Custer

How do you like the present Housty bought me? Custer’s Ruin; the finest whiskey in the west they say, with twice the kick of any other. At five times the price, it ought to be. Too bad I ain’t allowed to touch it. Housty said I gotta save it for a special occasion.

Did I ever tell you I served with Custer? Back in ’67 it was, when I went scouting for the army. Everyone cheered, a marching band played and pennants fluttered in the breeze on the day he led a thousand men out of Fort Hays. A send off befitting of the man’s stature, I guess, and a big hurrah to the brave men of the seventh cavalry. We thought we’d put the redskins in their place and be back in no time; only it didn’t work out that way. After three weeks of chasing shadows in Nebraska, we backtracked, and set up a camp on the Republican River. Frustrated by his failure to engage the enemy, Custer ordered his scouts to report directly to him.

I got the feeling he was looking for a scapegoat. Well, it wasn’t me that led us on a wild goose chase and it wasn’t Will Comstock, and though I had my suspicions about Two Knives and Billy Big Weasel, they weren’t at fault either. By the time Custer had finished blowing his own bugle, it was clear where the blame lay, since the jasper had ears for nobody but himself.

Everyone was surprised when we struck camp before the week was out, since we were supposed to be waiting on fresh orders coming through. As we’d seen hide or hair of an incoming patrol, we figured the big man had just grown tired of waiting. Well, what a mistake that was.

A day or two after we’d pulled out, an army patrol of a dozen men arrived at the abandoned camp. Since the young lieutenant in command could only guess at Custer’s whereabouts, he led his men in the direction of Fort Wallace. Only they didn’t get that far. At Beaver Creek they ran into a large force of Sioux and Cheyenne. Nobody survived.

Course we weren’t to know that, not then, but when we reached Riverside Station and Custer wired the fort for orders, he must have been shaken by the reply. News of the massacre spread fast. As men scrambled to obey an order to remount, few had any doubt where we were heading.

I’ve seen some terrible things in my time, but three days hard riding ain’t time enough to prepare a man’s mind for the things I saw at Beaver Creek. As part of the advance party, me and Will Comstock were amongst the first arrive, and what those redskins did to them troopers ain’t fit or description. It was Will that discovered the dispatch on the young Lieutenant’s body. Signed by Sherman himself, it was a reprimand for Custer, for disregarding orders. 

‘Vengeance shall be ours!’ said Custer, in a speech that went someway to fixing morale. It earned him a cheer but behind the bluster, he must have known it was him that got those troopers killed. 

Well, I’d seen enough. Being a hired scout and not an enlisted man, I was bound to nobody. That I walked away without regret and forfeited a month’s pay is a measure of the contempt I had for a loon whose thirst for glory came before his responsibilities.

I guess he never learned. When he finally bit off more than he could chew at the Little Big Horn, in ’76, I wasn’t surprised. Sympathy?  For the men that followed him into battle, sure, but Custer? No, not him… none at all.

Hell, I need a drink. I'll just have a little taste.