Read Custer at the Alamo for Free Online Page B

Fifth U.S. Cavalry was sent south to watch the border and maintain civil authority. Tom Rosser, my old West Point roommate, had come from Texas and bragged about how nice the people were. He’d been right.
    “We’ll make camp at noon, then start for San Antonio in the morning,” I announced.
    “We’ve still got half a day of sunlight, General,” Cooke protested.
    “We’ve also got three rivers to cross. Tell Keogh to draw in our flank but keep a sharp eye out for hostiles,” I ordered.
    “Yes, sir,” Cooke said, saluting before riding off.
    “Worried about the horses?” Tom guessed.
    “I pressed too hard coming down the divide, exhausting the men and the mounts. By the time we stumbled into the village, we were in no shape to fight. I’m not going to make that mistake again,” I explained.
    “I’ll go forward with Bouyer. Find a campsite,” Tom offered.
    “I will go, too,” Morning Star said, bundled up against the cold on her Indian pony, a white mustang with brown spots and black hooves.
    “Are you now scouting for the Seventh Cavalry, young lady?” I asked.
    “I will hunt for berries and roots. Thomas and his brother will eat well tonight,” Morning Star said with a smile.
    My scouting party moved ahead. I lingered behind, waiting for E Company and the wagon while considering looking for some game. I was in no hurry. Even after we reached San Antonio, what then? How would I explain to General Sheridan that four-fifths of my command had disappeared? And how could anyone explain our magical appearance in Texas?
    “You must not leave the trail,” Slow suddenly said.
    The Indian boy was standing up in the wagon, staring at me with disapproval. Jumping Bull sat next to him, nodding agreement.
    “What do you mean, youngster?” I asked, using a few hand signals to make my question clearer.
    “The birds say you must continue south,” Slow explained.
    “Nothing but dirt and mud to the south. We’ve got a fair-sized town to the east,” I replied.
    “Enemy wait for you,” the boy said, pointing down the trail.
    “Comanche?” I asked.
    “Enemy,” Slow said.
    His eyes were big and black. Determined. Possessed? Did some dark spirit . . . ? No, I didn’t believe such nonsense. Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to reach the Camino Real before turning east. Even a dirt road would be easier than going cross-country in such bad weather.
    “Okay, boy, we’ll hold the trail a few more hours,” I agreed.
    Slow sat down without responding. Not even a smile of satisfaction.
    Just before noon, I saw a messenger riding hard in our direction. We were fairly close to the river, which at this point of the Rio Grande’s course, was mostly brown mud churned up by the recent rains. I stayed with Dr. Lord near the wagon, the pace sluggish because of the storm-soaked trail. The messenger was Corporal Henry Voss, my chief trumpeter. He’d thrown off the buffalo hide, riding in his blue tunic, a yellow scarf flapping in the wind.
    “General Custer! General Custer! You won’t believe it!” the young man yelled. His blue eyes were wide with excitement, the shaggy blond hair spotted with mud. Voss spoke English well despite his German accent.
    “Calm down, boy. Are we back in Dakota?” I asked.
    “Major Custer says to come on quick. I’m to find Captain Keogh,” he said, spurring past me without another word.
    It would have been nice to know what the shouting was about, but communication has never been my battalion’s strong point. Something to work on. I turned to Harrington, the only officer riding with my group.
    “Harry, have Yates draw the command up to escort the wagon. Tell Smith to follow on my trail. C Company, you’re with me,” I ordered, giving Vic a gentle kick.
    We moved at a trot for several miles, sometimes following the course of the river, sometimes cutting over low weed-covered hills. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf rode up beside me, agitated by the suspense. Spotted Eagle carried a musket