Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (4 page)

First, fresh horses had to be purchased. Not an easy task on the western plains of Kansas along the Arkansas River. But once accomplished, those horses had to be wrangled in and drilled with their new riders. And through the ordeal the regimental blacksmiths had been pushed beyond all endurance, beginning their hot work before dawn every morning, toiling into the dripping black of twilight, fitting each and every new mount for its journey into Indian country.

Infantry marched on the feet of its men while cavalry depended on the hooves of its horses. For every mount headed into Indian Territory he had ordered an extra fore and hind shoe fitted and carried in the trooper’s saddle pocket. An unshod horse would be worse than useless on this campaign through ice and snow.

Every clear day Custer had his men practice signaling cross-country with small mirrors from the top of nearby hills—”nature having formed admirable signal stations over this part of the country,” he explained, writing to Libbie.

At the same time he held a competition among his troops to determine the best marksmen in the regiment. With the dual promise of a separately marched unit of sharpshooters along with his order that the marksmen be exempted from mess details and picket duty, the competition grew stiff for those forty slots placed under the leadership of young Canadian Lieutenant W. W. Cooke. With the best selected,
an intensive regimen of target practice with repeating Spencer rifles began for this elite corps.

Custer sat the lap desk on his crude bunk and rose, stretching the knots from the muscles along his back.
So much riding on the success of this venture, Libbie.
He would write her later when the camp quieted and his only companion would be the night wind bringing with it a promise of early snow.

If this winter operation fails, Sheridan alone might take the blame. And, if the operation smacks of a massacre, why, Philip alone might stand court-martial … considering the nasty mood of those Quakers in power at the Indian Bureau back in Washington City.

Rubbing his palms together eagerly, he stared out at the glowing fire points of red-orange, cooking fires along company rows allowed to burn themselves out in the blackness of night.
But, if the winter offensive proves even a moderate success there’ll be a hungry mob of army brass clamoring to claim paternity for Sheridan’s brainchild.

He turned back into the chill of his tent. The smoky heat of two coal-oil lamps held some of the prairie cold at bay. Somewhere close a horse snorted and stomped. Custer smiled again. Things were going well. In the waning days of October he had instituted another innovation of his own: “coloring the horses” by troops, in which every man in a company rode a similarly colored animal. Each company would ride a different color horse into Indian country.

A few hours later, with his long, sentimental letter to his wife finished, Custer blew out the smoky lamps. Only then did the silence around him grow suffocating. Almost as if he couldn’t breathe … then the weight of it disappeared, as quickly as it had smothered him. In the overpowering
silence, he barely heard the first smattering of hard, icy flakes against the side of his canvas tent.

The cold settled along the valley of the Washita like old ash settling under a persistent rain.

Monaseetah, daughter of Cheyenne chief Little Rock, second only to Black Kettle himself, moved back to her father’s lodge, leaving her cruel and abusive husband.

In the cold chill of her father’s lodge she awoke each night, staring at the dull red glow of the dying coals, feverish in the frosty air as the sweat of fear rolled from her copper flesh. The brute she had married had treated her no better than a camp dog. No better than some piece of property he could abuse and discard … until she shot him.

His pride wounded more than his bleeding leg, the shamed husband had divorced this fiery girl of seventeen summers—in the Cheyenne way, sending her back to the lodge of her father.

Trembling now as she remembered his shaming her, Monaseetah caught her breath, then slowly calmed, listening to the reassuring snore of her father. They were without others, alone. It had been four winters now since the terrible day of black cannon smoke in the air and red smearing the snow. In a place the Southern Cheyenne knew as Little Dry River—a terrible day along the white man’s Sand Creek where Monaseetah saw her mother fall beneath a slashing cavalry saber. No more than a cowering child, she watched young soldiers defile her mother’s bloody body.

Monaseetah knew the remembering would always be with her, bringing the all-time pain. There would be no
losing of that pain the way she had rid herself of the beast-man.

