Free The Red Hills by James Marvin Page B

Crow?'
    For a full minute Crow sat there, considering the question, weighing up what might be the best answer. He saw now that it was futile to query the absurdity of Menges's ideas. Allowing for the dead and severely wounded, he doubted if they could call on more than forty-eight men. Barely half of what long-dead Fetterman had been able to take with him on his ride to disaster.
    'I believe, Captain Menges,' he began, picking his words with the greatest of care. 'I believe that we would need at least two hundred and fifty men. Trained men. Indian fighters. Not gutter-scrapings and brothel bullies. Soldiers who know what it is to fight and fight again with no food and damned little water. I would also want to ensure I could either take the hostiles by total surprise, which would probably involve treachery and deceit. Or let them come at me when I was in a well-prepared position. And I would also require either howitzers or perhaps Gatlings.'
    Menges sat back, coming within an ace of toppling clean off his chair in the dirt. His mouth fell open and a thread of spittle dangled to his open collar, hanging on the purplish flesh of his wattled and swollen neck.
    'By God!' he said slowly. 'By Jesus fuckin' Christ all bastard mighty! You chicken-shit whore-son fuckin' son of a fuckin' bitch! Mister Crow. I don't believe what I hear. I don't fuckin' believe that I can sit and listen to a so-called officer in the Cavalry of the United States of America churn out such defeated fuckin' nonsense!!!'
    Kemp rose again to his feet and made a feeble motion with his hand towards the door of the tent, but Menges was so involved in his own mindless, drunken anger that he was never even noticed. Didn't look at him as the Scot made his way out of the tent. Angelina at her husband's side was still busying herself with mopping at her plate with a hunk of bread, wiping up non-existent gravy and keeping her eyes away from Crow.
    For which he was relieved.
    There wasn't any point in trying to reason with Menges.
    It was obvious to Crow that whatever kind of mind the man might once have had, the years of frustration and drinking had taken an irreversible toll of it. Menges was as close to being insane as made no difference.
    The storm passed as quickly as it had risen.
    'Where's Kemp?'
    'Outside, Sir.'
    'Where?'
    'Gone to the necessary to ease his stomach pains, Sir. He's ill with it.'
    Menges nodded, sliding down in his chair, hands fumbling at the collar of his tunic. 'Damned hot in here. By God but it is! Lieutenant Crow. Call for Trooper Simpson to aid me to my quarters.'
    'Sir.' Crow stood up, still managing to avoid Angelina's eye, and told the sentry to fetch the Trooper. Simpson was Menges's favorite informer within the unit, eager to make Corporal at the expense of other men that he brought into trouble.
    The Captain struggled to get to his feet, the liquor fighting his balance. His face had gone livid, hectic spots of crimson and purple splashed on each cheekbone. Crow watched him with a detached interest, wondering whether some kind of falling fit or apoplexy was going to carry him off and spare Crow the trouble of murdering him. But the moment passed and he was able to lurch his way from the tent.
    He was singing a mournful ballad about making sure that the grass was kept mowed on his grave. Crow was surprised to hear that Menges had a beautiful lyric tenor voice, rising with the echoes of the song, only breaking when Simpson arrived to help him.
    'Crow!!' yelled the Captain, his voice carrying easily through the thick canvas of the tent. 'You hear me, croaking Crow? I wish that we was goin' to lick the Indians down in the Black Hills. Know why?' There was a bellowed laugh. 'If we did there'd be so much fuckin' blood that they'd be callin' 'em the Red Hills of Dakota. Get it? The Red Hills of fuckin' Dakota!!!'
    'He will not return, my fiery stallion,' whispered Angelina Menges, steady sliding her chair nearer to Crow. Wetting her lips with