Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (36 page)

Medicine Arrow turned over the tall red pipe bowl, slowly pouring the ashes onto the soldier chiefs muddy boots.

Custer froze, frightened.
Are they anointing me for some reason? Giving me this place of honor beneath the coyote bundle … spreading ashes on my boots as other cultures anoint with oil?

With no way to know for certain, he nodded at each chief. Just as ignorant of white men as Custer was of them,
the council believed he understood the seriousness of Medicine Arrow’s curse.

“Hear us, Yellow Hair! Should you ever approach a Cheyenne camp with evil purpose, to destroy as you did the helpless ones of Black Kettle on the Washita, you will one day be killed, your soldiers lying broken like the brittle grasses of winter. Your white bodies left to rot beneath the all-seeing eye of the sun above. Cheyenne spirits will determine your fate. My curse rides your shoulders, till the end of your days.”

Medicine Arrow took the pipe bowl from Custer’s boots, passing it to the medicine man.

Custer dragged a freckled hand across his dry lips, worried. With the shaman putting the pipe away, it appeared the council had drawn to a close—and he hadn’t had the chance to speak.

“Medicine Arrow.” Custer began to move his hands in the ancient language of the prairies. “I thank you for the honor of your lodge.”

He studied the chiefs face, searching for some sign of agreement, some flicker of good intention.

“I come to speak of peace with the Cheyenne. No more can your young men ride north to the settlements of the white farmers to carry off their women and children. No longer can you wander off your reservation for hunting or for raids.”

Lord, did he wish for something to drink, to soothe his scorched throat.

“If the Cheyenne want peace, you must return to the reservation. If you want war, Yellow Hair will bring sorrow to the door of every Cheyenne lodge.”

Custer pointed toward the tent flap. “Do not force me to
use the soldiers who surround your village. Do not force me to destroy those you hold most dear—your families, sons, and daughters. Return to the land given you by the Grandfather back east, return before it is too late for either of us to stop the killing.”

For a long time after Custer’s hands fell silent, the Cheyenne elders considered the words of Yellow Hair, ruminating as a buffalo cow would chew and rechew something hard to swallow.

“Hiestzi”
the old chief eventually whispered, “we will consider your words. It is a hard thing you ask—for the Cheyenne have always been a strong people. We do not like the choices you give us. Each choice means an end to our way. Your bullets are an easy answer. Bullets kill Cheyenne warriors. But soldier bullets will never kill the spirit of the Cheyenne.”

He paused while the murmurs of approval faded.

“Hear me, Yellow Hair—as long as there are Cheyenne women, there will be Cheyenne warriors. You may have enough bullets to kill Cheyenne warriors today, but as long as there are Cheyenne wombs, there will always be Cheyenne sons! The spirit of our people lives with the hills and the sky. Everlasting!”

Custer politely waited as he considered the chiefs words. “You have spoken well, Medicine Arrow. My heart is small … it lies on the ground this day to know we both are warriors driven to fight each other. Never will it be said Yellow Hair questions the courage of the Cheyenne.”

Medicine Arrow nodded, the doubting scowl beginning to soften.

“Hear me, Cheyenne,” Custer continued. “You say that you cannot trust that my tongue is straight. You will know
me by my actions. For what I do will stand much longer than what I say.”

“Yellow Hair has spoken well,” Medicine Arrow replied. “We will judge you by your actions. If you deal with our people with one heart, you will live. If you prove to have two hearts … then you and your soldiers will be wiped out to the last man. Our Everywhere Spirit will crush your faithless bodies after driving your minds mad with fear. Hear me! Fear that evil you bring upon yourself, Yellow Hair.”

“Like you, I am searching for an honest tongue—among the Cheyenne,” Custer signed. “I hope to find that tongue among those in this lodge. In the days to come, we will talk of peace, as we blaze a new road for the Cheyenne to travel.”

Medicine Arrow’s dark eyes slewed around the lodge. “We will talk, Yellow Hair—of many things.”

Custer shifted anxiously, knees aching from sitting for so long. “Will Medicine Arrow tell me where I can find the most suitable ground for my soldier camp?”

