Long Winter Gone

CHAPTER 22

STILL more lodges joined the trail early the next day. By late morning Custer’s scouts ran across a second and larger campground. The number of fire pits indicated the village had grown to twenty-five lodges.

More surprising still, by the next day, 12 March, Jack Corbin tallied better than a hundred sets of travois poles scratching the earth, joining the northbound march of the Cheyenne war camps.

“By glory, Jack!” Custer cheered at the news, happier than he had been in weeks. “We’ve flushed ’em like a covey of prairie hens now. We’ll herd them on ahead of us until they’re gathered up.”

“And you’re ready to strike.” Corbin picked something off the trail. “We’re right behind ’em. Trail’s warm.”

“Horse apples?”

“Though they ain’t steaming, they’re still warm to the touch.” Corbin crumbled one in his threadbare mitten.

“How far ahead of us?”

“Two, maybe three days, the way they’re lollygagging along.” It was Milner who answered this time. “Don’t seem they know we’re fixing to run up their backsides neither.”

“If you don’t want them Cheyenne to know you’re coming, best keep your flankers and skirmishers in close, General,” Corbin advised.

“All right. Bring them in. Let Pepoon’s trackers know too. Saints preserve the man who lets the Indians discover us now!”

“Should I take word to the commands, sir?” Moylan flung a thumb back along the columns.

“By all means. No bugle calls, no more hunting. No firing of guns for any reason. See that Captain Myers posts sentries with the wagons and the herd, and deploys a perimeter guard tonight. Small fires, for cooking only. Fires out after supper, before dark. I’ve gotten this close—”

“You don’t want a damn thing spoiling it now!” Moylan agreed.

A half hour later Custer sat with his scouts at a small fire, brewing coffee, discussing the country ahead, when a young soldier approached.

“General Custer?”

Custer looked up. “Private Reed, isn’t it?”

“Yessir. Ellison Reed.”

“What have you there?”

“Salt, sir.”

“Where’d you find salt?”

“Down by the river, General. There’s a salt stream, yonder by the spring. Banks piled high with salt cakes like this. A natural lick drawing critters from all ’round. Thick with tracks down at the spring. Figured we gone without salt for too long now. This here’s for you, sir.”

“That’s kind of you, Private. How do you figure to grind it?”

“Have a coffee mill, General?” Corbin interrupted. “I’ll show you how we grind salt back to home.”

“Splendid, Jack! Not only have you tracked the end of the trail for these Cheyenne we’ve been following, but you have a way to grind the salt Reed’s discovered.”

“A treat for any man likes the taste of red meat, General,” Milner added.

“Man needs a treat,” Custer said, “before he likely heads into battle.”

Before winter’s dusk had swallowed the encampment, Custer called his officers together and issued marching orders. Tom Custer listened as his brother stated that any item of personal gear such as blankets or tents or clothing which could not be loaded in the wagons was to be burned.

“I’ll allow each man one blanket,” Custer said.

Every worn-out horse and mule was shot by the rear guard. Already suffering from many days without proper rations, the soldiers would at least fill their bellies on the stringy horse or mule meat as they readied for battle once more.

That next morning, Tom Custer’s company covered their smoky fires with sodden earth, resuming their march before first light. Before the sun climbed a hand above the horizon, the scouts rode in with the stirring report of finding a recent encampment of some four hundred lodges just ahead.

“Fire pits warm enough to take the chill off a man’s bones,” Milner repeated after Tom waved him over, anxious to hear the news. “Damn big herd of ponies. Them Cheyenne gathering up, young Custer.”

“I bet Autie cheered your news.”

“Part that made him happy was to hear them Cheyenne don’t even know we’re on their tails. He’s sneaking his blue army right up their red asses!”

“How soon?” Tom asked.

“Hard Rope and old Little Beaver told your brother he’d not sleep this night before seeing many Cheyenne.”

“That’s grand news, Joe!”

“Itchy for a fight?”

“You bet I am, you old bastard! Got a score to even with them red bastards for butchering Elliott’s men at the Washita.”

Milner led his old mule back toward the commissary wagons, where he might wangle a mouthful or two of food from the sergeant.

Around noon Custer sent Hard Rope up the trail to a nearby knoll. He was to signal the columns to proceed if the countryside beyond was clear.

