A Distant Bugle: A Robert Vaughan Western

“It’s a wonderful letter, General,” Jack Shields said, handing Custer the missive from his wife Libbie, which had been delivered in the field and which Custer had asked him to read.

“Keep it for me, Jack,” Custer said to his young adjutant. “I want it returned to Libbie if anything should happen to me.”

Jack laughed nervously. “What could happen?” he asked.

George Armstrong Custer stood up and walked to the campfire to pour himself a cup of coffee. He took a swallow before answering.

“Major Reno,” he said simply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I fear he is going to cause serious trouble yet,” Custer confided. “His scouting party left several trails uninvestigated, and because of that we are like an army without ears or eyes, groping blindly through the dark. We don’t know where the Indians are, or how many there are—but they know everything about us. Of that we can be sure.”

“We’ll find them, General,” Jack said. “And when we do, the trap will close.”

“Yes, it will,” Custer said. “But upon whom?”