Long Winter Gone

CHAPTER 9

BY now the Osages had herded most of the shivering captives into the center of camp, using switches to whip slow-moving Cheyenne women and children toward the holding area. The trackers used this ages-old form of humiliation in order to show their prisoners no better treatment than they would give a camp dog.

Seeing the cruelty etched on the Osage trackers’ faces, the women wailed quiet, discordant death songs. Their fear set the captive children screaming for their own lives. A chilling chorus slashed through the devastated camp.

Custer rode up. Romero figured the commander’s curiosity had been aroused with the noisy keening of the women and children. The Mexican felt Custer’s eyes on him as Romero moved among the captives, interrogating them. From time to time, he glanced over his shoulder at Custer. The soldier chief appeared to savor his triumph. Every trooper who approached saluted him. Even the blood-eyed Osage scouts had shown great respect for the soldier chief. Romero watched the prisoners’ dark eyes. None of this royal treatment of the soldier chief was lost on the captives.

“Romero!” Custer called out.

The stocky scout trotted up to the buckskin-clad soldier chief astride his dark horse, leaving behind the gray-haired woman he had been questioning.

As the younger sister of Black Kettle, Mahwissa had been one of the first to recognize how the soldiers and Osages alike treated this soldier chief who had devastated her sleeping village. Mahwissa whispered woman-talk to the young woman next to her.

“General?” Romero stared up into that light of new day behind Custer’s curl-draped collar.

“I want you to tell me who that young woman is.”

Romero scanned the prisoners. “Which one, General?” There was no mistaking that gleam in Custer’s eyes.

“The young one, there with the red blanket. A smudge on her cheek.”

“The real pretty one, eh? Not at all like them older, fatter ones, is she?”

“Just find out who she is for me.”

“Aye, General.”

Romero obediently approached the young girl. The other women near her fell back. Only Mahwissa stood her ground beside the girl.

“What is your name, little one?” the scout asked politely. She didn’t reply. Then his tone grew cruel and insistent. “I asked your name!”

From the earliest days of his captivity among the Cheyenne, Romero had learned that a woman must not refuse to answer a man. Yet this haughty young one wouldn’t speak.

Angered by her insolence, Romero grabbed the girl’s chin, lifting her face to look directly into his fiery eyes. She jerked her face from his hand. The scout brought his arm back to strike.

Mahwissa lunged to grab the scout’s arm as Custer’s voice split the air. “Romero!”

The interpreter turned slowly, his squinted eyes flashing contempt.

“Only her name,” Custer said.

“Monaseetah.”

Custer and Romero both turned jerked in surprise. Mahwissa’s old voice had cracked the brittle tension between the two men.

The scout turned back to Custer. “Says the girl’s name is Monaseetah.”

Custer slid from Dandy’s back. His eyes never left the girl. “What does that mean in Cheyenne?”

Romero chewed on that a moment the way he might chew on some gristle. “Close as I can figure, means. ‘The Young Grass That Shoots Up in Spring.’”

“A mouthful. I like Monaseetah better. And the old woman?”

Romero inquired. The old woman responded happily this time. She had read the pony chief like spring clouds.

“Her name is Mahwissa,” Romero called back. “Claims to be a sister to old Black Kettle. She says he was killed in the fight.”

“Sorry to hear that. I was hoping to have a chance to meet him. Bargain for captives, perhaps. Unfortunate.”

“She says he died down at the river crossing. Trying to make a run for it.”

“Live to fight another day, eh? So, with all that talk she’s made, what else she tell you about herself?”

“She wasn’t jabbering about herself. Busy telling me about the young one.”

“Yes?”

“She’s the daughter of Little Rock, who was second in power only to Black Kettle. Seems we rubbed ’em both out this morning.”

“A chiefs daughter, you say?”

The interpreter spoke again to Mahwissa.

“Girl’s seventeen summers now,” Romero reported to his commander. “The old gal says Monaseetah is married.”

“Her husband run off with the rest?”

“Lucky one to get his tail over the hills when we rode down on this camp. But, there’s something more.” Romero shook his head.

“How’s that?”

“Old woman says the young gal’s father had to buy her back. Eleven ponies. And the usual plunder: blankets, robes, a kettle or two, maybe a gun … such truck as that. Seems she brought such a fancy price since she was a chiefs daughter.”

“Not married now, you say?”

Romero glanced at the young woman, seeing how she flicked her black-cherry eyes at Custer. Eyes showing no fear. Instead, Romero saw a welcome for the soldier chief written there. In Custer’s eyes gleamed a great interest.

“By Cheyenne custom, Little Rock had no choice when Monaseetah’s husband gave her back.”

“Her mother here in the group?”

Romero shook his head. “Killed by Chivington’s dirty work at Sand Creek. You like the gal, eh, General?”

Custer blinked. But his eyes hardened once more. “Interested only in her sad story. The girl without any family. She just might be of some service to us yet.”

“No good to a man except in the robes—”

“A guide! She knows this territory. I’ll use her to translate.”

