George Custer and I never agreed on much. I felt him too much the fool and too reckless when it came to his men’s lives. I especially disagreed with his keeping a dog.
I didn’t think he was good enough for a dog.
After a short argument about the merits of certain tactics, an argument for which he threatened to have me horsewhipped, I decided he most certainly didn’t deserve his dog. I stole the dog away, which was nothing difficult considering the man, and the dog and I went about our business.
I traveled to Virginia with Henry, which was what I decided to name the dog, and sooner than I expected, Henry proved his worth.
We had made camp in a small section of woodland in a copse of trees. I didn’t make a fire since I wasn’t sure how many Secesh were in the area. We ate our rations cold, and then the dog and I hunkered down to sleep.
Henry heard them before I did, and it was his low growl, which brought me awake, weapon in hand.
The creatures which attacked us had once been men, but they had died at least a year earlier. They were the undead, and they were hungry.
As the dead closed in on us, Henry continued barking, a beautiful sound that distracted the damned things and afforded me the opportunity to shoot them down. While they don’t move fast, more than a handful can overcome you with their numbers.
Before the morning came, I had emptied my Colts three times apiece, and the Spencer twice.
But all the dead were destroyed.
Henry and I broke camp and made our way to someplace safer, and one that stank less. With the dog trotting at my side, I smiled.
I think, when we reach a town, I’ll send a letter of thanks to Custer for giving me such an excellent traveling companion.
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