Free Custer at the Alamo by Gregory Urbach Page B

for cover and firewood. A ravine will protect and horses and guns. If you haven’t heard from us after three days, send a messenger,” I instructed. “Myles, we don’t know the enemy strength or intentions. You saw what happened when I blundered into the Sioux camp. Let’s not make that mistake again.”
    It was the first time in years I had admitted a mistake to a subordinate. More often than not, I had ducked responsibility for my failures. Blamed bad orders. Blamed the weather. Blamed fellow officers. Had I learned something at the Little Big Horn after all?
    Stars started poking out through billowy clouds as we experienced the first dry evening in days. All of my staff officers sat close by, as did our Indian guests. Tom and Morning Star were together, and had also been sharing the same tent, but no more than that. The situation was too dire for such frivolity, and besides, I suspected Tom was beginning to have stronger feelings for her than a quick roll in the hay would allow. Slow sat between Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle, the lads listening intently. I don’t know how much English they’d learned, especially around a crusty half-breed like Bouyer, but I suspected they understood more than they let on.
    “How about a song?” Tom said, taking out a Spanish guitar he’d found in one of the wagons.
    He played quite well. Keogh produced an Irish flute. Smith used two spoons and a log for a drum. Dr. Lord, whose illness had improved of late, filled three beakers with varying amounts of water, making a pleasant tinkling when tapped with a spoon. I play a pretty mean piano but doubted there was one nearby.
    Music at the campfire is as old as soldiering itself. It would not surprise me if the Roman legions had serenaded Caesar.
    “Aura Lea ,” Keogh said, starting off with one of his favorites.
    After that, we sang Oh Shenandoah and The Girl I Left Behind Me . Some wanted to sing Gerry Owen , the Seventh Cavalry’s marching song, but I wasn’t ready. Not until I knew where we were marching to.
    “Jumping Bull is not faring well. Morning Star and Walking-In-Grass are worried,” I said to Dr. Lord as the camp was preparing to turn in.
    “I’ve noticed. He tires easily and has trouble breathing,” Lord said.
    Born in Maine, Lord had served on frontier outposts most of his professional career, so he had treated Indians before. For such a young doctor, only thirty, he had shown remarkable talent.
    “Maybe Morning Star should stay with Keogh,” I suggested. “We can’t take the old man with us on the scout.”
    “The Sioux understand death differently than we do. It doesn’t mean she won’t mourn if her grandfather dies,” Lord replied.
    Just at that moment, Jumping Bull shuffled close to our fire, pausing next to me as if aware of our conversation. He looked ancient, the long hair slate gray, his face wrinkled into deep crevices.
    “I have delivered my grandson. The Great Spirit seeks no more from me,” he said, sounding relieved of a great burden.
    “I’m concerned your grandchildren will not find you alive when we return,” I replied, for losing a loved one is a difficult thing.
    “Morning Star has said her goodbyes,” Jumping Bull replied. “Slow does not need to. We were destined to follow different paths.”
    Jumping Bull continued on to his teepee. I let the subject drop, realizing the old man had made his decision.
    I did not fear for Walking-In-Grass being left alone with Keogh’s detachment. She was an excellent cook and popular with the young troopers. They treated her like the mother they hoped to see again one day, and the old woman enjoyed every moment of it.
    My scouting party started east the next morning, thirty-three well-armed soldiers nominally under Tom’s command. Joining us were Bouyer, Kellogg, and the four young Indians. Keogh moved southeast toward Cibolo Creek above its junction with the San Antonio River. With Sergeant Sepulveda and our Mexican volunteers, his battalion