“Little Beaver says that’s got to be the valley of the Sweetwater,” Romero said to Custer as they watched Hard Rope scramble up the hill. “Man points his nose northeast, he’d run into the Washita, not far from where Black Kettle was camped.”

“I’ll find those Cheyenne soon, or my name isn’t—”

“Custer!” Hard Rope had whirled, racing downhill, weaving through the hackberry brush. He slid to a stop beside Custer’s horse.

“Come see. Many horses. Big village. Your eyes see, this time.”

“Moylan, you stay here. I’ll see what Hard Rope’s spotted.”

At the top of the knoll Custer dropped on his belly alongside the Osage, crawling the last few yards to the crest. In the valley of the Sweetwater below grazed a far-reaching herd of ponies, watched over by several young herders.

Hard Rope nudged Custer, pointing out the extent of the herd’s pasture. “Big herd, chief. Means big village.”

Adrenaline warmed Custer’s blood. Nothing like that feeling of impending action. He was ready to have it out with the Cheyenne, done with their lying. Their ponies were nowhere near as poor as they’d claimed. His shrinking net had snared them. Now all he had to do was present them the choice. Give him the girls and return to the reservation—or go to war.

Custer’s attention was yanked to the southeast, down the valley where a young herder burst from the trees, riding bareback atop a spotted pony, whistling his shrill alarm.

“Eagle wingbone!” Hard Rope muttered angrily.

“What’s going on?”

“See yourself, Chief.” Hard Rope pointed. “Your soldiers get spotted by a pony boy.”

Custer caught a glimpse of the head of the blue columns snaking their way up the Sweetwater. The boy rode to warn the villages.

Other herders wheeled, kicking their ponies furiously. Waving blankets ripped from their backs, the boys roused the ponies, starting them for the river, where they forced the leaders down the slippery bank and into the icy water. Screeching their alarm, the herders whirled through the herd, driving the leaders up the north bank, escaping the cavalry’s advance.

Custer spun, dashing downhill under a full head of steam. “Moylan!”

“Sir?”

“Head back to the columns, that direction. Tell them we’ve been discovered. Order them up on the double! I need support for a possible attack!”

Romero eased up. “They can’t tear that village down quick enough to escape, General.”

“But the warriors will come out to engage us while their women dismantle the lodges and retreat. A staying action while the village slips away, then the warriors themselves will disappear.”

“You’re learning ’bout these Indians,” Romero said.

“I know they won’t fight if they can run,” Custer replied as he slipped his boot into an oxbow stirrup. “This is one time we’re going to surround them and take the fight to ’em. You coming, Romero?”

“Hell, this is one ride I wouldn’t miss for all the vermilion in China!”

“Ride with us, Little Beaver,” Custer shouted.

“No.” He wagged his head. “Little Beaver go back, paint his face now. Tie feathers in my hair. Bring out my war shirt before I fight those squaw killers. I want those Cheyenne to see how many Cheyenne scalps decorate my war shirt.”

“Be about, then, old man! There’ll be plenty of fighting for you soon enough.” Custer put spurs to his stallion’s flanks.

Romero rode boot to boot with Custer for better than two miles, racing around the base of a hill, heading for a treeless ridge. For miles in all directions the countryside lay free of ravines and timber which could conceal Indian ambush.

“Ho, General!” Romero grabbed Custer’s wrist, yanking back on his own reins.

“Look ’head of you.” Romero pointed.

Atop a rocky, sandstone formation more than a dozen feathered heads peered at the lonely pair of riders. While Custer brooded on what to do next, Romero counted more than fifty skylined heads.

“Best we get our tails high behind—get out of here while the getting’s good,” Romero suggested anxiously.

Custer twisted in the saddle, squinting into the bright, winter light reflected off the snow and splintering through frost-rimed trees. No sign of his columns yet. He turned, watched the warriors grow braver, milling about, studying the brace of horsemen below.

“We aren’t running, Romero.” Custer said it with the flat sound of a hammer pounding an anvil.

“You’re crazy! These are Cheyenne Dog Soldiers, if I ever saw one! They’d love to pick their teeth with your bones!”

“Stand your ground,” Custer ordered as the scout turned to go. “I’ll have you shot for desertion,” he growled as his pistol cleared its holster, “if I don’t shoot you myself.”

