Long Winter Gone

CHAPTER 17

BY the time the soldiers had camped that afternoon of the seventeenth, the Osage trackers had located the Kiowa camps. From their brown lodges oily smoke raked across the sky a few miles north of Fort Cobb along the icy Washita. Custer figured it was time to let Sheridan in on how Hazen had been protecting the very tribes he had been sent to punish.

Sheridan fumed when Custer told him the commander of Fort Cobb had made government wards of the guilty Kiowa.

“Seems he promised the chiefs that if they camped near Fort Cobb they’d be safe!”

Sheridan’s Irish temper boiled furiously. “Damn is hide! That bastard’s got my hands tied, Custer!”

“Got your hands tied?”

“When you brought me news upon your return to Camp Supply—that you’d found evidence in Black Kettle’s village that his band had received annuities—I passed word on to division H.Q. I wanted Sherman to know you found them in a hostile village.”

“What’s this got to do with Hazen and the Kiowa?”

“Goddammit, Custer! Can’t you see? I’m made to punish the Indians Hazen is instructed to feed!”

“Sherman?”

“Sherman would have no part of such idiocy! Goddamned Indian Bureau. Time you realized this, Custer. They wear the pants these days over at the War Department. And when they run the War Department, they run Sherman.” Sheridan slammed a fist down on his field desk, scattering papers and maps. “Something must be done to end this insanity.”

“You’re saying on one hand the government’s told to feed and present gifts to those murderers, while the other hand is ordered to hunt them down and shoot them all.”

Again, the hero of the Shenandoah drove a fist onto his field desk. “I’m ordered to fight these goddamned savages while Hazen feeds the beggars. Even shelters them in the shadows of his post! We’ll just have to find a way around Hazen.”

“A way around Hazen?”

“Bastard’s got me trapped. I can’t burn him, Custer,” Sheridan moaned. “As an officer, I’m obligated by Sherman to honor Hazen’s command here in the Territories.”

“But you’re his superior!”

“Best you start to realize the army has two fathers when it marches into Indian Territory: Sherman and Grant on the one hand,” Sheridan said, gazing at his boots, “and the Indian Bureau on the other.”

“Hazen takes his orders from civilians?”

“Most of the time.”

“I must protest! To bring my command all this way, and now you tell me I’m forced to fight with one hand tied behind my back? I’ve got the Kiowa right where we want them. I can punish them now. Attack! The Nineteenth Kansas is itching for a good scrap. They feel cheated, you understand.”

“Cheated?”

“They weren’t in on the Washita battle.”

Sheridan knitted his dark brows. He grappled with the problem a moment longer before speaking. “I must give the Kiowa a chance—”

“A chance, sir? Why not give the Nineteenth Kansas a chance for glory?”

“Goddamn your hide, Armstrong!” Sheridan’s black eyes were full of sudden fire. “You’re the impetuous one. Can’t you see for once that this is something even bigger than you? Hell, even your friend Phil Sheridan couldn’t protect you if you galloped off into that Kiowa camp and wiped them out.

“Who the hell do you think saved you from reassignment to some dead-end, no-account, chair-jockey job when your year of court-martial was up?”

“I had no idea—”

“You don’t enjoy much favor back in the War Department, Custer. Mind you that! Grant himself wonders why he had to spend so much time explaining his fair-haired Boy General who shoots deserters without trial. When Grant and old Bill Sherman start peering over your shoulder, you’d best watch your backside.”

“But one swift blow here!”

“Oh, shut up, Custer. This isn’t the Shenandoah. Don’t you realize the hour has come and gone when you and I can move freely, without shackles in this army?”

“I thought we were to punish the tribes.”

