Seize the Sky: Son of the Plains-Volume 2 by Terry C. Johnston Page B

to the unquestioned control he held over the men of his “wild” I Company. With Custer’s regiment from its inception, brooding Myles Keogh brought the best, and perhaps the worst, out in all his men.
    “What’s to say ’bout me—eh, mates?” His thick brogue poured over every one.
    “Why, who the hell would you name your beneficiary, you lady-humping rounder, you?” Tom Custer swung a fist into Keogh’s taut mid-section.
    “Why, Tommy, me boy! You know I ’aven’t got a dolly to mourn me passing, a’tall … a’tall. But, still took me out a policy with the same blooming life insurance drummer. And, should these red buggers be-chance lift my scalp—why, them bankers’ll pay me dear ol’ mither back in Erin they will!”
    Calhoun slapped Keogh on the back, pushing him back into line good-naturedly.
    Calhoun and Keogh were quite a pair. Both serving long with Custer and his magical Seventh, both part of the inner clique that drew close around Custer himself, protecting the general. Fiercely loyal to a fault, both Keogh and Calhoun swore that should the day ever come that theycould repay Custer’s kindnesses to them, neither of them would be found wanting.
    “Gentlemen!” Custer held his arm up, and the officers’ laughter subsided. “We’ll move up the Rosebud tomorrow. There will be no wagons this time. Hence, no tents.”
    He waited until the good-natured groans and complaints played out. “No wagons means we’re taking mules along. A pack train. Twelve mules per company. That forces us to march light, you understand. Fifteen days we’ll be out, so fifteen days’ rations packed for each man. Hardtack, coffee, and sugar to be carried on each man’s mount. Twelve days of bacon only. No more. Don’t overburden the mounts, gentlemen. There may well come a time when we can’t afford to overtax the animals, and we’ll need their energy and strength for a fight of it. Ammunition more than food, fellas. Understood?”
    “Yes, sir!” Cooke answered for them all.
    Custer peered a moment at the cloudy sky, almost as if hoping for a peek at a star. “Speaking of our mounts, every man will carry twelve pounds of oats and a nose bag for his horse. In case we can’t locate good graze, we must be prepared to feed the animals. And every man will keep on him a hundred rounds for his carbine, twenty-four for his revolver. In addition, see that two thousand rounds of carbine ammo are loaded on each company mule. If you feel your assigned mules can take it, I might suggest some extra forage.”
    “Sounds like you’re fixing to have us out even longer than fifteen days, General.”
    Custer glared at Major Reno’s dark face. “We might be. Terry figured five days at the most before the jaws of his trap snap shut. However, I want us ready for fifteen at the least. These Indians won’t get away this time. My only fear is that the Sioux are going to run, that I’ll have to chase them as they scatter on us. But Sitting Bull won’t get away for long if we’re prepared to follow.”
    “Beggin’ pardon, General.” The big Missourian stepped into the light between lieutenants Edgerly and Smith. “Are you prepared to support any unit that gets itself into trouble this time out?”
    Custer tensed, turning slowly toward the strapping Benteen. “Captain, care to tell me just what you mean by your question?”
    “Why, I was remembering the Washita and Major Elliott.…”
    With Benteen’s acidic words Tom Custer sensed a stunned silence slash through the assembled officers like a saber.
    “Major … Major Elliott?” Custer stammered.
    “Yes, General. That time on the Washita when you failed to support one of your officers. I want to be assured in front of your officer corps that such an event will not occur again. You will follow and support as you have promised?”
    “Promised?” Custer grew bright red. “This is war, Benteen! Not some sterile battle maneuver pitting us against civilized soldiers in