Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (30 page)

“Romero,” Custer said as he stepped forward, “ask how long it will take.”

“He says the village will be here late tomorrow.”

“What the hell’s taking ’em so long?” Sheridan asked.

“Ponies are poor from winter grass, General.”

“What goddamned horses are these?” Sheridan yelled, pointing at the twelve ponies.

“The best in two camps. The rest are played out from the long winter and poor grazing.”

Sheridan grew exasperated. “How the devil can these twelve get here, and the villages takes so goddamned long?”

“General, these warriors aren’t dragging any travois loaded down with children and old ones. They rode fast—just to keep up with Satanta’s son.”

Sheridan glared flints for a moment, then walked over to the two manacled chiefs. Suddenly he whirled about, slamming one fist down into an open palm. Smiling at Custer.

“By damned, Custer!” he roared. “If you don’t always manage to outflank me—like you did Stuart at Gettysburg!”

Custer laughed with him. “Shall I have the prisoners returned to their tent under guard, sir?”

“By all means.” Sheridan flung an arm at the rope nooses hanging from the limb above. “But I’m leaving those damned hemp collars right where they are. Might serve as a reminder to the bastards what a chance they’re taking. And a reminder of my personal faith in you, Custer.”

Custer sensed the weight of Sheridan’s faith once more.
“I figured I’d lost much of your faith in the past few weeks, sir.”

“Perhaps I’ve been a little headstrong of late. Should try harder to give an old friend his due … especially for old times’ sake.”

He shook his head. “Hope I don’t end up regretting that I didn’t hang these miserable bastards.” Sheridan’s eyes leveled on Custer. “Sadder still if I end up regretting that I believed in you.”

“Have I let you down, sir?”

“No, not once.”

“Nor will I ever, General.”

“S
O
tell me, Romero, is this old man ready for his trip?” Custer asked as the pair walked up to Custer’s breakfast fire.

“He is.”

Custer appraised the ancient chief with the stature of a stout oak water keg. The Seventh had been camped here at Fort Cobb since the eighteenth of December waiting for the tribes to show. He couldn’t send a Kiowa on this delicate mission, but Romero had found this ancient Apache chief spending the winter in Satanta’s villages. Iron Shirt’s face was as chisled as the roughened bark of the blackjack oak dotting their camp.

“Problem is, General, Iron Shirt don’t trust the old she-bitch.”

“Mahwissa?”

“Way he sees it, she’d just as soon slit his throat as talk.”

“You tell him it’s not his to like her or not. She’s going along to help him find the Cheyenne and Arapaho. Tell them to come in to Fort Cobb before the soldiers destroy
their villages. Mahwissa saw first-hand what my troops can do to an enemy camp.”

Iron Shirt waved his hands energetically, jabbering in his toothless Apache generously laced with Kiowa and sign.

“Old man says he’d tell the tribes what your soldiers did at the Washita. Says you are the strong arm. He’ll tell the other tribes of your mighty power.”

“And tell Iron Shirt not to worry about the woman. She’ll cause him no trouble.” Custer nodded toward the four women walking up, Monaseetah among them.

Romero chattered at Mahwissa, then turned back to Custer. “Says she wants to take the old Sioux along, Stingy Woman.”

Custer shook his head. “She’s a regular pain in the neck, this one.”

“I figured her to pain a man a lot lower, like where he sits his saddle!” Romero chuckled.

“Pray she isn’t a nuisance to Iron Shirt. And inform her the chief is her only companion. She needs no other.”

“She ain’t gonna—”

“Just tell her what I said, Romero.”

As Romero translated, Mahwissa’s eyes stabbed at Custer like bone awls. Stingy Woman crossed her arms, glaring haughtily at Romero.

When Mahwissa finally spoke, her words burst like a furious dam breaking. She stomped up to Custer, one fist balled on a wide hip, the other hand shaking a scarred and battered finger at him, reminding him of his mother wagging her finger at a naughty young Autie.

“Says you’re giving her to the old Apache—to warm his robes each night.”

“Giving her to Iron Shirt? Where’d she come up with that idea?”

“She figures that ’cause she knows about you and Monaseetah. Says the soldier chief uses the young squaw for his pleasure, so you’re giving her to the old man for his robes.”

