Trumpet on the Land: The Aftermath of Custer's Massacre, 1876

Through the next few hours King imagined he dozed off and on, catching himself nodding, then blinking to stay awake, squirming and shifting positions in the heat of the sun as he kept staring at the unmoving, unchanging, austere horizon where nothing stirred, not even a distant swirl of dust. Minute by minute, ultimately hour by hour. Made harder still knowing the rest of Company C was likely sleeping out the shank of their afternoon down in the shade of the South Fork’s cottonwoods and willows.

As quiet at it was on the Mini Pusa that hot Sunday afternoon, two hundred miles farther to the north an entire regiment was embroiled in a fight for its very life.

But here it was as quiet as it would be at the bottom of a freshly dug grave. Somewhere to the southeast the Indians would be coming, eager and on their way to join Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. Over to the southwest Carr was bringing on the rest of the Fighting Fifth. It was only a matter of time now, King knew. Wouldn’t be long before the regiment had its hands full.

“I don’t think there’s a damned red-belly stirring today,” grumbled the major. He slapped his glasses against his dusty britches, disgusted.

King continued to peer through his, for a few minutes content to watch the distant flight of a hawk, perhaps a golden eagle, sailing against the cloudless summer blue far to the northeast. Wondering if that bird of astounding eyesight could look down on Crook’s column as it chased Crazy Horse. Wondering if it peered down on the fair-haired Custer as the gallant Seventh Cavalry narrowed the noose around old Sitting Bull himself.

King watched that bird fly far above the hot land, not knowing that somewhere below its wide wings men fell and bled. And lay still in the tall grass, dreaming of eternity’s reward.

Throughout that night and into the morning of the twenty-sixth they kept up their watch over the nearby Indian trail without success. Then, near noon, the head of Carr’s column hoved into sight, which made for a joyous rendezvous in the valley of the Cheyenne. Here Sheridan had ordered them to set up their base of operations and await further instructions while keeping an eye on any warrior activity. Near sundown the lieutenant colonel dispatched Captain Sanford C. Kellogg with his I Company to explore the well-beaten warrior trail behind Little Bat while the other seven troops picketed and hobbled their horses, making camp, and while they set about relaxing for this first of many days of waiting.

And waiting.

Five long, hot summer days of waiting.

On 1 July dust was spotted rising to the southwest, below it a dark column of twos. It was Captain Montgomery’s B Company, bringing the Fighting Fifth up to eight full troops of strength. As well, a courier sent out from Major E. F. Townsend, Laramie’s commander, to explain that Townsend would send supplies along as soon as he could guarantee wagon transportation for them. At the earliest, it would be 6 July before a supply train could depart the North Platte.

There were also dispatches from Sheridan, one notifying Carr of Crook’s predicament, his disappointing affair on the Rosebud, and his present stalemate far to the north, that same dispatch reporting that Terry and Gibbon planned to probe south of the Yellowstone using their cavalry—and what better cavalry to use than Custer’s Seventh? So for the time being Sheridan was recommending the Fifth sit tight on the trail and keep a wary eye open. At the moment, the lieutenant general was not sending the Fifth in to reinforce Crook. Not just yet.

Yet for all the momentous news come from Indian country, it was nonetheless the arrival of a single man that caused the most stir there in the valley of the Mini Pusa. Charles King could see that Eugene Carr immediately recognized the old soldier riding at the head of Montgomery’s company as the troops came to a dusty halt beneath its snapping guidon.

The lieutenant colonel stopped by the officer’s horse and saluted, his eyes squinting into the bright light. “General Merritt, Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Carr, sir. Welcome.”

Wesley Merritt returned the salute and slid out of his saddle, yanking his sweaty gauntlets from his hands. “Colonel Carr. It’s good to see you again.”

Carr’s face was a study of stony impassivity as he asked, “By your presence here, am I to understand that General Emory has retired, sir?”

“He has. I am come to take over the Fifth.”

Suddenly snapping his back straight, as rigid as any fighting man’s, Carr saluted again. “Yes, sir, General Merritt. May I be given the opportunity to introduce you to your officer corps?”

“By all means, General Carr,” Merritt replied, using Carr’s brevet grade earned during the Civil War. “I can’t tell you how proud I am to be leading this outfit.”

King watched the pair stroll off, followed by Merritt’s aides and a dog-robber who was there to fetch anything the new commander of the Fifth Cavalry should desire. Then the young lieutenant wagged his head.