“Time you learned about the world. You listen to me and listen good, because I’ll say it once. This whole winter campaign’s got nothing to do with these blessed Indians. If they all starved to death, I wouldn’t give a goddamn. What it’s about is you. I designed this campaign for George Armstrong Custer. You’re here this winter on probation. Oh, the little bastards with all their braid back in Washington didn’t want you to know that, but there it is. I talked and talked and finally convinced them that this winter campaign needed someone with your abilities. We don’t want you to think. You’re paid to follow orders. Not go charging off. I did my best for you as a friend. But you’d better understand—you’ve been handed your last chance to make something of your military career.”

Sheridan let that sink in a moment while he drew the withered stub of a cigar to his lips. “That shit about you chasing back after Libbie without permission the way you did—and shooting deserters! You almost bungled yourself right into some dead-end command. With no chance to crawl out of the hole you’d buried yourself in.”

Custer remained silent, staring at his boots. For the first time in their long relationship, he couldn’t look Sheridan in the eye. “What is it you’d have me do, General?” His voice had that clear, controlled ring to it.

“From this day forward, you’ll never question a command given you, nor waver from it. Is that understood?”

“Understood, General.”

“Armstrong, can’t you see I need you to keep your nose clean? If you botch things now, they’ll reassign you. I need you here with me.”

“Yessir.”

“There’s this matter of the Kiowa now, Custer.” Sheridan turned to his field desk, where he glanced at a slip of foolscap on which he had been scribbling some plans of operation. “We’ll talk with these Kiowa first.”

“Talk them into returning their prisoners?”

“If there are any left alive,” Sheridan growled. “I’d love to hang a few of those bastards for what they did to Mrs. Blinn and her boy.”

“From what you’ve told me, that would only get us in more trouble back east.”

“You’re learning, aren’t you?” Sheridan slapped a paternal hand on Custer’s shoulder. “For the time being, we’ll try talking with them. Surround the villages in the event our parley fails. You must exhaust all diplomatic means before using any firepower.”

“Diplomacy with murderers, sir?”

“That’s what Washington asks of us, Custer. You’re a soldier, and a soldier—”

“Follows orders.”

“I know to some it might seem futile,” Sheridan said. “But you concentrate on one thing and one thing only until this campaign’s over.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“The white captives these red bastards kidnapped. You remember them. When you eat and when you sleep. You think about those poor women and what they’re going through at the hands of the savages. And remember that it rests in your hands to free them. Destroying one village after another won’t win you favor back in Washington. Freeing those captives will.”

“And Washington is the key to my promotion.”

Sheridan smiled that Irish smile of his. “Now you understand how the game’s played.”

“Got a good teacher in Philip H. Sheridan.”

“Before this winter campaign’s over, Custer—we’ll wrangle that promotion out of those bastards back east. We’ll make you colonel and get you your own regiment if we have to hog-tie President Grant himself.”

When Custer came face to face with the great Kiowa war chief Satanta, both men led armies itching for battle.

After deciding not to join Medicine Arrow, Satanta fumed at the arrogance of the Yellow Hair in following the Kiowa like a hunting dog trailing wounded, bleeding quarry, knowing full well those pony soldiers on his back trail were capable of destroying his villages at will.

On the other hand, Custer remained bitter, licking his own wounds. More than anything, he had wanted to capitalize on the Washita victory, taking the war into the Kiowa strongholds. No matter what any man might say about him, Custer had learned exactly what the Indian warrior understood best. Sheer might. War itself.

Blood was a common language understood by all peoples.

Custer’s horse pawed at the crusty ground.

“Joe—” His eyes found Milner. “Take Corbin, Clark, and Romero. Maybe the Mexican can help Clark interpret Kiowa for me.”

“What you got in mind, General?” Romero asked.

“Ride to the middle of the clearing and wait there. Appears they brought their head men with them this morning. Go find out when I can parley with Satanta and the others.”

“Lookee there, will you?”

Custer whirled. From the far side of the clearing two warriors left the main body, heading down a short, gentle slope heading from the trees into the bottom of the bowl.

“Time to earn your pay, Joe.”

Milner grinned within his greasy beard. “Looks like the curtain’s going up on this road show at last, General. ’Bout damned time.”