“That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard! You’d better change her mind about things!” Custer snapped, watching Monaseetah not taking her eyes from the ground. “Tell Mahwissa it’s time to show me that her words are straight. I remember when she told me she would help with her people. Now she can prove it.”

As Romero translated, Mahwissa’s chin jutted proudly. She glared at the Apache, as if to say,
Keep your hands to yourself, old man.

“She understands, General.”

“About time. I could have negotiated a cease-fire with the Army of Northern Virginia in less time! Moylan, bring up the horses.”

Romero pointed out the animals three soldiers brought up: two horses decked with McClellan saddles, a pair of blankets lashed at the cantle, and a young pack mule swaying beneath more blankets and burlap sacks.

“They have provisions for fifteen days. A kettle and some fire-making gear in that greased pouch there.” Custer stepped up to Iron Shirt. “Tell the old chief I trust him with this mission. On the mule are presents of food, clothing, and blankets. I don’t want Mahwissa returning to her people empty-handed. Tell the Cheyenne I’m sending these gifts because I want peace. I don’t want another village destroyed.”

When Romero concluded, Mahwissa hugged Stingy
Woman, then leapt atop the horse she chose to ride, regally peering down on those gathered to watch the departure. She nudged her animal close to Custer.

After she patted the belt that tied an old blanket coat about her waist and finished a short speech, the scout translated.

“She says she’ll do what you ask. You’ll hear from her people very soon. And she wants me to tell you that the soldier chief is sending her on this journey without a weapon. Important to a Cheyenne squaw to have a weapon. A knife’s such a small thing, she says.”

“A knife?”

“What they call a
mutch-ka.
May not be a big thing to you but mighty important to her.”

With the way the old woman stared at his belt, Custer realized Mahwissa wasn’t after just any knife. She had her heart set on his own hunting knife.

Custer slid the sheath off his belt. He refused to let it go as he held it up to her, waiting for Romero to translate his instructions. “Tell her I want the knife back the next time we meet. When she comes back before the moon changes. My favorite knife—I’ll let her use it on this important journey to talk of peace with her people.”

As quickly as Romero finished, Mahwissa yanked the knife from Custer’s hand and jammed it in her belt. Patting the knife, she gazed into the distance, refusing to utter any thanks or even acknowledge the soldier chief.

Iron Shirt raised his wrinkled hand in farewell, then signaled the woman to follow. Jerking on the mule’s rope, the old Apache set off through the cold mist hanging in the trees like frosty cotton. Neither he nor the old woman ever looked back.

*    *    *

Custer jerked awake—frightened.

He was reassured only when he gazed down at her sleeping face nestled beside him in the gray of army wool. He’d been afraid she wasn’t there. Afraid Libbie had found out and—

It washed back over him. Monaseetah had remained all night, falling asleep while he scratched nib and ink across paper. A letter to Libbie, then one to his half-sister back in Monroe, and finally the official work: reports and catching up on those never-ending journal entries. He recalled the sound of her gentle, childlike snoring as he had slipped beneath the covers a handful of hours ago.

The first night they hadn’t coupled beneath his heavy blankets and robes.

A smile crossed his lips, recalling how she loved licking the sweat off him, tasting it with the delicate tip of her tongue as the beads glistened down his neck, along his shoulder, and across his chest. Tracing the pink tip of her tongue over his heated flesh whenever they lay exhausted in the joy of one another.

“General?”

He’d wait a minute, breathing shallow and slow. Maybe the soldier would go away.

“General? It’s Sergeant Lucas.”

He wasn’t going away. Not this one. Sergeant Gregory Lucas believed it was his duty to awaken Custer when any need arose. Good soldiers never let their commanders sleep in.

“What in tarnal blazes is it, Lucas?”

“The scout Romero is here.”

“What’s he want?”

“He’s here with the old Apache.”

Custer bolted upright in bed.

“Iron Shirt, General,” the interpreter spoke up.

“Very well, Romero. Get both the Indians something to eat. I’ll be out shortly.”

“Both, General? Iron Shirt came back alone.”

Custer kicked his feet out of the blankets. “Where’s the woman?”

“Says she stayed behind at the—”

“Behind!” Custer pulled on his long-handles, yanking dirty stockings over his feet.

“Says she was ordered by the chiefs not to come back.”

