his face wild with rage, giving George no choice. He leveled his rifle and fired. The Indian pitched backward. Another warrior ran from around a tepee, his hatchet waving in the air. Again George was forced to aim and pull the trigger, dropping the man three feet in front of him.

They suddenly came from everywhere. Not just men, but women, children and old ones, waving weapons, aiming at any man in blue. High-pitched war cries reverberated throughout camp.

But the men had retribution in mind. They weren't about to tuck tail and run. They had Custer and Lieutenant Harris to avenge.

They charged the Indians, screaming as wildly as the savages they attacked. Some fought hand-to-hand, while others stopped, took aim, and fired, dropping their adversary where they stood, be they man, woman, child or old one.

As suddenly as they'd appeared, the remaining Indians were gone, either dead or fleeing the village.

Slowly, the gunfire dissipated and all became quiet. Where had they gone? George wondered, scanning the hills, seeing nothing. A cold chill raced up his spine. They'd be back. He was certain.

* * *

The soldiers ravaged the lodges. They grabbed whatever food they found, shoved it into their mouths. Men were shouting to one another that they'd found the proof these Indians had been among those who had defeated Custer. They held it in their hands. The Seventh's guidon from Company I, one of Keogh's gauntlets, his name inscribed on it, an undelivered letter.

George felt dizzy. Were these men justified in taking their revenge if this tribe of Sioux had, indeed, been at the Little Bighorn? His mind spun as the details of what was being found made its way through the troops.

The sharp report of a rifle and frantic screaming nearby jerked George's attention from his musing.

"Von Leutwittz's been hit! Help! Here!"

George rushed to where the fallen lieutenant lay, his knee shattered and bleeding profusely. George bent to tie off the wound and shots exploded all around them. He scrambled away, pulling the lieutenant to safety.

The Indians had regrouped.

Colonel Mills strode up beside George and examined Von Leutwittz.

"What next?" George asked Mills after the lieutenant was put onto a stretcher and taken to the center of the village where a hospital tent was being erected.

"We hold."

"Hold?" George couldn't believe his ears.

"I've sent a courier to Crook explaining our situation and requesting aid as quickly as possible. For now we must hold the village."

"But Crook is at least a full day behind us, and it won't take long for riders from this camp to reach the other villages Grouard says are nearby. They'll bring back help. What are we supposed to do then?"

"Your orders are to hold, Lieutenant." Mills's lips were drawn tight.

"But our orders were also to skirt a village if we found it necessary in order to complete our mission," George reminded Mills. "Crook will never reach us in time."

Several other men had gathered and George knew he was saying what they wouldn't.

"Those are your orders, Lieutenant. Follow them," Mills ground out before he turned and stalked away.

Colonel Mills issued orders to halt the destruction of the village and set up skirmish lines. They had to hold until Crook's reinforcements arrived.

But when would that be? George shook his head. Crook hadn't planned to depart camp until the day after Mills's contingent had left. And on horses more played-out than their own. How much distance could they possibly make? Not enough to reach thembefore the Indians came back in an even larger force, George was certain.

His stomach clenched. The rumor that Crazy Horse was camped nearby and would bring his braves to finish off the troops had spread through the men like a prairie fire.

High, shrill screaming suddenly ripped into his thoughts. Shrieks laced with so much terror his blood froze like ice. Seconds later, three soldiers charged out of one of the lodges.

The screaming stopped.

George, Colonel Mills and several other troopers ran to the lodge.

"What the hell'd you run for you chickenshit!" one of the retreating soldiers shouted at the other.

"I didn't run. You did," yelled another.

"It's just a little girl." The third mopped his face with his kerchief.

"What's going on here?" Mills asked the men.

The three snapped to attention.

"Uncovered a little girl inside. Started screaming her fool head off. Like to scared me to death," one of the men said, shaking his head. "Scariest sound I ever heard."

The other two were quick to agree.

"Move aside." Mills lifted the flap and stepped inside. George heard movement, Mills's voice soft and comforting, then silence. A few minutes later he emerged with a little girl no more than four years old tucked protectively under his arm.

"This child is not to be harmed. Is that understood?" he shouted. "I'm taking her to the medical tent where she'll be looked after and given food."

He turned his back on the gaping men and carried the child away.

* * *

The braves had taken up positions in the rocks and sniped continuously at the soldiers looting their village.

George was edgy. He needed rest. He ducked into a lodge--and felt like he'd stepped into another world. Inside the conical tepee were the furnishings of a home. Bowls, blankets, children's toys, clothing, bedding. Anything you'd see in a white man's home, all here.

In the center of the room a pot with a few scraps of stew in it dangled from a tripod. Realizing just how hungry he was, he ate his fill, each bite feeling like it was going to come back up. But he managed to keep it down, the first real food he'd had in his belly in weeks.

He rested a few minutes then forced himself to rejoin his men.

He slid into the rifle pit. "I suggest you men dig in and relax as much as possible. There's no telling what's going to happen in the next few hours. We may need every ounce of strength we can muster to hold this village."

"It's just like Custer and his men all over again, ain't it, Lieutenant?" a young private asked, his blue eyes wide with uncertainty.

George prayed the answer was no. He prayed that divine intervention would keep him, keep them all, from dying at the hands of the Sioux.

He looked at the private who waited for words of encouragement. George had a sudden glimpse of his own mortality. Would all these men have to die before the insanity would stop? Is that what it would take for the government to leave these people alone, to live as they'd lived for hundreds of years?

He stared out over the faces of his men. Anxious faces. Waiting for reassurance he couldn't give.

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