Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (43 page)

“The Injins over there, Ginnel?”

Custer eased back on the reins. “We don’t dare let them out to roam the fort, I’m afraid. They’d finish off all the dogs we have once they devour every old horse we butcher
for them. I’m warning you, ’Liza—keep your eyes open for any old harpy carrying a knife your way!”

“Nawww!” she giggled. “I’m way too old for them Cheyennes to eat, Ginnel. Way too tough, and stringy too!”

This time he laughed aloud.

Yes
, he thought,
feels good to laugh with Libbie and Eliza again. Like the good old days.

Something raised the hairs at the back of Libbie’s neck. Downright scared, she stuck to Custer like horse glue once they had left the wagon behind. On the other hand, Eliza seemed more curious than frightened, strolling ahead of the young couple, rambling here and there to see everything and everybody.

The squaws pressed close when the trio had walked past the guards at the gate. Both Libbie and Eliza had huddled behind Custer like buffalo calves in a wolf attack, until he scolded the Indian women, backing them off. One by one the squaws inched up, touching Custer’s cheek lovingly, crooning their songs and murmuring their soft sentiments.

Before Custer could begin the tour, an old woman with skin wrinkled like puckered rawhide stopped squarely in front of him. With cloudy, rheumy eyes she studied Libbie’s face, then cocked her head to assess Eliza.

“These women belong to you, Yellow Hair?”

“They do not belong to me, old one. On my arm is my wife,” Custer grappled to speak with his limited Cheyenne.

“The other? She is your left-hand woman?”

“No. She is helper to my wife.” Custer watched Libbie’s face, knowing she did not understand their talk.

“Like a left-hand woman helps in Cheyenne lodges.”

“No,” he cut her off. “Not my left-hand woman.”

“It is good,” the nearly toothless mouth replied. “Monaseetah remains your second wife.”

“Monaseetah is not my wife. She does not live with me as a woman lives with her husband.”

The old one wagged her head and smiled. “Fool others, Yellow Hair. Monaseetah rode the long winter trail with you, warming your robes each night. As a woman does for her man.”

Custer’s eyes bounced over the gathering crowd of prisoners. “She is special to me, yes. But Monaseetah is not married to me. I am married to this woman.”

Rolling her cracked lips across her old gums, the wrinkled squaw mulled that over like she would chew toothless on a stringy strand of horse haunch. “Yellow Hair likes having two wives. When one offends, he can throw her away—still having a wife for his robes. You use too much wind saying Monaseetah is not your wife. We know she warmed your robes all winter gone. If you do not want her, give her away to some man who will love her.”

“She is not mine to give away.”

“Why not throw this one away?” The old woman pointed a bony finger at Libbie. “She is too skinny! She is not full and rounded like Monaseetah. And she looks mean, Yellow Hair. She must surely have a rock beneath her breast instead of a heart. Yellow Hair, this one is not for you.”

Custer shoved past the old woman abruptly, pulling Libbie with him.

“Yellow Hair!” the old one shrieked. “Throw this skinny white woman away and finish all the seasons of your life with a real woman—Monaseetah!”

Custer shoved through the crowd, Libbie straining at his arm.

“What’s this all about, Autie?” Libbie whispered, peering up at him with frightened, birdlike eyes.

“Nothing,” he answered abruptly. “She just wants to know when her people are going home.”

“Are they going home soon?”

“As soon as possible,” he answered, sweat rolling down his spine.

“Ginnel!”

Custer turned to find Eliza surrounded by children and women. A few of the bravest youngsters licked and rubbed their fingers across Eliza’s cheeks, neck, and hands. She stood paralyzed, afraid to move.

“Just relax,” Custer said.

“But … they lickin’ on me!”

Custer waded into the crowd alone, chattering in Cheyenne, shaming the Indians for their rudeness with his guests. Eliza was shaking by the time he reached her.

“What they wanna skeer ’Liza for? Only talkin’ to the lil’ chirrun, Ginnel!”

“You’re a wonder to ’em. They’ve never seen a Negro before.”

“What they rubbin’ on me for?”

“They were trying to rub the black off.”

“Cain’t rub that off, Ginnel!” She grinned big as Sunday.

“I realize that, but they paint themselves black to celebrate victory in war. They think you’re wearing paint.”

He turned to those who passed close. “Go on, now. It is not paint.”

