Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (33 page)

“We’re finally gaining on ’em?” Custer piped excitedly.

“Got a couple weeks’ lead at the most.”

Custer patted his chest, “Remember, boys—I’ve got another hundred dollars for the scout who leads me to the village where the white girls are held. Moylan, pass word we’re camping here for the night. When you’re done, have Romero bring Monaseetah to my fire.”

Milner turned to Hard Rope. “Say, old fella—that’ll be my hundred dollars this time! Best you make camp. I’ll boil coffee.”

“Good. Hard Rope and Little Beaver tired of your white chin-music. You make better coffee than talk, Joe California.”

Custer watched Milner lead the Osages into the trees, laughing. Two old Indians hunkered under their blankets coats and one jerky-tough scout pounding their backs with his every joke, chasing after his hundred-dollar dream.

By the time Moylan returned with Romero and the young Cheyenne mother, soldiers had unsaddled horses and raised canvas along the creek.

“Have Monaseetah look over the Indians’ camp, Romero,” Custer ordered.

Without replying to the interpreter, Monaseetah slipped off to an old campfire with the infant tied at her back. Monaseetah knelt, raking the old ashes, examining everything that caught her eye. She walked every inch of the Indian camp, picking up a bit of cloth or a scrap of old hide. Sniffing at old bones, she broke each one apart, examining the age of the marrow. Custer watched her repeatedly place her palm against the ground, as if testing for the warmth of some print left by man, beast, or lodge pole.

Romero interpreted her conclusions. “Twelve lodges camped here, a small band of some petty chief. Says the village broke up to hunt some time back, but seems they’re gathering for something important. Left here less than two weeks ago.”

“Were they scared off? Know of our coming?”

“She says no—they packed and rode off in no particular hurry.”

“How far will they travel each day?”

Monaseetah gazed thoughtfully across the merry stream before her hands danced as gracefully as two birds fluttering
in courtship. “When the Cheyenne travel in late winter—when the grass is scarce—they make short trips each day. Moving from one stream to the next. Where they know there’ll be water,” she signed, and Romero interpreted for Custer.

One ability no one had ever questioned was Custer’s memory for detail, like the topography of the old maps he studied every night by lamplight. His command had already crossed Elm Fork, at times called the Middle Fork of the Red River. Several miles to the east, that Elm Fork joined a sizable prairie river called the Sweetwater.

“By glory, the bands are heading north by east!” Custer exclaimed. “Marching to the Sweetwater.”

Romero shook his head. “Cheyenne head south this time of year. Especially when they’re hungry. They’re moving toward the buffalo with empty bellies, General.”

Monaseetah broke in, wagging her head, her chatter quick and hands flying.

“What did she say?”

“Funny thing,” Romero admitted, his dark brow furrowed. “Says she can’t make sense of it either—seems the bands are moving backward for the season. Gotta be something important for them—”

“What do you mean
backward?”

“I’ll be damned but she claims the bands are marching north and east, just like you figured.”

Custer couldn’t help smiling now. He had drawn a card few men would have pulled from the deck, winning a big hand of the game. But by no means the last hand of the night.

“I’ll soon have my Indians, Romero—the ones I’ve wanted since last fall.”

“Dog Soldiers now, General.” Romero eased himself down on a stump.

“Ask her what’s so important to the Cheyenne for their bands to move backward now.”

When her hands came to a stop, Romero looked at Custer, his dark eyes brooding. “To join with many others, to come together to fight Yellow Hair.”

The news she had given
Hiestzi
had saddened Monaseetah. She remembered how hopeful she had been at first, thinking she would have him forever. Now, that girlish dream seemed cold as yesterday’s fire.

Each night since the baby had come, she yearned for him anew. Yet more and more he made himself too busy with the other soldier chiefs and that young brother who called her Sally Ann. Monaseetah hadn’t bled for days now. No longer did she wear the rope and blanket scrap that absorbed her flow. Healed at long last.

Why will he not come to me?
she wondered.

Of late Custer seemed obsessed with finding the Cheyenne bands she knew were gathering for a great war council. Once Yellow Hair found and destroyed their camps as he had done on the Washita, Monaseetah knew the soldier chief would leave her.

