Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (37 page)

“Tom!” he called across the circle, grinning like they were about to play a boyhood prank on someone, “there are four of these fellows I want worse than the others. If any are to escape our noose, the four I point out must not.”

“Count on it, Autie!”

“Men!” Custer announced. “As I stroll through the warriors, I’ll stop briefly in front of the four I don’t want to escape under any circumstances. They’re the ones to sit on if you have to.”

Minutes later Custer stopped alongside Romero, waiting for his right moment. When the serenade ended and the musicians turned to leave, Custer stepped to the center of the circle.

“Romero, tell the chiefs what I’m about to say is of great importance.”

“Warriors of the mighty Cheyenne Nation,” Romero began, waiting until the Indians gave him their attention, “you must pay heed to the words of Yellow Hair.”

“Have them see I’m removing my gun belt,” Custer instructed as he unbuckled the heavy canvas belt, allowing it to dangle from his fingertips. “I want them to see that I
throw my weapons on the ground as proof that in what I’m about to do I don’t want to shed any man’s blood—unless they force me to.”

As Romero translated, Custer watched the change come over the copper-colored faces. Through the crowd ran an unsettling murmur when the interpreter mentioned bloodshed.

“Have our guests count the number of armed soldiers here to cut off their escape. Tell them I’m angry with what they tried to pull—coming here under the pretense of a friendly visit while their village escaped. They can see their plan has failed and they’re my prisoners.”

As the words fell from Romero’s lips, the warriors grew agitated. Those seated at the fire leapt to their feet, snatching hidden revolvers from robes and blankets. The young warriors mounted on horseback nocked arrows on bowstrings. One by one, the riders dashed to freedom, galloping from camp.

Strident, angry chatter broke out among the rest of the Cheyenne. Younger voices cried for resistance at any cost. Older ones counseled reason and prudence. Tension boiled like an angry kettle. Pandemonium and threats, bold gestures and snarling defiance threw itself against the blue wall.

In the midst of the storm, Custer kept his eye on one of the four he had selected. A tall, gray-headed chief calmly entreated his brothers to act wisely before any shots were fired in haste. From the folds of his wool blanket he yanked a cocked revolver.

Nearby stood another. A formidable opponent in any battle. With no firearm, the warrior placidly brandished a bow strung with an arrow in one hand, while the other
inspected arrow after arrow, testing the sharpness of each barbed head. When he had selected a half-dozen of his best, the warrior gazed about him, as cool as any war-hardened veteran in blue.

“No man shoots unless I give the order!” Custer hollered into the melee, figuring he had two soldiers for every warrior. For his plan to work, the Cheyenne must believe Yellow Hair didn’t want any bloodshed.

“Don’t shoot!” he shouted over the hubbub again.

In the excitement most of the warriors twisted free and fled through the soldier’s lines into the thick timber. Until only four chiefs remained captive, surrounded by a hundred armed troopers.

“Good work, gentlemen! We have the four,” Custer cried.

Tom Custer led the troops in a cheer as Romero had the chiefs sit by the fire.

“Myers, put the camp on full alert!” Custer bellowed. “Yates, take Tom and alert the Kansans. Tell them the village is preparing to flee and that I hold four chiefs as ransom for the two girls!”

“Damn right, Autie!” Tom roared. “’Bout time we show these bastards a taste of their own treachery!”

Another cheer thundered from the throats of soldiers too long on the trail of hostiles they weren’t allowed to fight.

“Go back to your stations, men. Each company has its orders. Consider our camp under attack at any moment.”

Custer waited while Myers detailed a twelve-man guard for the prisoners, then he settled on a cottonwood trunk before the chiefs.

“Romero, tell these prisoners I know what they tried to do, coming here with lies on their tongues!”

The chiefs didn’t need to know a word of English to see that Yellow Hair was as mad as a wet hornet.

“Tell them I know they hold two white girls, captured in the Kansas settlements last fall. I’m here to get those girls back. As soon as I have the girls back, the tribes must return to their reservations and abandon the warpath for good.”

“Yellow Hair!” Medicine Arrow shouted.

Custer shook a finger at the Cheyenne. “And you tell this lying dog that he and his friends can return to their people only when I have the girls and his tribe is on its reservation.”

“Yellow Hair!”