Custer gazed at the two crossing the windswept meadow. “Couldn’t agree more.”

“I think it best you send just two of us out to meet them fellas,” Milner advised sullenly.

“Because they’ve sent two?”

“Right.” Milner nodded. “Make a good show of the soldier chief’s intentions.”

“All right.” Custer sighed. “Joe, looks like you and Romero will be the ones. Go find out when I can meet with the chiefs.”

“They’ll keep us as far away from their village as they can, General,” Romero said. “Won’t be anxious to talk to you with their women and kids around.”

“That’s fine with me.” Custer glanced over his shoulder to check on his troops snaking their way down the river some distance behind his advance party. “We won’t push any farther till our command can support us.”

Better than a mile back, those long, dark columns of Seventh Cavalry and Nineteenth Kansas Volunteers had begun to reach the high ground north of the river. They made an impressive show of it snaking against the white tableland. Every bit as impressive, however, were the warriors backing the two delegates descending into the frosty meadow.

“Better than five hundred warriors, by my count, General,” Clark said.

Back and forth across the hills loped the Kiowa decked out in full war regalia. Their songs of war and profane challenge crackled through the air, which was heavy with the excitement of impending battle. Waving aloft their rifles and lances, bows and shields, even a blind man could tell the young warriors weren’t the least bit interested in suing for peace.

What really concerned Custer were those warriors hanging back among the trees ringing the meadow. With him now were enough men to make a good stand of it should the need suddenly arise: Lieutenant Pepoon’s fifty-man squad of civilians, Osage, and Kaw scouts, every man-jack of them armed and expecting a surprise if not outright treachery from the Kiowa. Captains Myers and Yates waited with Lieutenant Tom Custer. And beside the younger Custer sat reporter DeBenneville Randolph Keim, never straying far from center stage on Custer’s winter campaign.

Custer settled on his McClellan saddle as his scouts reined up before the two warriors. All four moved their arms and hands, conversing in prairie sign.

In less than a minute, the scouts headed back toward Custer’s group at a lope.

“I don’t like the looks of that, General,” Clark said.

“What’s gone wrong, Ben?”

“Maybe nothing at all, General. Just figure they should’ve talked longer.”

“By Jupiter!” Custer growled. “The truce break down? Is that why they’re coming back here at a gallop?” Custer wheeled, feeling the hairs prick along the back of his neck. “Cover ’em, men! Watch the bloody trees. I don’t like the smell of this.”

Behind him rose the familiar clatter of men checking the loads in their weapons, unsnapping the mule-eared holsters, resettling their cold rumps on their colder saddles. Itchy. Itchier still as the two scouts came skidding back beside Custer.

“You won’t believe this, General!” Milner yelled, yanking his mule up in a snowy cascade.

“Don’t try me, Milner! I’m in no mood for your humor.”

“Those two back there seem upset with you,” Romero explained. “They weren’t about to talk with us. Want to see the pony soldier chief himself.”

“Smells like a trap, Autie,” Tom Custer said, inching closer. “Look at ’em. Just laying for you, waiting to get you in their claws.”

Custer glanced at his younger brother. “Does have the foul smell of a trap, doesn’t it, Tom?” Then he looked at Milner and Romero. “Why’re you two grinning like coon hounds on the scent?”

“Them red niggers ain’t planning no ambush, General,” Milner answered.

“With my own eyes I can see two warriors sitting there as bait for me—”

“Them two ain’t no everyday warriors, General,” Milner interrupted. That’s the head boys of the Kiowa nation sitting out there, waiting to talk with you personal. That’s ol’ Satanta and Lone Wolf themselves!”

All eyes in Custer’s group focused on the two horsemen in the center of the snowy bowl. One of the Indian ponies pawed at the frozen ground anxiously. Its rider brought the pony under control.

“Lieutenant Colonel Crosby?”

“Yes?” The older officer, dressed in blue and a buffalo-hide greatcoat, nudged his horse forward beside Custer. Sheridan’s aide-de-camp was, as always, impeccably attired. Regulation army.

