Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (6 page)

Silent for a long time, a bewildered Black Kettle finally said, “Why would I need sanctuary, Soldier Chief, if my people are camped far south of the Arkansas River, deep in Indian Territory where we are supposed to live according to the very words of the talking paper I put my mark to for the white Grandfather back east beyond the rivers?”

Again and again Hazen had attempted to tell this old Cheyenne that because of the young warriors raiding into the Kansas settlements, his tribe might still be in danger of some wandering patrol of mounted cavalry. Problem was, how to warn Black Kettle without directly informing him of Sheridan’s winter campaign plans?

Seemed nothing got through to Black Kettle.

The aged Cheyenne nodded sadly. “It would be a dishonorable thing to stay here at your fort for my own personal safety. Black Kettle belongs with his people.”

Those words were the last he had spoken before beginning his cold, melancholy return trip northwest along the Washita’s icy course.

“What?” Medicine Woman Later’s voice rose shrill across the camp as she trundled after her husband, following him to their lodge, where she would build up the fire and set some meat to boil.

“Keep your voice down, woman!” he grumped as she shuffled along beside him through the snowdrifts that had gathered in crusty, wind-sculpted ridges between the old lodges.

He was weary of the travel. Weary too of her harping at him. Most of all, Black Kettle felt as drained as an empty
water skin, trying to keep the peace with the white man while keeping his people alive at the same time. Again he wondered if he was up to the task. Perhaps he should step aside as leader of his people.

“I do not like this news you bring us!” She was as hoarse as the creaky lid on an old rawhide parfleche box.

“I am not deaf, woman!” Immediately he was sorry for snapping at her and turned to find that she had ground to a halt in her tracks.

Medicine Woman Later stood with snow piled up to her knees. Her gray head hung, and as she began to weep, Black Kettle came back to her side. He put his arms around her, gently encircling her within the curly warmth of his robe.

“Why is it that you cry, woman? Was it that my words were cruel and cutting—sharp like your favorite knife?”

“No,” she sobbed. “I suddenly realize you truly are deaf, my husband.”

He snorted. “I hear you perfectly.”

“Why is it you cannot hear the agent Wynkoop and that soldier chief Hazen when they warn you of danger coming down upon our heads?”

She scurried through the opening in the lodge cover, seeking the warmth of their fire.

“I am not deaf, woman,” Black Kettle muttered softly, hoping the argument was over.

For too long he had hoped to make all things right for his people. He had listened to both the Indian agent and commander at Fort Lyons some four winters ago, taking his people to camp where the white men guaranteed his people would be safe from harm. There in the grassy, shaded meadows along Sand Creek a few miles above its junction
with the Arkansas River his Cheyenne camp had awakened that November morning to the rumbling roar of cannon tearing through their hide lodges, iron shrapnel scattering blood and gore across the snow. They were peaceful Cheyenne. Black Kettle had seen to it that the agent’s flag of white stars and red stripes flew above the camp to show any soldiers who came that they were Indians protected by the Grandfather in far away Washington City.

His flag had not turned the bullets and cannonballs, sabers and bloodlust of Colonel John M. Chivington’s enraged Colorado militia.

“If you are not deaf,” his wife grumbled, offering him a bowl of hot meat and broth, “then surely you must be crazy.”

“Perhaps I am touched by the moon.” He chewed on the softened meat with what he had left of teeth.

She turned away, muttering to no one at all. “My husband, he is a crazy man.” Pulling a small morsel from the kettle, she plopped it on the end of her tongue. “He is told we should move our camp. He is warned the pony soldiers are roaming this land where we camp for the winter—pony soldiers looking for the white prisoners taken by the foolish young men downriver. We could have moved long ago when Hazen and Wynkoop learned where we raised our camp. Their skin is white. Surely, Hazen will tell the pony soldiers where we camp … here where we wait like possums for the pony soldiers to ride down on us again.”

She sat back atop buffalo robes and blankets, drawing her knees up against her withered dugs. “No, my husband. If you are not deaf and truly can hear Hazen’s words of warning, then you must be crazy.”