Romero stared into the bore of the hand cannon Custer aimed at him.

“Doesn’t take long for the sight of a muzzle to take the starch out of any man,” Custer said.

“Hell, General. Don’t know what’s the better way to die. Them bloodthirsty bucks up there—or you.”

Custer stuffed the pistol away, grinning. “C’mon, Romero. I’m not about to shoot you. Our days aren’t over yet.”

“Sooner’n you think,” Romero replied. He pointed as a couple dozen warriors mounted and started down the slope.

“I bloody well don’t care if they’re not coming to welcome us with open arms,” Custer said. “What matters is I’ve found the camp where the white girls are held.” He drew a deep breath, checking over his shoulder for his troops. “You remember the bodies of that young woman and her little boy we found in the Kiowa camp on the Washita?”

Romero nodded.

“They were butchered soon as the camps learned soldiers were on the way. I’ve vowed that won’t happen this time. The first shot fired by us will kill those two girls, as surely as I put a gun to their heads myself. I’ve got to think of them above all.”

“You got any ideas to save our hides—yours and mine?”

“Go tell those warriors we want to parley with ’em.”

“Parley?” Romero squeaked like a dry buggy wheel in need of tallow.

“You’ve got to convince them we want a truce—no fighting. It’s the only way we keep the girls alive. If they think we’re about to attack, those two lives will be blood on my hands.”

“Here’s hoping your plan works, General.” Romero tapped heels and zigzagged forward, heading for the snowy bluff. Halfway there he drew up, loping in a tight circle, signing his desire to parley. From the twenty-odd emerged three warriors. As the trio set across the snowy meadow, the others followed.

Starting to sweat, Romero wheeled his horse in a spray of snow. He raced back, sliding to a halt beside Custer, who stood in the stirrups, eyes flicking to the rear.

“Can they see my troops now?” Custer asked.

“From that hill, you damn bet they can.”

“They won’t try anything stupid, will they?”

“Wouldn’t put a thing past a Dog Soldier, General.”

“Then by all means, Romero, tell those warriors to halt where they are.”

Despite Romero’s signs, the three kept coming. Worse yet, the twenty behind them galloped to catch up. The interpreter watched Custer yank his pistol free. With the weapon in the air for the Cheyenne to see, he brought up his empty right hand to show the warriors they had the choice: either heed the warning of the empty hand, or deal with the consequences of the loaded one.

The Cheyenne understood without translation. They finally brought their ponies to a halt.

“Tell one to come forward to talk,” Custer instructed.

After a momentary conference, a tall, imposing figure urged his war pony forward, smiling as if he were on some afternoon lark.

Stalling tense minutes while the soldiers advanced toward the clearing, Custer and Romero parleyed with the solitary warrior called Bad Tooth. From him the interpreter learned much about the enemy. The tribe was indeed Cheyenne, under Chief Medicine Arrow, who was himself in that larger group of riders watching the parley. Their village of three hundred lodges was camped at the mouth of a stream emptying into the Sweetwater. Nearby stood a village of two hundred lodges under Chief Little Robe.

“The soldier chief knows of Little Robe,” Romero explained to Bad Tooth. “He is a good friend to the soldiers. It would please the soldier chief to meet the great Medicine Arrow.”

“Who brings pony soldiers to our village of women and children?” asked Bad Tooth. “The powerful Medicine Arrow will not stoop to talk to soldiers like those who butcher helpless ones or burn the villages of the frail and sickly ones.”

“Black Kettle?”

“He was a weak old man. Medicine Arrow is the mighty leader of the Southern Cheyenne. Not some tired old man waiting to die wearing the white man’s bacon grease on his lips.”

“I’ve heard about all I’m going to take of this one’s surly mouth, Romero,” Custer said. “I’d love to knock the smile off that face. Tell this loudmouthed one he looks upon the Yellow Hair. Tell him I want peace, but only if Medicine Arrow wants peace. Will there be peace, or war? Yellow Hair waits for Medicine Arrow’s answer.”

“Yellow Hair is with you?” Bad Tooth demanded.

“I am Hiestzi!” Custer shouted in Cheyenne, startling both Romero and the warrior.

The warrior swallowed, gave the soldier a harsh once-over.

