Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 by Terry C. Johnston

escape the trap we’ve laid for them, they’ll be running your way, Major. Right into your arms.”
    “We’ll be ready for them, General. They won’t get past us.”
    “Good. Now, Captain Myers—you’re to move your troops off to the right.” Custer traced a ragged line in the snow. “By backtracking west a short distance, the scouts tell me you’ll find a wide bend in the river where you can attack from southwest of the village. Station your two companies in the timber after crossing the river about a mile above my command here. You won’t have to ford the river at the moment of attack. Understood?”
    “Perfectly, sir,”
    “Captain Yates?” Custer gazed at the tall blond yankee from Monroe, Michigan, who for a short time during the Civil War, George W. Yates had served as an aide to Custer as part of General Pleasanton’s staff. A hometown boy, and a natural for the Custer inner circle. “General?”
    “Your F Company will be assigned to Captain Thompson.”
    Custer watched Yates’s steel-gray eyes flick to William Thompson. “Yessir,” Yates responded, nodding.
    Custer turned to Captain Thompson. “Will, you’re totake your two companies with Yates’s men to the crest of the knoll directly south of the village. If possible, link up with Elliott’s command, sealing the escape route the hostiles might use.”
    “Certainly.”
    “Sweep around the village and establish yourselves to the south of the village to await the attack.”
    “As you’ve ordered, General.”
    “Good. Now, I suppose you’re all wondering what my four troops will be doing as you flank the village on the east, west, and south. Frankly, boys, I’ve saved the point of the lance for myself. I’ll lead my companies across the river. While the four company commanders secure the village in concert with your actions, I’ll oversee the attack from a knoll south of the village.”
    “Sir?”
    “Mr. Cooke?” Custer turned toward the tall, handsome lieutenant, just recently awarded his bars. Billy Cooke, his men called him. And with respect. This dashing, bearded Canadian had migrated south into the States at the beginning of the Civil War simply so he could become a soldier. Some called him a patriot. Others, a soldier of fortune. A few went so far as to call Billy Cooke a mercenary. Little did it matter to Custer what made the Canadian tick, for he had recognized the makings of a fine officer and a close friend in W. W. Cooke.
    “Will my corps of riflemen ride across the river to engage the hostiles, sir?”
    “No, Lieutenant.” Custer stepped over to Cooke. “You are the final, crushing blow I plan for these murderers who have plundered the southern plains for the last time. Your sharpshooters won’t cross the river at all.”
    Custer waited for Cooke to nod. “I’ve sealed the village up from left and right, from north and south. The only way the warriors escape is to use the river itself. The banks are high enough to use the terrain for cover in an escape—but we don’t want one of these murderers to flee. So I’m sealing my trap with your forty sharpshooters—right there.” Custer pointed to his snowy map, showing Cooke to station his marksmen in the timber high along the north bank of the river. “Up there you will command a wide field of fire when the hostiles attempt to flee down the Washita.”
    “We won’t let you down.”
    Custer smiled, giving Cooke a hearty slap on the shoulder. “The scouts will remain with me.” He gazed down at the crude, muddy drawing in the snow near his feet and paused. “I suspect these warriors will be all the harder to bring down because we’re striking them in their homes, with their families. Be sure your men understand we’ll have a real scrap of it on our hands.”
    He waited for them to nod.
    “Good. From here on there must be no talking. Nothing above a whisper will be allowed. Warn the men against stamping their feet. An Indian sleeping on the ground might hear