Her clucking slowly faded as she carried on the angry tantrum all by herself. Eventually her tirade was replaced by the sweet, rhythmic melody of the great honkers swooping overhead. What pretty music to Black Kettle’s soul their flying-talk had become through the many seasons of his life. Melody birds, flying south this time, far away from this cold land where the white man had plunged a knife deep into the heart of the Earth Mother.

Black Kettle ached to be far away to the south where he did not have to worry about the snow and the cold and the pony soldiers searching for a Cheyenne winter camp while the rivers grew slow and icy.

He wanted nothing more than to listen to the mournful song of the last departing geese.

O
NCE
the sun ducked its head back in its hole far behind the western edge of the earth, the air itself chewed on an old man’s bones. Kiowa chief Lone Wolf wrapped the thick winter robe tightly about his shoulders. Once more he was glad his youngest son had chosen to kill this fat cow almost two moons ago when the shaggy hides grew thick for the coming of winter.

Lone Wolf smiled as he watched more of the lodges in his village begin to glow, warmed with the cook fires of his people. Earlier each afternoon darkness slithered down this valley of the Washita. Already the shadows ran deep among the villages by the water. To the west lay the old one’s village, as that cold, creeping tongue of night snaked its way up the icy river. Black Kettle’s small band of Cheyennes.

Turning with a shudder, the Kiowa chief started for his warm lodge and hot supper when what seemed the thunder of half a thousand pounding hooves stayed his feet. Shouts of greeting and cries of congratulation rang through camp.
Lone Wolf grinned, wrinkling his leathery face. It must have been a good hunt for the two riders who pulled up beside their chief.

“Where is Hump Fat?” Lone Wolf asked with chattering teeth.

“That one,
aieeee!”
The young warrior Rabbit Way rolled his head back, laughing as only youth can. “He is looking for a Cheyenne bride this night, I think!”

“What do you mean?”

“He stays over in Black Kettle’s camp. They invited us to a dance they will hold with the falling of the sun. But Sees Red and I decided we best bring these Ute ponies home to our camp.”

“You found many horses in the land of the Utes, yes?”

“Not as many as we would have liked to find, Uncle!” All three laughed. “We had to travel far to find the Ute villages. By my count-stick, forty-three suns have come and gone—so Hump Fat wants to do nothing more until he finds a maiden to warm his robes tonight. He cannot wait!”

“Does he not know the Cheyenne guard their chastity with more than just a buffalo-hair rope tied about a woman’s loins?” Lone Wolf asked.

“They guard the chastity of their women with the same vengeance they use when they go to war!” young Rabbit Way exclaimed.

“I am glad it was a good hunt for you,” Lone Wolf said. “To bring back so many fine Ute ponies without the loss of a friend—it was a good journey. I am happy you did not have to leave your hair along the way! Our village can celebrate when you have given the horses away. Do you think the Utes will follow the wide trail all these new Kiowa ponies made in your travel across the snowy land?”

“No, Uncle,” Sees Red answered. “The Utes did not follow us after the fourth day of hard riding. They turned back like frightened women, afraid to reclaim their ponies. But we did see a very large trail that worries us both.”

“Yes?” The older man looked back and forth between the two young horse thieves. “Tell me of this trail.”

Rabbit Way answered: “A trail far wider and deeper than all our new ponies together would cut in the snow.”

“There is more you must tell?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Sees Red added. “The trail spoke to us of horses wearing the white man’s iron on their hooves.”

“Pony soldiers?”

“Perhaps,” Rabbit Way admitted. “Any man could read the wide, deep trail, seeing many hundreds of iron-shod horses that cut deep into the crust of the old snow near the Antelope Hills. They drag the big wagons behind them—pointing their noses into the land of the south winds.”

“Did you tell the Cheyenne of your discovery when you stopped in their camp?” Lone Wolf asked, growing uneasy.

“We told them of the trail of hundreds,” Sees Red answered. “But they talked only of our new ponies. They were not interested in hearing our stories of pony soldiers—only our ponies!”

“That is the Cheyenne for you!” Rabbit Way stopped laughing as soon as he saw Lone Wolf staring off to the west, toward the Cheyenne camp of his old friend, Black Kettle.

“Did you tell their camp police of the great iron-shod trail?”

“Yes, Uncle. We told Medicine Elk Pipe of the horses and wagons. But he and the others just laughed at the idea of pony soldiers coming to fight us in the cold of winter.
They claim the soldiers are harmless sun-birds, chasing warriors around the countryside only after the shortgrass comes in spring.”