Custer removed the buffalo-fur cap, running his fingers through his long curls. Beneath the midday winter sun, his hair was burnished gold.

“Yellow Hair! Aiyeee!” Bad Tooth ordered another of the trio to dash back to the growing line of mounted warriors easing down the slope into the meadow.

“They’re getting a bit too close, General,” Romero cautioned.

Custer glanced toward the rear. “They’ll have us surrounded before the troops show.”

“Surrounded—” Romero gulped, “or worse.”

Custer raised his pistol, pointing the muzzle at Bad Tooth’s chest while nudging his own stallion forward. “Stay close, Romero. If there’s any gunplay, this big one will be our shield.”

Custer halted beside the astonished warrior staring at the gaping bore pointed at him.

“Ask him if he speaks with one tongue, Romero.”

“I speak with one tongue, Yellow Hair,” Bad Tooth replied.

“Why do your friends creep up on me? Do they want to see your blood?”

The Cheyenne’s anxious eyes flicked over both shoulders, seeing the warriors easing along the sides of the meadow, hoping not to attract the soldier’s attention.

“Tell your friends to stop where they stand, or your blood will be spilled on this ground!”

Bad Tooth’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared into the muzzle.

“That’s right. You will be first, my faithless friend. I will blow a hole in your heart big enough there will be nothing left of it for your dogs! I do not trust a man who tells me he wants to parley while others sneak up to take my hair.”

“No!” Bad Tooth shook his head, hypnotized by the pistol bore.

“None of you will wear the scalp of Yellow Hair. Many want it. None is brave enough to take it. Today is a good day for you to die.”

With the Cheyenne’s angry, frightened warning, the rest of the warriors withdrew, flinging gritty threats and curses. Then they fell silent as they parted for an old warrior leading a band of some forty others who loped right up before the pony soldier.

“I know this one,” the old warrior sneered, pointing to Romero. “He lived with Cheyenne.”

“Who’s this, Romero?” Custer whispered.

“The old boy himself. Medicine Arrow. Always been a treacherous snake. Years back his name was Rock Forehead. Now among the Cheyenne he’s called Medicine Arrow because he’s keeper of the tribe’s sacred bundle of arrows—big medicine going back before the grandfather of any man now alive.”

“Medicine Arrow,” Custer muttered, assessing his enemy.

“But the red bastard hasn’t changed,” Romero added. “Rock Forehead always was a bloodthirsty scorpion.”

“You!” The old chief whirled on Custer. “You are the Yellow Hair who defeated the sleeping village of Black Kettle?”

“I am.” Custer bowed his head to the whispers and mutterings, murmurs of awe and respect, hearing also the growls and yelps for his scalp.

“You bring many soldiers with you, Yellow Hair?”

Custer considered that question before answering. “I bring enough to show the Cheyenne that my word is strong.”

Medicine Arrow’s eyes darkened. He hadn’t heard the answer he wanted. “With so many horses, there will be little grazing for Cheyenne ponies. How many horses ride with Yellow Hair?”

Custer turned to Romero, whispering, “Cagey old reprobate, this one. Treacherous snake would love to kill us all.”

“How’ll he do that?”

“I think this old bat figures we’re a small expedition. Most likely, word reached him of a small party of soldiers roaming the countryside last month—a scouting party I led from our camp on Medicine Bluff Creek.”

“Could be, General. Suppose he did get wind of a small outfit—Medicine Arrow might figure to wipe us all out quick.”

“You bet your cold backside he would!”

“Want me to give him the bad news?”

“No,” Custer answered. “I’ll break it to him in my own way … in my own time.”

“Can’t wait to see it, General. This old boy’s done his share of evil—and then some. Some claim he’s an evil wizard. Can perform magic—even tell the future. Heard tales of some he’s cursed in years gone by, ones died in strange mysterious ways. Be a pleasure to watch you take the starch outta him.”

Custer studied Medicine Arrow. “Let’s see if he can predict the future when he sees how many soldiers ride with me.”

“You white men talk too much!” Medicine Arrow grunted as he signed angrily. “Yellow Hair mixes courage with foolishness, coming to see the Cheyenne with only this Mexican dog at his side. A dangerous mistake for the man who destroyed a weak village on the Washita.”

