Custer at the Alamo Read Free

nearby with his trumpet, as did Sergeant Bobby Hughes, bearing my personal red and blue silk guidon.
    “Told ya thar were too many Injuns, Gen’ral,” Bouyer said, leaning forward on his saddle horn while chewing on a chaw of tobacco. Another habit I didn’t approve of.
    “We still have a chance,” I said. “We’ll charge the northern end of the village and ride through them. Where can we cross the river?”
    Bouyer laughed, which annoyed the hell out of me.
    “There’s a ford ’bout two miles downriver, but we’ll never make it across. The Sioux is gonna chase our butts up into the hills and chop us to pieces. Literally, sir. Chop us all to hell. We had better skedaddle if you wanna see another sunrise,” Bouyer said.
    “We will attack,” I said.
    I twisted in my saddle and motioned for the command to move out. We were being screened by the bluffs. With luck, which I’ve always been blessed with, we’d be in the village before they knew what hit them.
    “Autie, you know this isn’t going to work, don’t you?” Tom whispered, riding close at my side.
    “We’re committed, Tom. It’s got to work,” I said.
    “We can still fall back. Regroup,” Tom suggested.
    “If we retreat, the Indians will scatter. White settlers will be murdered from the Yellowstone to Deadwood. Civilian militias will massacre the Indians in retaliation, and not just the warriors. The squaws and children, too, like Chivington did at Sand Creek. Either we end this war today or get three months of blood. Is that what you want?”
    “You’d rather be fighting with them, wouldn’t you?” Tom asked, and not for the first time.
    “If I was an Indian, I’d fight for my land and people. Just like you would. But we’re not Indians. We’re officers in the United States army,” I answered.
    I turned Vic around and rode down from the bluff into the ravine behind the ridge. Most of the command was already moving ahead. Cooke and Bouyer were waiting for me along with a young Italian private. Martini, I think he was called. Cooke gave Martini a written order for Captain Benteen to come on quick. His three companies were badly needed if we were to have any hope of success. Tom took a saddlebag of ammunition off Martini’s horse.
    “Gentlemen, to hell or glory,” I said.
    We rode hard to catch up with the command. Within minutes I heard heavy gunfire up ahead. Not just the Model 1873 Springfield carbines issued to the cavalry by the quartermaster, but rapid fire weapons. Winchester and Henry rifles. The Indians not only outnumbered us, they had repeating rifles, too.
    From the top of a long draw that Bouyer called Medicine Tail Coulee, I saw we were already in trouble. Companies C and E, led by Captain Yates, were being repulsed at the river. The remaining three companies were climbing a ridge to the north struggling for high ground. Hundreds of Indians were pouring from the village on foot and horseback.
    My headquarters staff charged on the heels of F Company, anxious to lead our comrades or share their fate. If nothing else, we were better armed than the average soldiers. I carried my .50-caliber Remington hunting rifle. Tom and Bill Cooke carried lever action 1873 Winchesters, as did most of my officers. Sergeant Butler carried a custom-designed .45/70 Sharps. Kellogg was a good shot with his Spencer rifle, while Bouyer insisted on keeping his old buffalo gun. It kicked like a sassy mule but could take a man’s head off at six hundred yards. I also rode with two ivory-handled English Bulldog revolvers, one of which I drew as we rode toward the river.
    I must admit, the odds didn’t look good. But I had a plan. I always have a plan. If we could only . . . ?
    Suddenly a swirl of dust kicked up. No, not dust, but a cloud. Gray at first, then black. I reined Vic in, the cloud so thick I could no longer see the trail. I shouted for Tom but couldn’t hear him. The gunfire increased, coming so fast and loud it seemed impossible anyone