“Ordered, was she?” His boots on, Custer rose. His breath fogged the tent as he slipped his arms into the wool tunic, angrily jamming buttons through their holes. He noticed Monaseetah watching him from behind her blankets.

“See that he has some coffee and breakfast. I’ll be right there.”

“Something else he says.”

“Sounds like bad news. Spit it out.”

“Iron Shirt says after the Cheyenne chiefs talked it over, they decided their ponies couldn’t make the trip right now. “

“Don’t they understand I’ll track them down and destroy their villages?”

“Two of ’em wanna come talk with you,” Romero said.

“Only two?”

“Little Robe—a Cheyenne chief. And old Yellow Bear, Arapaho. They told Iron Shirt to tell
Hiestzi
they were coming in to talk with him.”

“That’s more like it!” Custer cheered, bursting through the tent flaps. “More like Christmas greetings!”

“It is Christmas Day, ain’t it, General?” Lucas said.

“Merry Christmas! Now, be off, Romero—get some breakfast in Iron Shirt’s belly.”

He listened as their steps worried across the old snow before he ducked back in his warm tent.

Christmas Day. Custer felt guilty for not even missing Fort Hays, much less Christmas back home in Monroe with his family. Home: glowing candles and fragrant spruce garlands draped along every wall, wrapping every banister; smells of fresh-baked goods from the kitchen as the door swung open to the huge dining parlor.

Soon enough would come the new year, 1869. What it held for him, Custer dared not ask. All that concerned him at this moment was a young creature of the wilderness who pulled back the covers for him, exposing one breast as firm and round as a ripe melon.

Monaseetah patted the blankets beside her and cocked her head, coy as always. Her eyes invited him back into the garden. Dark, liquid eyes shy behind the long, raven-black lashes. She invited him.

“Why not?” he asked. He swallowed hard, his breathing quickly labored, shallow. His nostrils filling with the heated woman-musk of her. His mate.

As his shadow crawled over her, Custer realized deep in the very being of him that every man deserved at least one Christmas like this.

“Happy New Year, Angel Face!”

Custer toasted his young brother, holding a cup filled with nothing stronger than black coffee.

“A very happy New Year to you, Autie!”

Tom had been toasting one and all with whiskey he had brought from Fort Dodge in small flasks. At twenty-three, the young captain loved revelry. There was a lust for life flowing in his veins that in some way, for some reason, had always seemed diluted in his older brother.

Up and down officers’ row on this night of celebration men danced with one another to tunes pumped out by the regimental band. Bright fires leapt into the inky darkness of the late night as a soft snow drifted down upon Fort Cobb. General Hazen and his staff had come down to pay their respects, celebrating at Sheridan’s quarters.

Here at Custer’s camp his officers had gathered: Myers, Yates, Thompson, Benteen, along with Godfrey, Cooke, and Moylan. Young Tom Custer had dragged along the reporter Keim, with everyone well on his way to seeing in the new year in uproarious style.

Since leaving Camp Supply three weeks ago, Monaseetah had genuinely come to enjoy the company of these white men. Not only because they showed her a consideration she had never known among Cheyenne males, but because these white men knew how to have fun. Their joy was like that of a young Cheyenne warrior celebrating a victory with his young friends.

From time to time, she gazed up at Custer. Studying the fine cut of his face, that sharp angle of his Teutonic nose as it blended into his cheek. Or the clean line of his thin lips nearly lost beneath the bristling mustache and beard tinted red-gold with dancing firelight. He let the snow fall on his long, combed curls, scented with cinnamon. She studied the eyes—clear as the glasslike surface of a prairie pond at sunrise, as yet unruffled by the breeze of day.

She was wondering again now, why for close to a week he had not pressed himself on her, contenting himself to lie with her as they fell asleep together, entwined without-passion. To her repeated question, he merely patted her swollen belly.

She sipped at her steaming coffee mixed generously with sugar. A treat, this, rarely found in a Cheyenne winter camp. Sugar or coffee. Together they were a magical potion fit for the Everywhere Spirit. A delicate dance upon her tongue.

So much like this
Hiestzi.
Brave and strong, unafraid of the unknown. A man so alive and unconcerned in riding headlong toward the mysteries of time beyond … and through it all this soldier chief smiled at his enemies. His joys must be genuine.