Even if the Cheyenne surrendered, as he had conquered the Kiowa without a shot fired, Yellow Hair would leave her. With victory complete, the soldier chief would ride far to the north.

Back to his other woman.

Up and down this creekside camp she listened to soldiers excited at finding the trail of the hostiles warming. But
Monaseetah sank into a wallow of despair. Beside her, the infant wailed, his belly empty.

She sensed the keening of her heart signaled a deeper hunger still.

Hot tears slipped down her cheeks. Never before had she felt for any man as she did for him, and never before had Monaseetah felt so abandoned, knowing that Yellow Hair was slipping from her life already … as surely as the spring tore itself from the winter.

A long, long winter gone.

S
TILL
more lodges joined the trail early the next day. By late morning Custer’s scouts ran across a second and larger campground. The number of fire pits indicated the village had grown to twenty-five lodges.

More surprising still, by the next day, 12 March, Jack Corbin tallied better than a hundred sets of travois poles scratching the earth, joining the northbound march of the Cheyenne war camps.

“By glory, Jack!” Custer cheered at the news, happier than he had been in weeks. “We’ve flushed ’em like a covey of prairie hens now. We’ll herd them on ahead of us until they’re gathered up.”

“And you’re ready to strike.” Corbin picked something off the trail. “We’re right behind ’em. Trail’s warm.”

“Horse apples?”

“Though they ain’t steaming, they’re still warm to the touch.” Corbin crumbled one in his threadbare mitten.

“How far ahead of us?”

“Two, maybe three days, the way they’re lollygagging
along.” It was Milner who answered this time. “Don’t seem they know we’re fixing to run up their backsides neither.”

“If you don’t want them Cheyenne to know you’re coming, best keep your flankers and skirmishers in close, General,” Corbin advised.

“All right. Bring them in. Let Pepoon’s trackers know too. Saints preserve the man who lets the Indians discover us now!”

“Should I take word to the commands, sir?” Moylan flung a thumb back along the columns.

“By all means. No bugle calls, no more hunting. No firing of guns for any reason. See that Captain Myers posts sentries with the wagons and the herd, and deploys a perimeter guard tonight. Small fires, for cooking only. Fires out after supper, before dark. I’ve gotten this close—”

“You don’t want a damn thing spoiling it now!” Moylan agreed.

A half hour later Custer sat with his scouts at a small fire, brewing coffee, discussing the country ahead, when a young soldier approached.

“General Custer?”

Custer looked up. “Private Reed, isn’t it?”

“Yessir. Ellison Reed.”

“What have you there?”

“Salt, sir.”

“Where’d you find salt?”

“Down by the river, General. There’s a salt stream, yonder by the spring. Banks piled high with salt cakes like this. A natural lick drawing critters from all ’round. Thick with tracks down at the spring. Figured we gone without salt for too long now. This here’s for you, sir.”

“That’s kind of you, Private. How do you figure to grind it?”

“Have a coffee mill, General?” Corbin interrupted. “I’ll show you how we grind salt back to home.”

“Splendid, Jack! Not only have you tracked the end of the trail for these Cheyenne we’ve been following, but you have a way to grind the salt Reed’s discovered.”

“A treat for any man likes the taste of red meat, General,” Milner added.

“Man needs a treat,” Custer said, “before he likely heads into battle.”

Before winter’s dusk had swallowed the encampment, Custer called his officers together and issued marching orders. Tom Custer listened as his brother stated that any item of personal gear such as blankets or tents or clothing which could not be loaded in the wagons was to be burned.

“I’ll allow each man one blanket,” Custer said.

Every worn-out horse and mule was shot by the rear guard. Already suffering from many days without proper rations, the soldiers would at least fill their bellies on the stringy horse or mule meat as they readied for battle once more.

That next morning, Tom Custer’s company covered their smoky fires with sodden earth, resuming their march before first light. Before the sun climbed a hand above the horizon, the scouts rode in with the stirring report of finding a recent encampment of some four hundred lodges just ahead.

“Fire pits warm enough to take the chill off a man’s bones,” Milner repeated after Tom waved him over, anxious to hear the news. “Damn big herd of ponies. Them Cheyenne gathering up, young Custer.”

“I bet Autie cheered your news.”

