Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (14 page)

“By all means—let’s see what this squaw has to say.”

Mahwissa trudged up to Custer, stopping toe to toe with the soldier chief as she began jabbering.

“Says the Cheyenne call you
Hiestzi
now, General.”

“Which means?”

“Yellow Hair.
Color of winter grass out here on the plains.”

“What’s this to do with the young one there?”

“Seems the girl’s got no mother or father now—”

Custer shook his head. “Hurry with this. I’ve got pressing matters to attend to.”

Mahwissa had watched confusion slowly cloud the soldier chief’s face. Pushing Romero aside, the old woman
laid Monaseetah’s hand in Custer’s buckskin glove, holding both hands out before her. When Custer tried to yank his hand away, Mahwissa refused to let go, raising her mystical chant to the heavens, eyes closed in prayer.

Intrigued, Custer stopped pulling to free his hand, gazing down into the young girl’s deeply beautiful face. Her eyes never rose to his, but closed in prayerful reverence.

With each passing chorus of Mahwissa’s singsong chant, Romero’s smile widened.

Suspicions pricked, Custer demanded, “What’s this all about?”

Mahwissa released the couple’s hands.

“Prayer to the Everywhere Spirit, for his blessing.”

“Blessing!”

“Mahwissa’s married you to this young gal.”

“By the gods, Romero! You bloody well know I’m married already!”

“I know. But the Cheyenne don’t.”

Custer seethed with rage. “You tell them I’m already married. I won’t be made the butt of their pagan hoax!”

“Not a joke, General.”

“Tell them I already have a—”

“No difference to them Cheyenne. Monaseetah won’t fret being your left-hand wife.”

“Left-hand?”

“You already got a white woman for your right hand.”

Custer calmed a little. “A ceremonial thing, is it?” He drew himself up, puffing his chest. “Given the formality of this woman as a conquering hero.”

“Not just a ceremony to the Cheyenne, General. A real wedding. The young one’s your wife.”

“My
wife!”

Romero listened to the nearby troopers snicker at the shriek in Custer’s voice.

“You’re her husband. General—till you send her packing someday … back to the Cheyenne.”

“I see. When we’ve completed this campaign, hmmm? A long, long winter gone from now.”

“Hey, General!” Clark intruded, hurrying over. “Take a look yonder.” He waited for Custer’s attention to be ripped from Romero and the young captive. “Look up on the ridge … over there.”

Custer followed the scout’s arm. Half-naked bodies bristled atop the hills to the south, southeast. Warriors on horseback, gathered in small, angry knots glaring down at the plundered Cheyehne village.

“Some of the defeated warriors, Clark. The few fortunate enough to escape my net.”

“You’re wrong, Custer.”

“Care to tell me who those warriors are?”

“They’re not Cheyenne. More like Arapaho. Some Kiowa. I figure for the next few miles downriver lay more camps than any of us ever counted on stumbling into. More warriors than we could fight in one day.”

“By Judas’s judgment!” Custer laughed. “That bunch is up there to keep us from finishing our job.”

“What job, General?”

“Destroying the plunder … these lodges. And we’ll have to take care of the ponies.”

“Dammit!” Clark’s eyes flashed. “Best you listen to your scouts, General.”

“You boys are becoming nervous old women!” Custer chuckled as he turned away. His laughter drew cackling from the soldiers assigned to guard the captives.

“General, you’ve gone and poked a huge nest of wasps here.” Clark glared at Custer’s broad back. “You hear me?”

The general leapt aboard Dandy without another word.

“General! Dammit! One day you’re bound to have to listen to your scouts! One day real soon!”

Suddenly a detail of blue-tunics whipped their frenzied mounts down the north bank of the Washita and into the icy river without slowing. A handful of soldiers on foot momentarily turned on the bank to return fire into the timber before plunging into the water, terror written on every face.

As the dozen scrambled up on the bank, Moylan whirled up, arriving on the scene beside Custer, both men’s horses sending sprays of muddy snow cascading over some of the drenched troopers.

“Sergeant Johnson!” Custer called to the lead man.

“Yessir, General!”

“What in blazes goes here?” Custer demanded.

“Had to abandon the coats and packs, sir.”

“Abandon them?”