Custer leapt to his feet, ready to lunge at Medicine Arrow, surprising not only Romero with his anger but the chiefs as well. Flecks of spittle clung to his lips like cottonwood down.

“Tell him, Romero! Tell him now, or I might choke the lying bastard myself!”

A change came over the Cheyenne chief as Romero translated. No longer arrogant, he shrank at the sting of the soldier chiefs words.

“Yellow Hair,” Medicine Arrow began, barely whispering, “I am Rock Forehead. Keeper of the Sacred Arrows of my people. Do not hold me here. I am of no worth to you. I am an old man. You bring a curse on yourself by your deceit. You offer us the hospitality of your camp, then take us hostage. One day ago you sat in my lodge. Were you not given freedom to leave?”

The chief creaked to his feet, scuffling forward to warm his hands over the fire. “We could have held you prisoner, but did not. You grow angry with what you think are our falsehoods—but are blinded by your own!”

Custer replied and Romero translated. “You did not give me back my freedom yesterday. My troops surrounded your
village, old man. Even more important is that I came to you on an errand of peace. Unlike what you came here to do, to deceive me while your village took flight! Your heart bears the black stain of deceit, Medicine Arrow.”

Custer repeatedly clenched his fists, fighting down his gall. Finally he turned to the chiefs. “As a show of my good intentions to find peace between us, I will allow you four to choose one of your number to return to your people as a messenger.”

“Autie!” Tom Custer loped up to the fire. “Autie, the village is leaving.”

“They’re moving already?”

“Yeah, heading north.”

Custer wheeled on the chiefs, smiling. “There, you see? Your evil plan goes on without you! Your village is moving farther and farther away as we speak. Abandoning you! Decide now who will carry my message to your village.”

Custer stalked away while the chiefs whispered between themselves, angrily gesturing, beating their chests, shoving each other.

“Yates!” Custer sang out, watching his Monroe friend ride up.

“Kansas boys on the alert, General. We’re securing all livestock in the middle of the compound so the Indians can’t run ’em off.”

“Good, but I don’t think we’ll be attacked. That village is on the run. They’re too busy making good their escape. I think they realized we’re just too big an outfit to attack … even to hit us and run like Mosby’s raiders in the Shenandoah.”

“We hung some of those Johnny bastards!” Tom Custer growled.

“Times are, I think on stretching the neck of lying dog Medicine Arrow,” Custer snarled.

“Damn, Autie,” Tom grumbled, wringing his hands. “I was looking forward to a good scrap with these Cheyenne.”

“Just remember one thing, little brother,” Custer said, the twinkle gone from his azure eyes, “we’ve never fought the Cheyenne before.”

“What about the Washita?”

“We didn’t fight any Cheyenne warriors there. We attacked a small village with a few old men.”

“You make it sound like you don’t know who’d come out on the better end of it if we did fight Cheyenne.”

When Custer glanced at his younger brother, his eyes were as cold as the winter sky overhead. “Whether we can defeat Cheyenne warriors, that remains for the future. But you’re right—I’m not sure who’d come out on top if we had your scrap with ’em. Would it be the Cheyenne warrior who believes with all his heart in what he’s fighting to protect—his home, family and his way of life? Or would it be the soldier who’s getting pay to do his job until something better comes along and he can desert? You tell me which one makes a better warrior.”

Tom watched his brother turn, stride away purposefully, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Hey, Autie! Which one, eh?” Tom’s voice trailed after Custer.

Custer stopped, turned slowly. “You don’t really want me to tell you, Tom.”

Custer shook his head. “Imagine how those poor girls must feel—hearing of troops nearby as they’re tied, thrown on ponies, and spirited away with the fleeing village. With no
apparent effort made by those soldiers to rescue them! God in heaven—what am I to do?”

His eyes climbed from the coals at his feet, beseeching. “Romero, will the Cheyenne keep their prisoners alive long enough to exchange for the chiefs?”

The scout sighed. “Can’t say, General. Only thing I’m sure of is that you’re lucky Medicine Arrow isn’t in that camp right now. He’d have them girls gutted, scalped, and skewered, left behind as a little surprise for your soldiers to find.”

“With him here, what will the village do?”

“They’ll get as far away as their skinny ponies will take ’em. Then they’ll sit down to figure out what to do next. And while they’re sitting, you can creep back up on ’em.”