“It would please me if you came along with me to meet these warrior chiefs as General Sheridan’s personal emissary.”

J. Schuyler Crosby studied the pair of Indians. “Colonel Custer, believe me—it’d be an honor, sir.”

“Very good. Mr. Keim? Care to go along? Recording first-hand what occurs for your readers back east?”

Bobbing his head eagerly, the young newspaperman tapped heels to his mount, joining Romero. “You’ll never have to ask a question like that twice, General Custer!”

“Fine.” Custer let his eyes touch every one of those who would accompany him into the meadow. “Gentlemen, be aware that our lives might be at forfeit in but a twinkling of an eye. Check your weapons. Have them ready. Understood?”

Custer set off. Caught by surprise with his dramatic departure, Crosby and Keim dashed behind Custer, while Romero and Milner rode the flanks.

At long last he had come face to face with two of the bloodiest warriors on the southern plains.

“General,” Milner whispered as they clattered to a halt, “these boys got a reputation that’s smellier than a Comanche’s breechclout.”

“We’ll pay heed, Mr. Milner,” Custer replied, blue eyes searching the faces before him for signs of treachery or truth.

Satanta bore a hawkish countenance, his eyes shaded by a heavy, knitted brow, his dark face split by a carved beak that gave him the appearance of a predator. Beside him sat Lone Wolf, a little older in years perhaps, but no less frightening in appearance. Both copper faces were surrounded by straight, raven hair falling well past shoulders wrapped in blankets. Their dark glinting eyes gazed past Custer’s shabby, trail-worn appearance, attentive to the small party gathered behind the Seventh’s commander.

Satanta flashed a wide smile that showed most of his teeth as he nudged his pony past Custer, bringing up his right hand … presenting his big bare paw to Sheridan’s uniformed aide. To the Kiowa’s way of thinking, one dressed in this bright blue uniform and wool cloak dripping with glittering gold braid and festooned with brass buttons had to be the soldier chief.

The gesture caught Crosby by surprise. Dumbfounded and unsteady under pressure, Crosby shook his head violently, refusing to take Satanta’s hand. He began to stammer, trying ineptly to tell the chief that he was not the soldier chief. A garbled hodgepodge of tongue-tied words dribbled past his lips.

“I’m not—General Custer—why can’t he understand—”

Offended, Satanta angrily jerked his hand back at Crosby’s botched refusal. He gazed at his hand as if told he carried the pox. Then he spit on the ground with a sneer.

Custer realized the danger in embarrassing the Kiowa chief. From the corner of one eye he watched Lone Wolf ease his pony to the left, away from possible gunfire. Away from the impetutous Satanta. In the trees beyond, Kiowa warriors made their first bold forays from the shade, inching closer to their chiefs.

It didn’t take a cook to know someone had just thrown some sand in the soup.

“Me Kiowa!” Satanta roared in a tree-ringing growl, banging his chest with a huge ham hock of a fist he had offered Crosby.

“Romero!” Custer called out. “Tell this fellow he picked the wrong man for a chief—and tell him fast!”

“This scared one is not the chief,” the Mexican explained.

Again the chief glared at the shaken Crosby. “So you say, Indian-talker. Tell Satanta who is leader of the soldiers who trample across Kiowa land. Who among these poorly dressed hairy-faces claims to be the mighty soldier chief?”

“This one,” Romero answered, gesturing. “He who wears a buffalo coat, beside me.”

Satanta gave Custer nothing more than a cursory going over before he glowered at Romero.

“Stupid Indian-talker! You take Satanta for a fool, don’t you? This is no pony soldier chief. Hear me now! Satanta demands you bring me the pony chief who destroyed Black Kettle’s village. He and he only I wish to meet. Not this imposter!”