“We was overrun! They rode down on us—”

“Overrun by who?”

“Warriors, sir! Found out where you left us off to guard the packs and coats—”

“Precisely, Sergeant. Your detail was to guard that army property. Those of you who deserted your assigned posts could be subject to courts-martial for the loss of that government property … in addition to abandoning your posts.”

A good portion of Sergeant Niles Johnson’s untried recruits murmured between themselves, angry and fearful. Johnson alone understood that George Armstrong Custer had never once retreated in his entire career.

“I done it to save the men, sir. We was about to be overrun and I didn’t want to sacrifice my command. I knowed reinforcements was here to help us—”

“Save the men? That’s not your department to decide, Sergeant.”

“Sir. Respectfully … it weren’t coward—”

“Begging your pardon, General,” Clark interrupted.

“What is it, Clark? More valuable advice?”

“Dammit, General! They ain’t all Cheyenne breathing down our necks! This little camp ain’t the only village in this valley. I savvy the sergeant’s men were chased off by the same bunch of Arapaho that came boiling after Godfrey’s blood. Maybe the same bunch jumped Major Elliott and his boys.”

Custer stared into the trees across the Washita, then suddenly wheeled on his adjutant. “Moylan, have Benteen’s men go with Hard Rope to bring the pony herd across the river.”

Clark shook his head. “What in devil’s dust do you want with them ponies?”

“Their destruction, Mr.—”

The unexpected roar of more carbine fire rumbled over the frightened shouts of panicked men from the north side of the river. The winter air split with Indian screeches and the sharp cracks of their rifles, just as Lieutenant James M. Bell bounced up from the riverbank on the hard seat of his army freight wagon.

Wide-eyed, Bell hunched over like a bent old woman, whipping his team straight down the sharp incline into the crossing, splashing headlong into the river. On his heels rattled the rest of the noisy freighters, each one driven by grim-lipped, bug-eyed soldiers, every teamster jockeying to
be the next wagon into the ford. With the clattering wagons galloped a double fistful of the regiment’s pack mules, bellering hell bent for election through the ranks with brass-lunged
scree-haws
and spraying rooster tails of icy water. One wagon lumbered over on its side to avoid a collision. It bounced a few yards across the rocky riverbottom on two wheels, then clattered back down on all four, the driver no longer clutching the reins but clinging to the seat instead.

First up the slope into the village, Bell wheeled his wagon hard as he brought his wild-eyed animals under control and leaned all his weight back into the brake. The iron-rimmed wheel protested as loud as any of the screeching warriors at that moment making their colorful appearance on the north bank.

“Lieutenant Bell!” Custer called.

“Reporting, sir!” The older officer trotted up to the general, sloughing red mud over his boots.

“Let’s have your report,” Custer yelled above the bursts of carbines fired at the screeching Indians on the north bank.

“A while back I heard some rifle fire coming from the direction where we left Johnson with the packs and coats, sir!” He was breathless. “Took my drivers to assist the sergeant’s men.”

“Go on.”

“Figured we could help drive off the warriors. But there were more damned redskins around those packs and coats than I ever hope to see again in all my days!”

“Tell me all of it.”

“Headed the wagons ’round the hills and raced down to the crossing near the horse herd.”

“The horse herd?” Custer’s voice rose an octave.

“Yessir.”

Custer waved his arms wildly. “By God’s back teeth, those red buggers won’t get their bloody hands on their horses!” Custer turned back to Bell. “Lieutenant, you’re to be commended for your quick and decisive action in the face of the enemy. I’ll see to it you receive a regimental commendation when we return to Fort Hays. Didn’t lose any men in the run?”

“No, sir. All present and accounted for.”

“Splendid! Have one of your men find Captain Thompson. I’ll have Thompson take a detachment back to find our property.”

“Yessir!”

“Very good, soldier.” Custer clapped his gloved hands together. “I’ve captured their village. Now it’s time for me to crush the spirit of those who escaped my noose.”

W
ORK
continued in earnest pulling Cheyenne property from the lodges. A count to record captured goods had started when shouts cracked the still air, floating across the river. Hard Rope and Romero led the first of the Cheyenne ponies into the Washita. The Seventh Cavalry had the Cheyenne herd.

