Cry of the Hawk

Custer cleared his throat, removing one of the damp deerskin gloves and stuffing it in his belt. “Mr. Sweete will tell us if we’re going to find a body down there.”

“Only a horse.”

He led them far around the bloating carcass of the white horse, coming back into the stinking carrion on the upwind drift of the prairie breeze rustling the dried grass. That gentle wind and the noisy protests of the scattered buzzards proved the only sound, besides the slow clop of the hooves, then the scrape and grind of Custer’s boots as he got down, alone, and strode purposefully forward to have a look for himself.

He came back to his mount after but a moment, only then removing his hand from his mouth and nose.

“There’s more, Mr. Sweete?”

Shad waited for Custer to swing into the saddle. “Up yonder, General.”

“More of the same?”

Pursing his lips to keep from puking the words, he wagged his head. “No. It’s soldiers.”

Sweete and Hickok watched Custer’s lips form the word, but left it unspoken as he sighed, his eyes narrowing on the middistance. “Take us to them, Mr. Sweete.”

They put the miles behind them, not that many, really. But enough to see it had been a running battle. By the time they topped the last knoll and Shad reined up the entire escort, the flat, sun-shimmering bowl lay before them, populated now with only the kee-rawing, noisy birds of prey.

“One of ’em had his horse go down on him back there,” Shad explained. “Signs of his boots tell it. He was running hard. Iron-shod hoofprints circled back, picked the fella up, and they tried to make it double.”

Custer swallowed. “They didn’t make it, did they?”

“None of ’em, General. I figure that first bunch of buzzards up ahead, down there—just one horse and two bodies there—they made a hell of a fight of it.”

The lieutenant colonel ground his teeth. “Let’s go.”

One horse. Two men. One directly in the tangle of the dead animal’s legs, taking cover. The other body a few yards off. Either dragged there by the warriors working over the bodies, or by the huge, broad-winged birds attempting to drag off their stinking meal-claim.

“This the first time you’ve seen what a warrior can do, General?” Hickok asked.

Custer shook his head, swallowing hard. “No.” He looked up at the old mountain man. “Who was it—the bunch who did this?”

“I got an idea, General. Let’s go see the rest afore I say for sure.”

There were two more horse carcasses, each with a man’s naked, white, bloated, and sunburned body nearby—each man having fought to the end alone—until they came upon the last stand, where the eight had dropped their horses and hunkered down to make a fight of it to the last.

“Bastards didn’t leave much of ’em,” Hickok said, holding his bandanna over his mouth and nose.

Shad breathed through his mouth. Still the stench of it stung his tongue with a sour burn. High meat, he thought. Just what them goddamned buzzards love to eat. High meat going to soup under this unforgiving sun. He prayed to be long gone from there, but knew he would stay until the column arrived and this bunch had a decent burial.

“They were on the road to Fort Wallace?” Custer asked.

Hickok glanced at Sweete. Shad nodded.

“Yes,” Hickok answered. “Headed that way.”

“Likely they figured they would meet up with some sign of you between the Platte and Wallace,” Shad explained.

Custer ordered three of the soldiers to ride back and bring the columns on at moderate speed. A burial detail … shovels … and some prayers were needed over these men, is what he told them before sending the trio off.

“Second Cavalry,” said the lieutenant colonel.

“You know any of them, General?”

“Can’t say as I do, Hickok.” He pointed at the one body with long, black, unbraided hair. It had been stripped and scalped, but for the most part remained unmutilated. Something clearly evident compared to the butchery practiced on the other eleven bodies.

“Who was that?”

Hickok shook his head.

“Name of Red Bead.” Shad looked away to the west where the sun would not fall for many hours yet. Too many hours, and he wanted to be far away by then. Not that he was particularly superstitious about death. But Red Bead and his soul would haunt this ground forever.

“He Cheyenne … Pawnee?” Custer asked.

“No, General. He was Sioux.”

Custer looked up with those blue eyes of his, glaring into the tall mountain man’s face. “You mean he was Sioux … like the ones who killed him?”

Shad nodded.

“That why they didn’t take his scalp?”

“They respected him. Whoever it was killed this bunch—someone knew Red Bead and didn’t want his body touched for the long trip across the Star Road.”

“He died as bravely as the rest,” Custer commented quietly. “I’ll say prayers over his grave as well.”

“You want to show your respect for how brave that Injun died, General Custer,” Shad stepped right up to the soldier, “you’ll wrap his body in a blanket and leave it lay right here. Don’t you dare say your white medicine words over his body. It would be a mighty bad sign to do such.”