“You’re not serious, are you, General?” Romero didn’t wait for an answer. “Shit—I forgot more about this country than she’ll ever know. And you go try to make a translator out of her? She can’t speak a word of English!”

“Perhaps she’s bright. And can learn enough to act as an interpreter.”

“General, all due respect—”

Soldiers’ shouts and women’s screaming whirled Custer about. One of the bloodied captives wrenched past a young private, rushing for the soldier chief. Romero grabbed her before she reached Custer.

“What the devil’s this one babbling about, Romero?”

“This one … isn’t Cheyenne!”

Custer studied the woman. “What, pray tell, is she?”

“She’s Arapaho.”

“What in God’s name is she doing in a Cheyenne camp?”

“Been visiting relatives in Black Kettle’s camp. But she didn’t come from a long way off.”

That stopped Custer cold. “Not far off?”

“A short ways down the river, better than nine hundred lodges all fixing to ride down on your soldiers here.”

“Utter nonsense! It simply can’t be. Those pony tracks led us right here. Question that other one, Romero … Black Kettle’s sister. See if she has anything useful to tell. When you’re done with her, I want one of the captured ponies selected for each of our prisoners. Woman and child. They’ll ride back to Camp Supply.”

“Few of ’em aren’t able to sit the back of a horse, General. Figure we could pack ’em in the wagons?”

“Splendid idea. Put the little ones … and the wounded in some of Lieutenant Bell’s wagons for the trip—”

“General!”

Custer turned as Captain Thompson lumbered up, two troopers behind him. Each soldier had a small white child clamped fiercely to his back.

“General,” Thompson wheezed, “we found these two young’uns hiding in a lodge down a ways. Must be white captives. What we do with ’em, sir?”

“Why … find them some clean clothing. Then feed them a decent meal. We’ll take them back to Camp Supply, then forward them to Fort Dodge on the Kansas frontier. Likely someone will soon be around to claim them.”

“General Custer!” Romero shouted. “C’mon over here. The old woman … she wants to see you. Something to do with the young one in the red blanket.”

“By all means—let’s see what this squaw has to say.”

Mahwissa trudged up to Custer, stopping toe to toe with the soldier chief as she began jabbering.

“Says the Cheyenne call you Hiestzi now, General.”

“Which means?”

“Yellow Hair. Color of winter grass out here on the plains.”

“What’s this to do with the young one there?”

“Seems the girl’s got no mother or father now—”

Custer shook his head. “Hurry with this. I’ve got pressing matters to attend to.”

Mahwissa had watched confusion slowly cloud the soldier chief’s face. Pushing Romero aside, the old woman laid Monaseetah’s hand in Custer’s buckskin glove, holding both hands out before her. When Custer tried to yank his hand away, Mahwissa refused to let go, raising her mystical chant to the heavens, eyes closed in prayer.

Intrigued, Custer stopped pulling to free his hand, gazing down into the young girl’s deeply beautiful face. Her eyes never rose to his, but closed in prayerful reverence.

With each passing chorus of Mahwissa’s singsong chant, Romero’s smile widened.

Suspicions pricked, Custer demanded, “What’s this all about?”

Mahwissa released the couple’s hands.

“Prayer to the Everywhere Spirit, for his blessing.”

“Blessing!”

“Mahwissa’s married you to this young gal.”

“By the gods, Romero! You bloody well know I’m married already!”

“I know. But the Cheyenne don’t.”

Custer seethed with rage. “You tell them I’m already married. I won’t be made the butt of their pagan hoax!”

“Not a joke, General.”

“Tell them I already have a—”

“No difference to them Cheyenne. Monaseetah won’t fret being your left-hand wife.”

“Left-hand?”

“You already got a white woman for your right hand.”

Custer calmed a little. “A ceremonial thing, is it?” He drew himself up, puffing his chest. “Given the formality of this woman as a conquering hero.”

“Not just a ceremony to the Cheyenne, General. A real wedding. The young one’s your wife.”

“My wife!”

Romero listened to the nearby troopers snicker at the shriek in Custer’s voice.

“You’re her husband. General—till you send her packing someday … back to the Cheyenne.”

“I see. When we’ve completed this campaign, hmmm? A long, long winter gone from now.”

“Hey, General!” Clark intruded, hurrying over. “Take a look yonder.” He waited for Custer’s attention to be ripped from Romero and the young captive. “Look up on the ridge … over there.”

Custer followed the scout’s arm. Half-naked bodies bristled atop the hills to the south, southeast. Warriors on horseback, gathered in small, angry knots glaring down at the plundered Cheyehne village.

“Some of the defeated warriors, Clark. The few fortunate enough to escape my net.”

“You’re wrong, Custer.”

“Care to tell me who those warriors are?”

“They’re not Cheyenne. More like Arapaho. Some Kiowa. I figure for the next few miles downriver lay more camps than any of us ever counted on stumbling into. More warriors than we could fight in one day.”

“By Judas’s judgment!” Custer laughed. “That bunch is up there to keep us from finishing our job.”

“What job, General?”