“To have them pull away again. That cat-and-mouse would go on until … No. We’re sitting tight, right here. I may not have the best hand in the deck, but I’m going to play out the hand I’ve been dealt. C’mon, Cheyenne-talker. Let’s go bust one of those four loose.”

Custer glared down at the four bronze faces. “See which one’s the messenger.”

Romero turned to Custer a moment later. “You’re not going to believe it—the old bastard himself.”

“Medicine Arrow?” Custer replied, grinding a fist into an open palm. “I should’ve known! All right. Tell him when the girls are freed and Medicine Arrow takes his people back to the reservation, I’ll send these three warriors to him.”

As Romero translated, Medicine Arrow’s head bobbed eagerly.

“That’s not all—you tell him that if he doesn’t release those girls, I’ll level his villages—like Black Kettle’s. Then
I’m going to hang every last warrior I can lay my hands on until the trees are filled with Cheyenne flesh for the buzzards!”

Custer watched all four sets of eyes stay with his hands as he slowly curled them into fists as if he were choking a man standing before him.

“Tom, go requisition a tin of hardtack from Bell. And a small sack of parched corn and a couple pounds of coffee. Better bring a pound of sugar. Go on.”

When Tom had returned with the gifts and Romero led up a captured Cheyenne pony, Custer instructed his interpreter, “Tell Medicine Arrow these gifts are to show his people I can be as kind as I can be brutal.”

“Sending presents back with this old bastard,” Romero clucked. “Good idea. You’re learning ’bout Indians, General.”

“All I know is that I’m gambling the whole pot on those Cheyenne believing my word. They don’t believe me and I lose that gamble—those two girls are dead.”

“Appears you put the scare of God in this bastard.” Romero flung a thumb at Medicine Arrow.

Custer waved his hand, irritated. “Get him out of here before I change my mind and do something I’ll regret!” He turned on his heel and headed back to his tent, seething with anger.

More and more of late he wondered what white women were doing out here on this frontier anyway. Seemed the Indians never captured any men. The white women served only to lure the young warriors who lusted for conquest, and more. He brooded on the type of woman who would venture into an unknown, dangerous land, standing shoulder
to shoulder with her man—assuming every risk the land threw at them both.

Warriors hungering for white women.
But am I all that different? A white man who’s bedded a captured Cheyenne girl?
he thought.

It’ll be years before this land can be safe for the likes of Libbie. Women of her cut—all lace curtains and china and out-of-tune piano. Forever blushing behind their hands at the coarse humor of frontier scouts and career soldiers.

When this land is frontier no longer, Libbie can share a home with me here in my wilderness. When Monaseetah no longer belongs to me.

“What’s the ruckus?” Custer hollered, stepping from his tent the next morning.

“Indians spotted, General!” shouted a young guard rushing up.

“How many?”

“Fifty. Maybe more.”

“Good. Fetch Romero for me, Lieutenant!” He clapped his hands, wheeling back into his tent, where he strapped on his pistol and tugged on the buffalo cap. By the time he reached the northernmost picket line, a large crowd of troopers and Kansas volunteers had gathered to watch the approach of the Cheyenne.

Less than a mile off the Indians dismounted, put their ponies out to graze under the care of two young herders, and began their walk into the soldier camp behind two older men.

“You’ve got visitors, General.”

Custer turned, watching Romero slide up. “Those two in front. Chiefs?”

Beneath a shading hand, Romero squinted, studying the pair. “Can’t say. Don’t see feathers.”

“Whoever that bunch is,” Custer grumbled, “they aren’t coming like beggars. Every one is loaded for bear.”

Beneath a bright winter sun it was plain enough to see every weapon carried by the warriors following the two leaders. Besides a bow, most carried an old rifle or musket. And many had a pistol or two at their waists. The delegation stopped a quarter-mile off, conferring among themselves.

“Romero, take a good look,” Custer instructed. “That Little Robe out there?”

“The short one? By God, it might be!”

Custer turned to his brother. “Tom! Tell me that doesn’t look like Little Robe.”

“Goddamned, Autie—that’s him! I’d recognized the rascal anywhere. Good sign, him coming to see us.”

“You bet your freckled hide on that.” Custer lunged past the pickets. “We just might get those girls back in one piece now!”