The women and children began to turn away, staring at their fingertips as if searching for a reason no paint rubbed off the strange woman who had come with Yellow Hair.

When Custer turned, Libbie was nowhere to be found.
With his heart in his throat, he caught a glimpse of her, twenty yards away at the center of a small group of women cloaked in their army blankets.

“Libbie!” He scurried over. “You had me worried, there—”

At his voice, the women around Libbie turned. One set of eyes fluttered up to his. Monaseetah’s.

“Bo!” Libbie greeted him. “This young woman’s just given me this beautiful bag.”

“Which one?”

“This one,” Libbie pointed out a middle-aged squaw, “she says the pretty young one wants me to have it.”

He watched Monaseetah scurrying to a tent before he asked the woman, “Do you give the pouch to my wife?”

“It is a gift,” the woman answered in Cheyenne. “To the first wife of Yellow Hair. I give it since Monaseetah herself has nothing to give
Hiestzi’s
first wife.”

“It’s a gift for you, Libbie,” he stammered.

“Everything Monaseetah had is gone now,” the woman explained. “Pony soldiers burned everything she owned,”

“Thank you for the gift,” he stammered.

Monaseetah emerged from the tent, her hair brushed, the dull army blanket traded for her favorite red blanket. She pressed close to the couple, gazing into Custer’s eyes.

“Libbie …” He gulped, sweat trickling down his spine. “This is the young squaw I wrote you about. Monaseetah—The Young Grass that Shoots Up in Spring.”

“The woman who helped guide your last campaign?” Libbie asked, appraising Monaseetah.

“The same.”

“She’s more beautiful than you described in your letter.” Libbie gave her husband a sidelong glance that would have
made even an innocent man shudder. “Everything you described—the high color of her cheeks, those pearl-like teeth. But where is her child?”

Custer turned to Monaseetah. “Please bring your child to us.”

Instead of going herself, she had one of the older women bring the child to her. Monaseetah gently drew back the blanket from the infant’s face.

Libbie smiled, cooing. Straightening, she held her arms out, showing Monaseetah her desire to hold the infant. “With that black hair and those dark eyes, make no mistake about it—he’s a little Indian!” she gushed.

Custer watched Monaseetah push through the crowd, headed for the tents.

“His father was a Cheyenne warrior?” Libbie asked.

“Yes. He escaped my noose at the Washita.”

Monaseetah swirled back, holding a small sepia-toned daguerreotype she presented for Custer’s inspection.

“A photographer visited the post several weeks ago,” he explained. “Evidently the fellow became so entranced with Monaseetah that he shot her without a fee.”

Libbie studied him. “Make no mistake, Autie. She is an extremely attractive, highly provocative woman.” Then Libbie appraised the Cheyenne mother. “I’m getting quite tired now. Will you drive us back to Big Creek, where I can nap before supper?”

“Of course. Give the child to its mother, Libbie.”

Monaseetah shook her head and smiled, holding the tintype close to her breast. “Tell her she can keep the child.”

“Keep him?” Custer squeaked.

“Yes, Yellow Hair,” Monaseetah answered as if it were
the most natural thing in the world for her to offer. “Your first wife has no child. She can keep my son until I return to my people.”

“But she can’t do that! He’s not her child.”

“Does she not want a child?” Monaseetah inquired. “Some Cheyenne men will take another wife when one can’t give them sons. Is this not the way with your people?”

“No. It is not the wish of Yellow Hair.” He took the child from Libbie’s arms and placed the boy in Monaseetah’s, seeing something wounded cross her dark eyes.

“I am sorry. I want to return to you,” he explained. “To tell you why she cannot keep your baby.”

“Come back, Yellow Hair,” she whispered. “I must talk with you soon.”

“I’ll return.” Custer shoved through the crowd, pulling Libbie to his side, looking over his shoulder at Monaseetah.

“Custer!”

Having swept the two women out of the stockade and across the parade, then into the freight wagon, Custer turned. He saw a big man stepping off the porch in front of headquarters.

“Colonel Miles. A genuine surprise, sir.” He saluted.

Nelson A. Miles, commander of the Fifth Infantry, stepped into the dust and hardened ruts of the parade. “Ladies.” He nodded courteously at the women in the wagon, tipping his hat. “Can I assign you an escort for your trip back to Big Creek?”