Her eyes stinging with tears, Monaseetah blinked and blinked again. There had been no blood-that-comes-with-the-moon since the shortgrass time. Now she could believe only one thing. She carried the beast-man’s child in her belly. Monaseetah clenched her eyes shut with fierce resolution. Though she carried his child, she knew she could not return to the cruel one who had bought her away from Little Rock.

Eventually she lay back against her father’s curly buffalo robes once more.
Let him find another wife
, she consoled herself.
Another woman to rut and abuse. Perhaps a wife like that pale white woman they hold prisoner in the Kiowa camp downstream
.

Why anyone would want such a pale-skinned creature, with hair so thin, and the color of winter-dead grass?

General Hazen’s negotiations for the release of the captive white mother and her son dragged on through the fall, getting nowhere with the Kiowas down at Fort Cobb during the Moon of Leaves Falling and into the Deer Rutting Moon.

Monaseetah herself was visiting the Kiowa camp that first day Hazen’s half-breed scout, Cheyenne Jack, rode into the center of camp to declare he came from Army Chief Hazen with a plea for the release of Clara and Willie Blinn.

Cautiously, Jack dismounted and sidled over to the terrified, beaten prisoner. “Listen to me, lady,” he whispered harshly when the others weren’t looking. “These Injuns don’t know no English. Take what I got in my hand.
Write your name for the general at Fort Cobb. So he’ll know who you are. He can tell your people.”

“You have to—”

“Shut up!” he growled. “Not a word, or your life ain’t worth the time it takes for one of these bucks to spit! Now, take what’s in my hand.”

Clara Blinn pulled a scrap of paper and a pencil stub from the scout’s dirty palm. As Jack conferred with the tribal leaders, she hunkered in the shadow of a nearby lodge and scribbled her hasty note to the outside world:

Little could Mrs. Blinn know at that time what fury would soon be released in securing her freedom from the hostiles. Little could she know that even as she wrote her plea for help, General Philip H. Sheridan had ordered Hazen to break off his negotiations, reasoning that his
winter campaign would secure the results every white man desired: an end to Indian raids along the Kansas frontier and a return of those captives held by the savages. Negotiation, Sheridan informed Hazen, accomplished nothing.

“Don’t need me to hang around the post no longer?” the half-breed scout and interpreter asked before he took another long pull on the cheroot General Hazen had given him, filling Hazen’s tiny Fort Cobb office with blue smoke.

“Sorry, Jack. Can’t use you anymore.” Hazen turned so that the half-breed could not read the worry etched along the thin features of his well-defined face. “Sheridan doesn’t want us trying to make peace anymore.”

“He got something else in mind?”

“Guess so.” Hazen used his words sparingly.

The commander of Fort Cobb knew he would have to send for Black Kettle. He watched Cheyenne Jack rise from the creaky, straight-backed chair, then cleared his throat as the half-breed reached the door.

“Jack,” Hazen said, “there is one last thing you can do for me. If you would. I’ll pay you regular wages. Per day.”

“Yeah?” Jack answered, something in Hazen’s tone snagging his interest.

“Want you to find Black Kettle. I’m told he’s wintering his band on the Washita with Satanta, Medicine Arrow, and the others.”

“Just Black Kettle?”

“Just Black Kettle. Tell him it’s very important that he come see me.”

“General, you know that ol’ boy. He won’t come without you giving him good reason to see you.”

“Tell him we need to have an important council.”

“Council?”

“Just tell Black Kettle he’s in danger.”

“In danger from what?”

Hazen’s eyes leveled on the scout. As a soldier he could say no more. “That’s what I will discuss with Black Kettle myself.”

Cheyenne Jack opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. Instead, he said, “General, I figure since you don’t need me after this, I’ll winter with the Kiowa. But I’ll see you get to talk with Black Kettle. Start tonight, you want me to.”

“Daylight will be soon enough for me, Jack.”

The half-breed swung the door open wide and stepped into the night, his buckskinned form swallowed completely by darkness.

