He expected to be able to dispense some fatherly advice for the future.
‘Would you have a map, Major?’
‘A map? Well, good Lord. Yes, I suppose I do. Which area?’
‘Here at the fort, and north to the Yellowstone, please, sir.’
‘Good idea. Always useful to know where one is, and the surrounding country. Here.’
He spread the map out on the desk and explained. Craig had seen campaign maps before, but they were mostly blank except for landmarks noted by a few trappers and scouts. This one was covered with lines and blobs.
‘Here is the fort, on the north side of West Pryor Mountain, facing north to the Yellowstone and south to the Pryors. Here is Billings, and here is where I come from, Bozeman.’
Craig ran his finger the hundred miles between the two towns.
‘The Bozeman Trail?’ he asked.
‘Quite right, that’s what it used to be called. A blacktop highway now, of course.’
Craig did not know what a blacktop highway was, but thought it might be the long strip of black rock he had seen in the moonlight. There were dozens of smaller towns shown on the large-scale map and, on the southern bank of the Yellowstone, at the confluence with Clark’s Creek, an estate marked Bar-T Ranch. He reckoned it to be a tad to the west of a line due north from the fort and, cross-country, twenty miles. He thanked the major and handed back the map.
On the night of the 19th Ben Craig turned in early, just after chow time. No-one thought it odd. All the young men had spent the day cleaning up, greasing metal parts against the winter frosts, storing tools in secure cabins for next spring. The others in the bunkhouse came to bed around ten and quickly fell asleep. None noticed that their companion, beneath his blanket, was fully clothed.
He rose at midnight, slipped his fox hat on his head, folded two blankets and left without making a sound. No-one saw him cross to the stable, let himself in, and start to saddle Rosebud. He had made sure she had a double ration of oats for the extra strength she would need.
When she was ready he left her there, let himself into the smith’s forge and took the items he had noted the previous day: a hand-axe with belt sheath, a jemmy and metal cutters.
The jemmy took the hasp and padlock off the armoury door, and once inside the cutters made short work of the chain threaded through the trigger guards of the rifles. They were all replicas but one. He took his Sharps ’52 model back and left.
He led Rosebud to the small rear door by the chapel, unbarred it and walked out. His two blankets were under his saddle, the buffalo robe rolled and tied behind. The rifle in its sheath hung forward of his left knee and by his right knee hung a rawhide quiver with four arrows. His bow swung from his back. When he had walked his horse half a mile from the fort in silence he mounted up.
In this manner Ben Craig, frontiersman and scout, the only man to survive the massacre at the Little Bighorn, rode out of the year of grace 1877 and into the last quarter of the twentieth century.
By the setting of the moon he reckoned it was two in the morning. He had time to walk the twenty miles to the Bar-T Ranch and save Rosebud’s energy. He found the pole star and headed a few degrees to the west of the due-north path it indicated.
The prairie gave way to farmland and here and there he found posts in his way, with wire strung between them. He used the cutters and walked on. He crossed the line from Bighorn into Yellowstone County, but he knew nothing of that. At dawn he found the banks of Clark’s Creek and followed the curving stream north. As the sun tipped the hills to the east he spied a long stretch of bright white post-and-rail fencing and a sign announcing: ‘Bar-T Ranch. Private Property. Keep out.’ He deciphered the letters and walked on until he found the private road leading to the main gate.
At half a mile he could see the gate, and beyond it an enormous house surrounded by magnificent barns and stables. At the gate there was a striped pole across the road and a guardhouse. In the window was a low night light. He withdrew another half-mile to a stand of trees, unsaddled Rosebud and let her rest and crop the autumn grass. He rested through the morning but did not sleep, remaining alert like a wild animal.
In truth the newspaper diarist had underestimated the splendour Big Bill Braddock planned for his son’s wedding.
He had insisted that his son’s fiancée undergo a thorough examination at the hands of his family doctor, and the humiliated girl had had no choice but to concede. When he read the full report, his eyebrows rose.
‘She’s what?’ he asked the doctor. The medical man followed where the sausage finger pointed.
‘Oh yes, no question about it. Completely intacta.’
Braddock leered.
‘Well, lucky young Kevin. And the rest?’
‘F
lawless. A very beautiful and healthy young woman.’
The mansion had been transformed by the most fashionable interior designers money could hire into a fairy-tale castle. Out on the acre-sized lawn the altar had been set up twenty yards from the rail fence, facing the prairie. In front of the altar were row upon row of comfortable chairs for his guests, with an aisle down the centre for the loving couple to walk, Kevin first, attended by his best man, she and her nincompoop father to join them to the strains of the Bridal March.
The buffet banquet was to be laid out on trestle tables behind the chairs. No expense had been spared. There were pyramids of champagne glasses in Stuart crystal, oceans of French champagne of an eyebrow-raising marque and all vintage. He was determined his most sophisticated guest would not find a single detail amiss.