The old chief studied the shocked faces of those around him before he answered, gesturing for the soldier chief to rise. “Come, I will show you myself where your soldiers can camp. You will have the swift-flowing river, and timber for your fires. Plenty of grass for your horses. Come, Yellow Hair.”

While their leaders conferred in Medicine Arrow’s lodge, both the Cheyenne and the soldiers engaged in an uneasy standoff.

Myers had his officers deploy the troopers around the villages like Joshua encircling Jericho, as a number of
mounted warriors dodged in and out of the trees, taunting and shouting at the soldiers. Anxious troopers warily watched the timber. Nervous, but itching for a chance to even the score for Elliott’s men. Back and forth the officers rode, trying to keep a lid on things, knowing one wrong move by either side would blow the cork on a powder keg.

By the time Custer and Medicine Arrow emerged from the lodge into midday winter brightness, a flurry of noise and frantic motion swirled about them. Both leaders realized the situation must be diffused.

“I do not hold these young ones much longer, Yellow Hair,” the Cheyenne chief growled. “I told you what the sight of your soldiers would do to our villages.”

“You
will
hold your young men!” Custer snapped, his hands flying angrily. “And I will withdraw my soldiers to our camp for the night. Now show me!”

Custer and Moylan mounted and were led by the Cheyenne chief to a campsite three-quarters of a mile above the villages. Only then did the warriors drift away from the timber, resigned that there would be no fight this day.

As his troops pitched their camp along the Sweetwater, Custer had a chance to really study the faces of his haggard soldiers. Skin sagged beneath sunken cheeks. Eyes without brightness peered back at him as he rode through their ranks. Smudge from countless fires caked their faces. Teeth stood out as if all were grinning skulls. He began to realize to what extent the long and hard winter had exacted its toll on his men. No soldier had come this far unscathed. They had had more than five months of freezing, too little to eat, and still had untold miles yet to go.

Something deep within Custer tugged, unlike anything he had felt since the days of the Shenandoah. A warm knot
of sentiment rose in his throat as he gazed at these young soldiers—his Seventh Cavalry. While they grumbled and complained as soldiers always had from the time of Alexander and Caesar, still these boys in blue had followed. Wherever Custer led, soldiers followed. Talk around the campfires had it that glory awaited Custer at every turn. Honor would surely come to every soldier who followed in Custer’s wake.

“Monaseetah.” Custer showed her a stump to sit on. Moylan had brought her from one of Lieutenant Bell’s ambulances. Custer signed for her, “I need your help freeing the girls. I think they’re in these camps.”

“I will help.” She removed the infant from the folds of blanket at her back, rocking him in her arms.

“We have found the village of Rock Forehead. He is the one your people call—”

“Medicine Arrow. A wild and wicked man. Black Kettle did not respect his counsel. Said he had too much power—power he gained through fear.”

“Fear can be a great ruler, Monaseetah. It controls as few things do.”

“An evil man. There are stories he has killed men with his curses.”

“Romero said the same thing. Don’t tell me you believe those stories too!”

“Yes,
Hiestzi.
Many have told me.”

“He’s an old man! Flesh and blood—like me! Old dogs like him have worn teeth. I’m more worried about his young warriors—they have the sharp teeth.”

She hid her face.

“Monaseetah? Is this old man so evil that he will hold the
white girls in his village, while saying he knows nothing of them?”

Monaseetah’s eyes darted this way and that, like the sudden flight of frightened hummingbirds. “Yes,” she whispered.

“You are afraid of something?”

“Yes.”

“Of Medicine Arrow.”

“Not afraid of him. Afraid of something I cannot see. The evil he can do. If it were something I could see, I would use my knife to kill it. We can fight what we can see. It is only what I cannot see or touch …”

“There is no evil here,” he soothed, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “You are safe with us here. No man can hurt you.”

Her head sank against his shoulder. For a long time they sat staring into the flames before Custer spoke.

“Are the two white girls in Medicine Arrow’s village?”

“They are here, Yellow Hair. I will help you free them from the evil one whose curses kill his enemies.”

Custer smiled down at her. “I welcome your help, little one. But there is no danger from that old man.”

Monaseetah straightened, her eyes narrowing, her lips drawn in a thin line of determination. “Yellow Hair, he brings a curse upon many. If you sat in his lodge, he has probably cursed you. Medicine Arrow must be defeated so the good men of my people can rule once more.”