On 12 November the Seventh Cavalry pulled out of their training camp south of Fort Dodge, marching toward Indian Territory at last. Time and again on that long march Major Joel Elliott turned beneath a glaring winter sun to behold those troops arranged by color: companies of chestnuts, blacks, bays, sorrels and grays, browns and tans—every man trained and ready. Not a raw recruit among them.

And rumbling right behind them came better than four hundred wagons loaded to their bulging sidewalk with forage, rations, tents, blankets, and winter campaign clothing.

“By glory,” Elliott whispered under his breath, “I ride at the head of the finest mounted cavalry in the entire world!” A Civil War veteran with an impressive record of victories, the major’s chest swelled with pride.

By the fifteenth the weather turned on the glorious
Seventh. A blue-norther swept down on the regiment, a storm so bitter it could only have come straight out of the maw of the Arctic itself. That prairie blizzard persisted all night and right into the next day before it gave out. Three more difficult days followed, the cavalry breaking trail through snowdrifts left in the storm’s wake.

But by noon on 18 November, Custer’s command stopped a mile above the confluence of Wolf Creek and the Beaver River, some hundred miles almost due south of Fort Dodge.

“We’ll establish our base for winter operations here, Major,” Custer informed Elliott. “Have the company captains establish pickets and pitch their tents across the prairie. We’ll meet at my tent at sixteen hundred. Dismissed.”

Custer watched Elliott trudge away before he turned to the civilian scout beside him.

“Smith, you’ve done well. Found us an admirable spot.”

“Knowed you’d like it, General,” the scarred old trapper answered.

“Where you off to now, if I might inquire?”

John Simpson Smith tore a corner off the tabacco twist before he stuffed it back into the pouch on his belt. “Aim to track my family, General. Least what’s left of ’em after Chivington butchered a bunch down to Sand Creek.”

“You married a Cheyenne?”

Smith spit into the snow at his feet before answering. “Many robe seasons ago. Time was, I was trapping the headwaters of the Arkansas long afore you and the gray-backs got into your big argument back east. Best damned woman I ever knowed, that one. Cheyenne, she is.”

“Children?”

“Only two now. Both growed, I s’pose. Rest killed at Sand Creek. I aim to find those two, and their mama.”

“You heading south?”

“Likeliest place, seems to me.”

“You aim to warn the hostiles I’m coming?” Unconsciously, Custer shifted his pistol belt, a move not lost on the old mountain man.

“Tribe my wife runs with ain’t causing no trouble in Kansas. They’re real peaceable. Not the sort you army boys’re hankerin’ for.”

Custer cleared his throat. “Your wife’s people won’t have a thing to worry about.”

“That’s what the agents and army both said when the tribe went to camp on Sand Creek.”

“By God, I’ll not be compared with the likes of that butcher Chivington!” Custer barked. “He and his Colorado militia … amateur soldiers. Why, this regiment is hunting warriors, and warriors only.”

“S’long, General.” Smith stuffed a moccasin in his stirrup, lifting himself to the saddle.

“Smith.” Custer suddenly snagged the reins to prevent the old scout from pulling away. “What band is your family with?”

“Why, ol’ Black Kettle’s. He’s always been a peace Injun. Always will be. That ol’ buck’s a smart one. He sees the writing on the ground clear as I read trail sign. Figures it won’t do him no good to make war.”

“Black Kettle, eh?” Custer released the scout’s reins. He watched Smith lope off, pointing his pony north, back toward Kansas rather than steering south into the Territories.

E
VERYWHERE
he looked he saw the activity of men preparing for a wilderness winter, men preparing for war.

Correspondent De Benneville Randolph Keim recorded each scene with a journalist’s eye. His boss, publisher James Gordon Bennett of the New York
Herald
, had sent him to accompany Custer’s winter campaign. Keim’s dispatches would be carried north to Kansas and the civilized world in the oiled leather pouches worn by the army couriers riding between Fort Dodge and this new military base, which Sheridan himself had christened “Camp Supply.” Keim even dreamed of one day writing his chronicles telling the story of riding off to war with the “Boy General” and his gallant Seventh Cavalry.