“I swear you are looking at the pony soldier chief,” Romero persisted. Suddenly he remembered something that might convince Satanta. “This one in the buffalo coat is well known on the plains. From the land of the winter winds south to the land of the Summer Maker. He is known to all great warriors.”

“Who is this?” Satanta demanded, glaring at Romero.

“Yellow Hair!”

Two sets of dark obsidian eyes studied the soldier chief.

“Yellow Hair truly sits before us?” Lone Wolf broke the silence at last, speaking to Romero.

“He does.” Romero nodded.

“The soldier chief who left Black Kettle’s village an ash heap?”

Again Romero nodded.

“I would meet this Yellow Hair,” Satanta remarked. “His heart must surely be brave to ride into this meadow when my warriors have it surrounded.”

Romero turned to Custer. “They understand you’re chief of this outfit. Satanta figures your heart must be pretty brave to be here in this meadow when he’s got his warriors surrounding it.”

Without a word, Custer inched forward, halting his mount nose to nose with Satanta’s smaller pony. “Tell the chiefs I do have a brave heart. If they intend to start something, they better do it now while they have the chance to slaughter us.”

“General,” Romero’s voice rose, “you really want me to tell these chiefs you’re calling their bluff?”

“No. Just tell them I don’t believe they have us surrounded. I have no fear of their treachery, for they’ll soon see my cavalry come up behind us.”

“Yellow Hair says his heart is strong. He is not afraid, for he does not believe you have him surrounded.”

Like quick black birds, four dark eyes darted left and right, finding their warriors circling the meadow.

“Yellow Hair comes from the north, the land your warriors raided. Many soldiers follow Yellow Hair.”

Satanta glowered for a moment, studying the soldier chief. Then surprisingly his countenance completely changed. Flashing a broad smile at Custer, he spoke to Romero. “Does Yellow Hair not enjoy a good joke, Indian-talker?”

“Not when the joke is played on him, Satanta.”

The Kiowa chief stuck out his huge hand once again, this time to Custer, as if all were forgiven. “Satanta greets the great Yellow Hair.”

Custer glanced down at the offered hand, shaking his head. “Romero, you tell this pompous ass I don’t shake hands with any man unless I know him to be a friend.”

Satanta’s massive jaw clenched. For a second time his handshake had been refused. Long ago he had learned the white man put much ceremonial stock in this hand-shaking business. And Satanta loved ceremony. For two soldiers to refuse his hand could only be a great insult.

“Satanta,” Romero translated quickly to fill the electric void, “Yellow Hair would shake your hand only if you are a true friend.”

With an ugly sneer the chief looked over at his companion, Lone Wolf. The old one nodded to Satanta in reluctant agreement.

“Remember, White Bear,” Lone Wolf whispered, “we have a choice. Will it be jackal, or wolf?”

Satanta nodded. “I choose the wolf.”

The young chief directed his eyes back to Custer and his words to Romero. “Why does Yellow Hair come to Kiowa land?”

“Yellow Hair comes to see if the Kiowa’s hearts are true.”

Satanta considered that a moment behind his hard eyes. “Does Yellow Hair come to slaughter more sleeping villages of women and children and old people?”

“No,” Romero answered emphatically. “Yellow Hair is here to talk with the great Kiowa leaders. To learn what’s in your hearts. To let them know what is in his heart.”

“This is good,” Lone Wolf admitted. “What would Yellow Hair say to us?”

“General”—Romero turned to Custer—”what do I tell them you want to talk over with ’em?”

“First, I want the Kiowa to proceed without delay to Fort Cobb. Only there in the shadow of the fort will Sheridan discuss peace with the Kiowa.”

Romero brought his dark eyes to bear on the two warriors. “Yellow Hair brings with him a great war chief to talk with the Kiowa chiefs. Sher-i-dan. He and Yellow Hair won the war when the white men fought among themselves three robe seasons ago.”

The Mexican watched Satanta’s eyes light up and flick over to the uniformed Crosby.

“No, Satanta,” Romero explained. “This one here is second chief to the great war chief who rides among his soldiers this morning.”