“Destroying the plunder … these lodges. And we’ll have to take care of the ponies.”

“Dammit!” Clark’s eyes flashed. “Best you listen to your scouts, General.”

“You boys are becoming nervous old women!” Custer chuckled as he turned away. His laughter drew cackling from the soldiers assigned to guard the captives.

“General, you’ve gone and poked a huge nest of wasps here.” Clark glared at Custer’s broad back. “You hear me?”

The general leapt aboard Dandy without another word.

“General! Dammit! One day you’re bound to have to listen to your scouts! One day real soon!”

Suddenly a detail of blue-tunics whipped their frenzied mounts down the north bank of the Washita and into the icy river without slowing. A handful of soldiers on foot momentarily turned on the bank to return fire into the timber before plunging into the water, terror written on every face.

As the dozen scrambled up on the bank, Moylan whirled up, arriving on the scene beside Custer, both men’s horses sending sprays of muddy snow cascading over some of the drenched troopers.

“Sergeant Johnson!” Custer called to the lead man.

“Yessir, General!”

“What in blazes goes here?” Custer demanded.

“Had to abandon the coats and packs, sir.”

“Abandon them?”

“We was overrun! They rode down on us—”

“Overrun by who?”

“Warriors, sir! Found out where you left us off to guard the packs and coats—”

“Precisely, Sergeant. Your detail was to guard that army property. Those of you who deserted your assigned posts could be subject to courts-martial for the loss of that government property … in addition to abandoning your posts.”

A good portion of Sergeant Niles Johnson’s untried recruits murmured between themselves, angry and fearful. Johnson alone understood that George Armstrong Custer had never once retreated in his entire career.

“I done it to save the men, sir. We was about to be overrun and I didn’t want to sacrifice my command. I knowed reinforcements was here to help us—”

“Save the men? That’s not your department to decide, Sergeant.”

“Sir. Respectfully … it weren’t coward—”

“Begging your pardon, General,” Clark interrupted.

“What is it, Clark? More valuable advice?”

“Dammit, General! They ain’t all Cheyenne breathing down our necks! This little camp ain’t the only village in this valley. I savvy the sergeant’s men were chased off by the same bunch of Arapaho that came boiling after Godfrey’s blood. Maybe the same bunch jumped Major Elliott and his boys.”

Custer stared into the trees across the Washita, then suddenly wheeled on his adjutant. “Moylan, have Benteen’s men go with Hard Rope to bring the pony herd across the river.”

Clark shook his head. “What in devil’s dust do you want with them ponies?”

“Their destruction, Mr.—”

The unexpected roar of more carbine fire rumbled over the frightened shouts of panicked men from the north side of the river. The winter air split with Indian screeches and the sharp cracks of their rifles, just as Lieutenant James M. Bell bounced up from the riverbank on the hard seat of his army freight wagon.

Wide-eyed, Bell hunched over like a bent old woman, whipping his team straight down the sharp incline into the crossing, splashing headlong into the river. On his heels rattled the rest of the noisy freighters, each one driven by grim-lipped, bug-eyed soldiers, every teamster jockeying to be the next wagon into the ford. With the clattering wagons galloped a double fistful of the regiment’s pack mules, bellering hell bent for election through the ranks with brass-lunged scree-haws and spraying rooster tails of icy water. One wagon lumbered over on its side to avoid a collision. It bounced a few yards across the rocky riverbottom on two wheels, then clattered back down on all four, the driver no longer clutching the reins but clinging to the seat instead.

First up the slope into the village, Bell wheeled his wagon hard as he brought his wild-eyed animals under control and leaned all his weight back into the brake. The iron-rimmed wheel protested as loud as any of the screeching warriors at that moment making their colorful appearance on the north bank.

“Lieutenant Bell!” Custer called.

“Reporting, sir!” The older officer trotted up to the general, sloughing red mud over his boots.

“Let’s have your report,” Custer yelled above the bursts of carbines fired at the screeching Indians on the north bank.

“A while back I heard some rifle fire coming from the direction where we left Johnson with the packs and coats, sir!” He was breathless. “Took my drivers to assist the sergeant’s men.”

“Go on.”

“Figured we could help drive off the warriors. But there were more damned redskins around those packs and coats than I ever hope to see again in all my days!”

“Tell me all of it.”

“Headed the wagons ’round the hills and raced down to the crossing near the horse herd.”

“The horse herd?” Custer’s voice rose an octave.

“Yessir.”

Custer waved his arms wildly. “By God’s back teeth, those red buggers won’t get their bloody hands on their horses!” Custer turned back to Bell. “Lieutenant, you’re to be commended for your quick and decisive action in the face of the enemy. I’ll see to it you receive a regimental commendation when we return to Fort Hays. Didn’t lose any men in the run?”

“No, sir. All present and accounted for.”

“Splendid! Have one of your men find Captain Thompson. I’ll have Thompson take a detachment back to find our property.”

“Yessir!”

“Very good, soldier.” Custer clapped his gloved hands together. “I’ve captured their village. Now it’s time for me to crush the spirit of those who escaped my noose.”