Parthian shot. Fire and smoke belched from the muzzle of his rifle. The bullet kicked up a puff of dust ten or fifteen yards in front of Custer.
He fired again, and so did the Kiowa. The Indian’s Tredegar Works carbine, a close copy of the British Martini-Henry, had about the same performance as his own weapon. Both men missed once more. The Kiowa gave all his attention back to riding, bending low over his pony’s neck and coaxing from the animal every bit of speed it had.
“They’re gaining on us, the blackhearted savages!” Custer shouted to his troopers, inhibited in language by the pledge his wife, Libbie, had finally succeeded in extracting from him.
“Let me and a couple of the other boys with the fastest horses get out ahead of the troop and make ’em fight us till the rest of you can catch up,” his brother suggested.
“No, Tom. Wouldn’t work, I’m afraid. They wouldn’t fight—they’d just scatter like a covey of quail.”
“Damned cowards,” Major Tom Custer growled. He was ayounger, less flamboyant version of his brother, but no less ferocious in the field. ‘They bushwhack our farmers, then they run. If they want to come up into Kansas, let ’em fight like men once they’re here.”
“They don’t much want to fight,” Custer said. “All they want to do is kill and burn and loot. That’s easier, safer, and more profitable, too.”
“Give me the Sioux any day, up in Minnesota and Dakota and Wyoming,” Tom Custer said. “They fought hard, and only a few of them ran away into Canada once we’d licked them.”
“And the Canadians disarmed the ones who did,” Custer added. “I’ll be—dashed if I like the Canadians, mind you, but they play the game the way it’s supposed to be played.”
“It’s cricket,” Tom said, and Custer nodded. His younger brother pointed south. “We aren’t going to catch them on our side of the line, Autie.”
“I can see that.” George Custer scowled—at fate, not at the family nickname. After a moment, the scowl became a fierce grin. “All right, by jingo, maybe we won’t catch them on our side of the line. We’ll just have to catch them on theirs.”
Tom looked startled. “Are you sure?”
“You’d best believe I’m sure.” The excitement of the pursuit ran through Custer in a hot tide. Whatever consequences came from extending the pursuit, he’d worry about them later. Now all he wanted to do was teach the Kiowas a lesson even that sneaky old devil Satanta wouldn’t forget any time soon. He shouted over to the regimental bugler: “Blow Pursuit.”
“Sir?” the bugler said, as surprised as Tom Custer had been. Then he grinned. “Yes,
sir!”
He raised the bugle to his lips. The bold and martial notes rang out across the plain. The men of the Fifth Cavalry Regiment needed a moment to grasp what that call implied. Then they howled like wolves. Some of them waved their broad-brimmed black felt hats in the air.
From long experience, the Kiowas understood U.S. horn calls as well as any cavalry trooper. Their heads went up, as if they were game fearing it would be flushed from cover.
That’s what they are, all right
, Custer thought.
As often happened, Tom’s thoughts ran in the same track as his own. “They won’t duck back into their lair this time,” his younger brother said. Now that the decision was made, Tom was all for it.
They pounded past a farmhouse the Kiowas had burned in araid a couple of years earlier. Custer recognized those ruins; they meant he was less than a mile from the border with the Indian Territory. Up ahead, the Kiowas squeezed still more from their ponies. Custer smiled savagely. That might get them over the line, but even those tough animals would start wearing down soon. “And then,” he told the wind blowing tears from his eyes, “then they’re mine, sure as McClellan belonged to Lee twenty years ago.”
He fired again at the Kiowas, and shouted in exultation as one of them slid from his
He fired again, and so did the Kiowa. The Indian’s Tredegar Works carbine, a close copy of the British Martini-Henry, had about the same performance as his own weapon. Both men missed once more. The Kiowa gave all his attention back to riding, bending low over his pony’s neck and coaxing from the animal every bit of speed it had.
“They’re gaining on us, the blackhearted savages!” Custer shouted to his troopers, inhibited in language by the pledge his wife, Libbie, had finally succeeded in extracting from him.
“Let me and a couple of the other boys with the fastest horses get out ahead of the troop and make ’em fight us till the rest of you can catch up,” his brother suggested.
“No, Tom. Wouldn’t work, I’m afraid. They wouldn’t fight—they’d just scatter like a covey of quail.”
“Damned cowards,” Major Tom Custer growled. He was ayounger, less flamboyant version of his brother, but no less ferocious in the field. ‘They bushwhack our farmers, then they run. If they want to come up into Kansas, let ’em fight like men once they’re here.”
“They don’t much want to fight,” Custer said. “All they want to do is kill and burn and loot. That’s easier, safer, and more profitable, too.”
“Give me the Sioux any day, up in Minnesota and Dakota and Wyoming,” Tom Custer said. “They fought hard, and only a few of them ran away into Canada once we’d licked them.”
“And the Canadians disarmed the ones who did,” Custer added. “I’ll be—dashed if I like the Canadians, mind you, but they play the game the way it’s supposed to be played.”
“It’s cricket,” Tom said, and Custer nodded. His younger brother pointed south. “We aren’t going to catch them on our side of the line, Autie.”
“I can see that.” George Custer scowled—at fate, not at the family nickname. After a moment, the scowl became a fierce grin. “All right, by jingo, maybe we won’t catch them on our side of the line. We’ll just have to catch them on theirs.”
Tom looked startled. “Are you sure?”
“You’d best believe I’m sure.” The excitement of the pursuit ran through Custer in a hot tide. Whatever consequences came from extending the pursuit, he’d worry about them later. Now all he wanted to do was teach the Kiowas a lesson even that sneaky old devil Satanta wouldn’t forget any time soon. He shouted over to the regimental bugler: “Blow Pursuit.”
“Sir?” the bugler said, as surprised as Tom Custer had been. Then he grinned. “Yes,
sir!”
He raised the bugle to his lips. The bold and martial notes rang out across the plain. The men of the Fifth Cavalry Regiment needed a moment to grasp what that call implied. Then they howled like wolves. Some of them waved their broad-brimmed black felt hats in the air.
From long experience, the Kiowas understood U.S. horn calls as well as any cavalry trooper. Their heads went up, as if they were game fearing it would be flushed from cover.
That’s what they are, all right
, Custer thought.
As often happened, Tom’s thoughts ran in the same track as his own. “They won’t duck back into their lair this time,” his younger brother said. Now that the decision was made, Tom was all for it.
They pounded past a farmhouse the Kiowas had burned in araid a couple of years earlier. Custer recognized those ruins; they meant he was less than a mile from the border with the Indian Territory. Up ahead, the Kiowas squeezed still more from their ponies. Custer smiled savagely. That might get them over the line, but even those tough animals would start wearing down soon. “And then,” he told the wind blowing tears from his eyes, “then they’re mine, sure as McClellan belonged to Lee twenty years ago.”
He fired again at the Kiowas, and shouted in exultation as one of them slid from his