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your daring charges, and by jingo you were on your way to capturing the cream of the Confederate cavalry at Appomattox—right when Lee himself saw fit to hand his flag of surrender to no one else but you.”
    “I was the only one there to take his flag, sir.”
    “That’s bullshit and we both know it, Custer. He wanted to hand that flag to the one man who had repeatedly stymied the cream of his Reb cavalry under Stuart.”
    “I learned from the best, sir. Philip H. Sheridan.”
    “Perhaps I am the only one better than you, goddammit.” Sheridan knocked his boots together to shock some warmth into his frozen feet, “Still, I’m having some secondthoughts about campaigning in the jaws of winter. Perhaps that old scout Bridger was right after all. I’m not so sure we won’t suffer casualties to the goddamned weather you’ll encounter on your march.”
    “On the contrary, sir—begging your pardon.” Custer stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and glanced down at the squared toes of his tall black boots. “This deep snow is exactly what I had in mind. It could not come at a more opportune moment. My men are ready, capable of marching through that snow. By the same token, the hostile warriors we seek won’t even consider moving out of their villages for days to come.”
    “You are one of a kind, Armstrong.”
    “Shall I take that as a compliment, sir?”
    “Of course, my eager young friend.” Sheridan rose to his feet and clapped his hands on Custer’s broad shoulders. “I’ll buy your optimistic estimate on this weather … and your men.”
    Sheridan shook Custer’s hand. “I made you what you are, Armstrong. I can’t ever forget that.”
    “General!” Custer saluted and wheeled toward the tent flaps.
    “Custer?”
    The young officer turned, one of the canvas flaps still clutched in his buffalo mitten, admitting a cold slash of winter into the tent. “Sir?”
    “Take good care of your troops, my friend. They are your backbone.”
    “Understood, sir. They’ve never let me down.”
    Custer saluted smartly before he tugged the buffalo cap down on his forehead and plunged into the cold. To his side leapt his beloved Blucher and Maida, the two splendidScottish staghounds he had brought from Monroe. At the Bluff Creek Camp south of Fort Dodge, Blucher had run down and killed a young wolf during one of his master’s frequent hunts.
    Custer knelt to pull at their ears playfully. Lieutenant Myles Moylan stomped up through the calf-deep snow.
    “How will this do for a winter campaign, General?”
    “Just what we want, Moylan,” came Custer’s swift reply. “Exactly what the gods ordered for me.” Custer stood, squared his shoulders, then stomped off, stiff-legged.
    With Custer’s words fading into the darkness, other voices hung just beyond Sheridan’s tent, strong voices come stinging to his ears. Familiar voices, some of them, familiar to an old soldier. Other wars, other battles, other campaigns … different names but soldiers just the same.
    Sergeants ordered their men to “Prepare to mount!” followed by a rustle of frozen, squeaky harness, jangling bit chains, and cold black leather as the officers called out, “Mount!”
    The coughing and wheezing of a few of the troopers slithered through the oiled canvas of his tent as Sheridan stood framed in the cold flickering light of his single hurricane lamp, eyes fixed on that patch of ground where snow threw itself beneath the tent flaps.
    Rhythmically plodding with the creak and swish of cold harness and frozen buckles, two columns of shivering pony soldiers lumbered past, their broad shoulders smeared upon the taut canvas wall of his wind-whipped tent. Sheridan recognized the shrill voice of handsome Major Joel H. Elliott as Custer’s headquarters staff rode by.
    “Goddammit all, but I wish I was home right now!”Elliott’s was a voice full of youth and mirth and a soldier’s camaraderie.
    “I’ll bet you do, Major!” Sergeant Major