Cry of the Hawk

The Brev. Maj.-Gen’l Comdg. directs that you proceed with your Command … to Ft. McPherson, at which point you will find a large supply of rations & forage …. From Ft. McPherson you will proceed up the South Fork of the Platte to Ft. Sedgwick …. If every thing is found to be quiet & your presence not required … you may come South to Ft. Wallace, at which point you will find further instructions. The object of the Expedition is to hunt out & chastise the Cheyennes, and that portion of the Sioux who are their allies, between the Smoky Hill & the Platte. It is reported that all friendly Sioux have gone South of the Platte, and may be in the vicinity of Fts. McPherson or Sedgwick. You will (as soon as possible) inform yourself as to the whereabouts of these friendly bands, and avoid a collision with them.

On that first day of June, Shad Sweete watched the long-haired cavalry commander stuff those orders inside the dark blue blouse with gold piping Mrs. Custer had herself sewn for her dashing husband, then give the word to his adjutant, Myles Moylan, to move out.

Three hundred fifty sweating, anxious, and hungry horse soldiers pointed their noses north by west at distant Fort McPherson, some 175 miles away across the shimmering, summer-seared prairie.

“We get up there close to that Platte Road, we’ll find us a place to jump off and disappear,” whispered a soldier to the rider beside him as they passed by Sweete and the rest of the scouts.

“That fella sounds like he’s got the right idea, Shad,” Hook said.

Shad didn’t even look at Jonah. “You like wearing your hair—you’ll give no thought to deserting this bunch. Even up there on the Holy Road, where a man might find more folks to join up with. Ain’t likely any of these soldiers know what’s waiting for ’em they decide to take off on their own hook.”

None of them knew what was in store over the next few days of grueling march beneath the prairie sun, drinking alkali water grown warm in their canteens, breathing the stinging alkali dust that coated every nostril and caked the insides of their mouths in a gauzy swirl that rose like an ache of despair from every plodding hoof along that strung-out, head-drooping column led forever northwest by Custer and his officers.

“You ever dream of whiskey?” Hook asked as he squatted wearily with Sweete at a smoky fire one evening a week later. “Don’t even have to be good whiskey. Just … whiskey.”

“Sure,” Shad answered, honestly. “Dream about the taste of it on my tongue a lot. ’Specially when I’m drinking this warm water that stings my mouth the same way whiskey does.”

“Water does have a sour tang to it—”

A single shot rang out.

They both looked at one another, drawing pistols and slowly standing as the echo of that lone shot faded over the prairie.

“Pistol?” Hook asked.

“Sounded to be,” Sweete answered as the camp quieted once more and men went back to preparing the supper they would force down here at the end of a long day’s march. “Likely some idjit cleaning his sidearm and it went off.”

More than an hour later that eighth day of June, Hickok came to their fire, passing on the story to the rest of the scouts.

“Cooper’s second in command this trip out, ain’t he?” asked Sweete.

Hickok nodded. “Seems the major had a problem with drinking.”

“That what Custer says?” Sweete asked.

“What the rest of the officers say,” Hickok answered.

“I saw the man in a bad way myself,” Hook told them. “Last winter. He wasn’t a drinker like a normal man. Cooper looked like he drank till it made him mad enough at himself.”

“He was in a fit—not acting like himself so the talk goes,” said Hickok. “But he was at times a real gentleman. With a quiet sort of normal.”

“Something made him put that pistol in his mouth and blow out the back of his head,” Jonah said.

Hickok regarded him. “The ride. The damn heat. Nothing else to do but ride and drink his whiskey—this campaign is getting to a lot of us, Hook.”

“Man don’t just go and give up like that,” Hook muttered, still staring at the flames. “He leave any family?”

Hickok glanced at Sweete before answering. “Major had a young wife. I understand from Tom Custer that the woman was … is expecting soon.”

“Damn shame.” Hook rose and strode off into the twilight.

“What you figure’s eating at him?” Hickok asked.

Shad pulled a shaft of dried grass from his lips and tossed it onto the small fire at his feet. “Family, Bill. He’s got one—but he don’t know where. And everywhere around him, Jonah’s watching folks go killing off what they do have. The man’s just touchy right now.”

Hickok shook his head. “Jonah’s always touchy.”

Much more of the sad tale had become general knowledge by the time Custer led his command into Fort McPherson two days later, on the afternoon of 10 June.