“With your help, Monaseetah, we will free the two white girls.” Custer helped her to her feet, enfolding her in his arms. “Then we can end the reign of this evil one over your people.”

C
USTER
wasn’t at all surprised the next day when Medicine Arrow and most of his head men showed up in the soldier camp, announcing they came in friendship, wanting to talk with Yellow Hair.

“Medicine Arrow,” Romero translated Custer’s greeting, “it is an honor to have you visit our camp. Make yourselves warm by our fire.”

“Tell Yellow Hair we thank him for his kindness,” Medicine Arrow replied, settling on a wooden hardtack box.

“Are you hungry?” Romero inquired.

“No. Tell Yellow Hair there is no need for food now. We come as a gesture of friendship. In that spirit, I have asked some of our young men to come with me to perform for you. Following some riding tricks, you will enjoy a serenade of singers with flutes and hand drums.”

The old chief signaled one of his young warriors, who rode back to the edge of the camp where he gave word that the performance could begin. In colorful dress and paint, a
dozen horsemen charged single file into camp, each one dropping off his pony to one side or the other, striking the ground with his heels before vaulting once more onto the animal’s back. Around and around the large gathering of soldiers they rode, performing their tricks.

“General Custer?”

Custer eyed Moylan, suspiciously. “What is it, mister? You seem agitated.”

“Can’t really talk here, sir. About the Indians.”

“No need to worry. They don’t understand English. Besides, we’d surely draw their suspicions by walking away to talk. Why not just say what you need to say—wearing a smile? Like you’re watching the riding. Move your eyes around some as you talk, not focusing all your attention on me.”

Custer pulled back laughing as a rider swept by him, making a valiant try for the soldier chiefs buffalo-fur cap. “Out with it, Moylan.”

“Watch commander brought word from our pickets. Wanted you to know they’ve spotted some unusual activity in the villages.”

“What seems to be going on with our Cheyenne friends?”

“They’ve brought their pony herd into the village.”

“Perhaps they’re moving them to another pasture.”

“Not this time, General,” Moylan said.

“Then spill it.”

“They’re loading the horses. The village is preparing to take flight.” Moylan blurted it out like a man shedding himself of a hot potato, anxious to watch someone else juggle it.

Custer’s eyes narrowed as he watched a sudden, drawn
look cross the face of Romero, who was standing at his side. Then he threw an icy look in Medicine Arrow’s direction. “Romero, looks like you’ll have some translating to do here shortly.”

“Damn that cutthroat bastard!” Romero growled.

“Tell you what, Lieutenant,” Custer said as he slapped Moylan on the back, “keep that best Sunday-courtship-supper smile of yours as you stroll off to find Tom and Captain Yates. Fetch Myers and Dr. Renick. Thompson and Robbins too. Tell them all.”

“And when I’ve told ’em?”

“Have them select some steady hands from their units. Those men should pack their pistols and wander back here in pairs. No more than three together. It must seem casual. Don’t alarm the chiefs.”

“What’ll they come here for?”

“Tell them to be ready to act at an instant’s notice—but not until I give the order personally. You understand everything I’ve told you?”

“I’m off, General!”

“Be gone! Quickly!” Custer’s blue eyes twinkled as he watched Moylan amble away. Then he looked over at his interpreter. “Smile, Romero.”

Romero tried, then snarled, “Don’t feel like smiling.”

“Best we put on airs—so they don’t realize we know they’re playing us false. Stay close to me, now.”

The riders finished their performance and the singers began their serenade. At the same time, Custer watched the first soldiers ease up among the ring of spectators.

“General,” Romero whispered behind his smile, “aren’t you worried about the village leaving? They’ve got the two girls!”

“I’m not worried. Because if things go right, in the next few minutes I’ll have something these faithless Cheyenne value even more highly.”

“What’s that?”

“Hush, Romero. We’re about to play our hand.”

Counting heads quickly, Custer estimated he had enough of his soldiers mingled in with the Cheyenne, something over a hundred troopers. He studied each of the copper faces. Still the Indians showed no suspicions. It irritated him that they must all be laughing at him. Yet his was the trap ready to spring.