“No need for that, Colonel. I appreciate your offer.”

“Truth is—” Miles leaned in close to the near side of the wagon so that he might whisper in private to Custer, “Mary would skin me two ways of Sunday if she found out I hadn’t
made a point of offering you an escort for your Elizabeth. Seems my wife’s quite taken with your bride.”

Custer glanced at Libbie. Just beyond, his eyes focused on the prisoner compound. At the stockade wall a young woman held an infant to her breast. A warm breeze tugged at her hair like the tall stalks of buffalo grass beneath a summer sky.

“Please pass my compliments on to your wife,” Custer said, leaping onto the seat beside Libbie.

Miles stepped back from the wagon. His eyes narrowed as he appraised the hero of the Washita. “I will, Armstrong.”

Custer snapped the team into motion, quartering the mules in a wide arc around the parade, pointing them east.

“Autie?” Libbie scooted closer as they wheeled past the stockade, slipping her arm beneath his. “Why did those women make such a fuss over my hat?”

He glanced up, studying the hat, set at a jaunty tilt atop her curls. “The bird, dear.”

“What of it?”

“Going into battle, a warrior will often wear a stuffed bird tied to his head. As his special medicine helper. Perhaps they thought your bird served the same purpose.”

“A medicine helper, Eliza. I’m a Cheyenne warrior!”

Eliza threw her head back and wailed like a wild, hard-riding warrior. “Aiyii-yii-yii!” She and Libbie fell against one another laughing as Custer steered the wagon onto the prairie.

“They liked my boots, too, Autie.”

He looked at the strain perhaps only he could read in her eyes.
Perhaps the whole encounter was a bit much for her
, he thought.

This further confirmed his belief that Libbie didn’t belong out here in the wilderness. She had married an army officer, but she was the sort of army wife who belonged at some eastern duty station.
The wilderness will take Libbie’s kind of woman, gobble her up, and spit her right out.

“Dear, Rosebud—they’d trade many pair of moccasins for those high-button boots wrapped around your perfect little feet.”

“You think my feet are attractive, Autie?” She lifted her skirt and petticoats, turning her boots this way, then that.

“Yes, dear. Very.”

“Every bit as pretty as Monaseetah’s feet?”

He was sure his expression did not betray him. “Every bit as pretty. If not more so.”

Libbie snuggled against him.

After some minutes, he said, “They admire you.”

“Admire Miz Libbie for what, Ginnel?” Eliza asked.

“The women take pity on her as my only wife.” He turned to Libbie. “Meaning they think you do all the work yourself.”

“Did you tell them I had Eliza to help?”

“I told them since you weren’t any good at chopping wood and hauling water, tanning hides or making dogmeat stew, I had to take Eliza as my second wife!”

Eliza’s hand flew to her mouth in astonishment. Libbie drew back, wall-eyed, regarding him. On cue, they both beat him with their fists, giggling merrily, getting in their licks for his constant teasing.

Custer cowered beneath an arm, laughing. For the moment he was happy just as he was, not wanting anything to change, to disturb this delicate, precarious balance long maintained in his life.

He gazed across the hills, sienna beneath the late afternoon light, looking at that hazy, ever-distant line no man could ever touch … and wondered just what happiness a man could find out there.

No man had ever touched that place where this land met the never-ending sky: a place so far away, yet as close as the crest of the next hill.

“Colonel Custer. One of the prisoners wants a word with you, sir.”

Custer turned from his horse, watching one of the stockade guards trot in his direction. The soldier’s blue tunic was blotched with coronas of sweat salt, a damp necklace staining his chest.

“One of the chiefs?”

“No, sir. A woman.”

That almost stopped Custer dead in his tracks. “A woman, you say.”

“Young’un. That’un, sir.”

Where the soldier pointed, Custer found her waiting for him behind the stockade fence, peering between the rough-hewn planks.

“Open the gate,” Custer ordered. He slipped inside, listening as the huge wooden gate slammed shut behind him. She ran to his side. Beneath the summer sun, Monaseetah wore only the doeskin dress, now smudged and greasy. His heart hurt for her, finding her treated no better than a common prisoner.

For a moment he studied her as he would appraise something new. Then he realized it was the long braids rolled on either side of her head.

“Your hair,” he gestured.

“Yes,” she answered. “The soldier cook showed me last robe season.”

“Mrs. McNeil.”