“Part that made him happy was to hear them Cheyenne don’t even know we’re on their tails. He’s sneaking his blue army right up their red asses!”

“How soon?” Tom asked.

“Hard Rope and old Little Beaver told your brother he’d not sleep this night before seeing many Cheyenne.”

“That’s grand news, Joe!”

“Itchy for a fight?”

“You bet I am, you old bastard! Got a score to even with them red bastards for butchering Elliott’s men at the Washita.”

Milner led his old mule back toward the commissary wagons, where he might wangle a mouthful or two of food from the sergeant.

Around noon Custer sent Hard Rope up the trail to a nearby knoll. He was to signal the columns to proceed if the countryside beyond was clear.

“Little Beaver says that’s got to be the valley of the Sweetwater,” Romero said to Custer as they watched Hard Rope scramble up the hill. “Man points his nose northeast, he’d run into the Washita, not far from where Black Kettle was camped.”

“I’ll find those Cheyenne soon, or my name isn’t—”

“Custer!”
Hard Rope had whirled, racing downhill, weaving through the hackberry brush. He slid to a stop beside Custer’s horse.

“Come see. Many horses. Big village. Your eyes see, this time.”

“Moylan, you stay here. I’ll see what Hard Rope’s spotted.”

At the top of the knoll Custer dropped on his belly
alongside the Osage, crawling the last few yards to the crest. In the valley of the Sweetwater below grazed a far-reaching herd of ponies, watched over by several young herders.

Hard Rope nudged Custer, pointing out the extent of the herd’s pasture. “Big herd, chief. Means big village.”

Adrenaline warmed Custer’s blood. Nothing like that feeling of impending action. He was ready to have it out with the Cheyenne, done with their lying. Their ponies were nowhere near as poor as they’d claimed. His shrinking net had snared them. Now all he had to do was present them the choice. Give him the girls and return to the reservation—or go to war.

Custer’s attention was yanked to the southeast, down the valley where a young herder burst from the trees, riding bareback atop a spotted pony, whistling his shrill alarm.

“Eagle wingbone!” Hard Rope muttered angrily.

“What’s going on?”

“See yourself, Chief.” Hard Rope pointed. “Your soldiers get spotted by a pony boy.”

Custer caught a glimpse of the head of the blue columns snaking their way up the Sweetwater. The boy rode to warn the villages.

Other herders wheeled, kicking their ponies furiously. Waving blankets ripped from their backs, the boys roused the ponies, starting them for the river, where they forced the leaders down the slippery bank and into the icy water. Screeching their alarm, the herders whirled through the herd, driving the leaders up the north bank, escaping the cavalry’s advance.

Custer spun, dashing downhill under a full head of steam. “Moylan!”

“Sir?”

“Head back to the columns, that direction. Tell them we’ve been discovered. Order them up on the double! I need support for a possible attack!”

Romero eased up. “They can’t tear that village down quick enough to escape, General.”

“But the warriors will come out to engage us while their women dismantle the lodges and retreat. A staying action while the village slips away, then the warriors themselves will disappear.”

“You’re learning ’bout these Indians,” Romero said.

“I know they won’t fight if they can run,” Custer replied as he slipped his boot into an oxbow stirrup. “This is one time we’re going to surround them and take the fight to ’em. You coming, Romero?”

“Hell, this is one ride I wouldn’t miss for all the vermilion in China!”

“Ride with us, Little Beaver,” Custer shouted.

“No.” He wagged his head. “Little Beaver go back, paint his face now. Tie feathers in my hair. Bring out my war shirt before I fight those squaw killers. I want those Cheyenne to see how many Cheyenne scalps decorate my war shirt.”

“Be about, then, old man! There’ll be plenty of fighting for you soon enough.” Custer put spurs to his stallion’s flanks.

Romero rode boot to boot with Custer for better than two miles, racing around the base of a hill, heading for a treeless ridge. For miles in all directions the countryside lay free of ravines and timber which could conceal Indian ambush.

“Ho, General!” Romero grabbed Custer’s wrist, yanking back on his own reins.

“Look ’head of you.” Romero pointed.

Atop a rocky, sandstone formation more than a dozen feathered heads peered at the lonely pair of riders. While Custer brooded on what to do next, Romero counted more than fifty skylined heads.