Both chiefs nodded, dutifully impressed. Romero smiled to himself. He didn’t think a little white lie would hurt getting the Kiowa’s attention.

Lone Wolf gestured to Custer. “Yellow Hair and the one who stays back with his warriors must be great war chiefs, to win that long and terrible war between the white men.”

“Both chiefs fought side by side,” Romero explained. “They come now to bring peace to this land. Or they come to bring war to your camps. The Kiowa must decide.”

Satanta glanced at Lone Wolf again, only their eyes talking in cold silence. Finally, the younger one turned to Romero. As he tugged his bright blanket about his shoulders with one hand, Romero saw the other hand held an old cap-and-ball revolver.

“We Kiowa wish peace with the army, Indian-talker,” he declared in a clear, strong voice. “Pony soldier chief Hazen knows us to be at peace. He gives us presents and weapons to hunt the buffalo. We live in peace with our neighbors: the Comanche, Apache, Cheyenne, and Arapaho. Yellow Hair and this war chief Sher-i-dan do not know us. When they are our friends, then at last will they know what is truly in the Kiowa heart.”

“You will go to Fort Cobb and talk with the pony chiefs?”

“We will talk with these two war chiefs you bring here to Indian land,” Satanta replied.

Romero said, “You must go to Fort Cobb now to talk with the chiefs in the shadow of Hazen’s post.”

For a long, stony moment, Satanta glared at Romero. His eyes met Custer’s as he answered. “We will go to Fort Cobb. At Hazen’s post we will show this Yellow Hair we are at peace with the soldiers.”

“Do we have trouble here, Romero?” Custer sounded edgy.

“Not now, General. They’re ready to ride on to Cobb with you, to show they’re peace Indians and don’t want war with Yellow Hair.”

“Peace Indians, eh?” He grinned. “Killers of women and children. Well, you just tell these peace Indians to fall in and accompany my cavalry to the fort—now. Bloody butchers.”

Custer glanced over his shoulder, seeing his troops had deployed themselves near the southern edge of the meadow along the river. Fluttering on the cold breeze were colorful regimental guidons and Custer’s own personal Standard carried aloft over the band. Sunlight glinted off the shiny brass instruments. It made his war-horse heart swell with pride.

“Satanta and Lone Wolf will go with Yellow Hair to Hazen’s post,” Romero reminded Satanta.

“This is a good thing, Indian-talker. We will show Yellow Hair what is in our hearts.” Satanta turned, raising an arm to signal his warriors on the hillside to the northeast. From the half-thousand crowding the knoll burst some twenty warriors descending the hill at a lope.

“What’s going on here?” Custer demanded. “Romero!”

“Who are these who come?” the interpreter barked.

“They are our chiefs, Indian-talker,” Lone Wolf explained. “We are first chiefs. There are many head men among the Kiowa. Now Yellow Hair will know what lies in the hearts of all.”

“General—” Romero cleared his throat with a disturbing rattle, “old Lone Wolf here says all the chiefs have to sit in on the parley with you—”

“All of these? Why, there’s more than twenty of them headed this way!”

Romero chuckled. “Appears you’ll have quite a crowd for dinner, General.”

Custer relaxed, seeing the Kiowa chiefs smiling. His own famous grin crept across his face at last. “Appears they’re about to stretch my hospitality pretty thin, aren’t they?”

Custer turned to Lieutenant Colonel Crosby. “Inform General Sheridan that all companies will be on alert for any treachery, Colonel.”

“Sounds as if you’re expecting some treachery, Custer.”

His robin-egg blue eyes studied J. Schuyler Crosby a moment before he answered. Sheridan’s aide had seen little of field service, none of it on the plains with Indians. Crosby was one of those legions in command staffs who had leapt their way up the rungs of the army ladder through a series of prestigious friendships with important officers in the War Department.

“No, Colonel,” Custer finally answered. “I’m not actually expecting any treachery from the Kiowa at all.”