Benteen’s troops had driven off the warriors and recaptured the ponies. In a brief running fight, his two squads lost a few of the animals but took no casualties. Like milkweed down before a wind, the hostiles had scattered and fled. Then Hard Rope and Romero had showed Benteen’s men how to get that herd moving south onto the river trail.

More than nine hundred prized Cheyenne stock splashed out of the Washita, up the south bank. The ponies burst into the captured village, nostrils flaring, tails held high, fresh dung dropped fragrant on the muddy snow.

“Drive them into the meadow southeast of camp!”
Custer shouted as Hard Rope cleared the top of the bank, riding among the herd leaders.

“Some good-looking stock there, General.” Lieutenant Godfrey dismounted beside his commander.

“I’m going to let each troop commander select a pony of his own. Then we’ll cut out a few to replace the mules we’ve lost. After that, Romero will see that the captives ride a pony back to Camp Supply.”

“And the rest of ’em, General?”

Custer turned to Godfrey. “The rest are yours.”

“Mine?”

“The herd is yours to destroy, Lieutenant.”

A quarter-hour later the ponies grazed in the open meadow southeast of the Cheyenne camp. Custer called in the captain and lieutenant of each troop to make a selection after he gave his brother Tom first choice. When all officers had finished cutting out their chosen ponies, Custer signaled to his Cheyenne interpreter.

“Romero, Lieutenant Godfrey’s men will assist you capturing mounts for the captives. When you have enough ponies for the women and children, take them back to camp. Tether them near Bell’s wagons.”

It didn’t take long for the prisoners to show up at the edge of the herd, each woman carrying one or more rawhide or buffalo-hide hackamores rescued from the loot taken from the lodges for counting. What animals would be spared the coming slaughter were soon picketed near Lieutenant Bell’s wagons.

“How do I handle this destruction for you, sir?” Godfrey’s mouth had gone dry. He watched Custer climb into the saddle.

“Don’t waste a lot of our limited ammunition, Lieutenant
but your four companies will have to shoot each one.”

Godfrey nodded, turning to set his men to their grisly task.

It wasn’t long before the soldiers discovered that Indian ponies didn’t take to the smell of white men. Again and again they darted away from the confining ring of soldiers, making it tough keeping the animals corralled when the firing began in earnest. Custer’s slaughter was under way.

Overhead, the winter sun reached midsky, softening the snow into slush, turning the ground into red gumbo beneath the churning of so many hooves and boots. Some frustrated, cold troopers slipped and fell among the frightened, wild-eyed ponies, grumbling curses.

With every boom of a Springfield in that muddy meadow, another Cheyenne pony dropped, its blood seeping into the Washita snows. The whole process took three entire companies more than an hour and a half.

By the time the last frightened, snorting pony dropped to the slime of bloody snow, better than 875 animals lay dead. The earthy odor of their fresh dung was like a heady perfume on a cruel wind. Puffs of steam hissed from each bullet wound. The stench of blood and dung and death hung like an ache over the camp.

With an unbridled fury the milling warriors watched the soldiers loot the village.

Worse still, they could only watch as the slaughter of the prized Cheyenne herd took place. Ponies shot like so many white men’s cattle in a butcher pen. The warriors were helpless to stop the destruction. Deep in each red breast beat an agony at so great a loss of the plains warrior’s greatest possession.

Black Kettle’s band was no more. The survivors would never recover from the loss of those hundreds of ponies that enabled them to continue their nomadic way of life. In less than one journey of the sun, this band of people had been rubbed from the breast of the Mother of All Things.

“We must go on making war against the pony soldiers—fighting for those who cannot!” Arapaho chief Left Hand cried out in fury and dismay atop a tree-lined hill.

“No!” shouted Skin-Head, another war chief, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “These soldiers have dealt us a vicious blow—we must learn from it. This is surely what happens when the pony soldiers hunt down the warriors who raid their white settlements. These pony soldiers slaughter old men, and call it battle. They capture women and children … if those helpless ones do not already lie dead in the snow beside the young men.”

“Cowards speak of giving up! Are you a fool? Is your mind so small not to remember our fight in the snowy meadow this morning?” Left Hand asked. “Those pony soldiers fought with courage. They died like men. Not like these butchers!”