“So I reminded Medicine Elk Pipe about the great sadness of Sand Creek four winters gone,” Sees Red added. “He grew angry with me, saying I was no more than a boy wetting my cradleboard when his people escaped from the Sand Creek soldiers. Another man, Red Shin, laughed and claimed we three children got lost and double backed onto our own trail.”

Lone Wolf shivered with something more than the deepening cold. “You did not get lost and double back on your own trail, did you?”

“No, Uncle,” Rabbit Way answered. “We saw iron shoes on those hundreds of hundreds of pony tracks. Saw deep cuts carved in the snow and mud near the foot of the Antelope Hills—meaning but one thing—the white soldier wagons.”

“Near the foot of the Antelope Hills?”

“Yes, Lone Wolf. On the north side of the hills.”

“Perhaps it will be all right,” the chief said.

“Do you want me to warn the other villages?” Sees Red asked.

“No, Nephew. The tracks reach only as far as the Antelope Hills. The sky grows dark. It will be very cold this night. If there are any pony soldiers near the Antelope Hills, they will not move far from their own fires now. No, you have been on the trail for forty-three suns already. Go, get something warm in your bellies and put these many fine ponies in our great herd.”

“You believe us, Uncle?” Rabbit Way asked.

“Yes,” Lone Wolf answered. “I will go at first light to
convince my old Cheyenne friend that he too should be on the alert for soldiers. Black Kettle will believe me.”

Out of the inky twilight loomed three shadows: horsemen. Scout Jack Corbin first recognized the young standard bearer who carried Custer’s personal banner. To the right rode Myles Moylan, Custer’s adjutant. Between them, Custer himself.

“Major Elliott sends his compliments, sir!” Corbin announced as the trio halted before him.

“Jack! Elliott has some news for me?”

“Good news, General.”

“We can use it.”

“Them Osages of Pepoon’s found you a trail.”

“How big?”

“Best news of all. Better than a hundred ponies.”

Custer whistled low with approval. “Good-sized war party.”

“Nary a one of ’em wearing shoes.”

“What direction?”

“South, by east.”

Custer slapped his thigh. “By jove! Just where we counted on them gathering all along!”

“Wintering on the Washita, General!” Moylan agreed. “How old’s the trail?” Custer inquired.

“Less’n a day now.”

“Beautiful! That means they can’t be far ahead now. How long till we join with Elliott’s detail?”

“Twelve, maybe fourteen miles. What with all the snow—”

“Fine job, Corbin!” Custer cut him off, appraising the young man atop a strong gray charger. From beneath
Corbin’s worn mackinaw coat poked a pair of revolvers. And across his left arm rested a Sharps carbine—short-barreled and easily handled by a man on horseback.

“Moylan. Ride back and inform the command. Give them my apologies—there will be no sleep for us tonight.”

Myles realized the moon had been up for more than an hour already. “We’ve been driving them hard already, sir.”

“Lieutenant, I’ve got a trail to follow. I want to be sitting right there on the Washita before dawn so I can awaken that village myself.”

“As you wish, General.” Moylan reined away, his mount kicking up rooster tails of new snow.

“You bring me good news, Jack. Four days out of Camp Supply now. Some of the men beginning to grumble with the cold—and the rations. But it reminds me of the sacred meaning of this special day.”

“Special day, General?”

“Yes, Jack. November twenty-sixth—Thanksgiving! And we have much to be thankful for now. Lead on, Mr. Corbin. Troops forward! Ho!”

A glorious day!
Custer cheered himself.

Twenty-four hours ago they had crossed Wolf Creek itself, climbed into snow-capped ridges, then descended into the valley of the Canadian River. After beating their way through quicksands and floating ice snared along the river, the regiment had crawled around the five towering embattlements of the Antelope Hills, each piled deep with new snow.

But Custer’s Luck has returned in spades!

They had tried to strip him of his dignity, his rank and office. But he had shown them he could take the drumming, like some bitter medicine he was forced to drink.
With the courage he had shown in the face of court-martial, Custer let them know who alone the brass could count on in all the West. Now he would give the hostiles a taste of cavalry steel.