“Medicine Arrow!” Custer shouted, surprising all with his precise Cheyenne. “You anger me with such bold talk. I come to you in peace—but you growl like a dog snapping for a fight! If that is what you want”—and he glanced over his shoulder—”then behold—war is what Medicine Arrow will get!”

Custer flung his arm at the advancing columns heaving into view at the far edge of the meadow. “Romero, tell this old bag of wind how many soldiers march with Yellow Hair. Tell him!”

Romero grinned. “Happy to, General.” It was his turn to sneer at Medicine Arrow. “You have no more than a hundred warriors in this meadow. Yellow Hair has many times more. He can crush you like a wolf spider.”

“It will take many soldiers to crush our warriors.”

“Old man!” Romero barked. “See how many march against you!”

Medicine Arrow studied the blue shapes bursting from the timber at the far side of the meadow. He whirled on Romero. “You turn against your people, dark one, bringing soldiers down on us to kill children and the old ones.”

“Old man, your warriors have done evil. Yellow Hair comes to fight only if you want war. It is your choice. Yellow Hair demands your warriors stop their raids, and demands your villages return to the reservations.”

“We can find no buffalo to hunt on this reservation.”

“You must return,” Romero repeated. “If you do not do what Yellow Hair tells you, you will suffer as Black Kettle’s village suffered.”

“Is this the word of Yellow Hair?”

Romero turned to Custer. “General, the old one wants to know if I speak for you when I say we will attack if need be.”

Custer glared at the chief, then nodded. No word spoken.

Medicine Arrow’s eyes flicked to Romero. “Ask Yellow Hair if he intends to wipe our villages from the breast of our Mother of All Things as he did to Black Kettle.”

After a moment, Custer thoughtfully replied, “I will not destroy your villages—unless you want war. The choice is up to you. You must make that choice now.”

The old chief fumed a moment, listening to the angry vows of his young warriors, gazing at the swelling strength of the soldier columns led into the snowy meadow.

“I want Yellow Hair to show me you want peace with the Cheyenne. So many soldiers come, they will frighten our women and children. My people will wail when they hear it is Yellow Hair come to surround their village. It is for Yellow Hair alone to assure my people that what happened to Black Kettle will not happen to them. We must hurry, Yellow Hair—before my people run to the hills and Medicine Arrow has no one to lead back to the reservation with him.”

When the translation was completed, Custer whispered to Romero, “Why, that sly old fox. He wants me to come with him to his village—alone.”

“Be quick, Yellow Hair.” The chief motioned with an arm. “Come to my village with me now. Show my people you talk straight. They will know you mean them no harm if you ride into my village at my side.”

“Why alone?”

“Haven’t a clue. Can’t be a good reason, whatever it is. Always been a treacherous snake.” Romero sighed, eyeing the old chief. “Years back, his name was Rock Forehead. Now he’s called Medicine Arrow because he’s keeper of the Cheyenne’s sacred bundle of arrows—a sacred object going back before the grandfather of any man now alive. But, he hasn’t changed. Rock Forehead always was a bloodthirsty bastard.”

Custer turned at the sound of hooves beating the winter-hardened earth, watching Moylan gallop up. “Well, I’d best find out what this sly fox is up to.” He called to his adjutant. “Mr. Moylan! What the Hades took you so long?”

“It’s one thing for you to get the columns moving.” Moylan sounded breathless. “It’s quite another for me to do it.”

“Lieutenant, this here’s the great Cheyenne chief, Medicine Arrow. And he wants us to have a talk with him.” Custer turned to Romero. “You head back. Find Myers. Have him assume command of the troops in my absence.”

“You’re riding into that village alone, General?” Romero asked.

“Not alone, Romero.” And Custer smiled. “I’m taking Mr. Moylan with me.”

“M-me … with you?” Moylan squeaked.

“That’s right. We’re accepting this cutthroat’s invitation to dine in his lodge.”

“Tonight, General?”

“No, Lieutenant. Right now.”

Moylan glanced back at the swelling columns of blue. “Shouldn’t we wait until the troops come up and they can go to the hostile camp with us? Hard Rope says there’s bound to be more warriors than you can count.”

“Mr. Moylan, the Seventh Cavalry will never be intimidated by a large force of warriors. Mere numbers are meaningless. To your grave I want you to remember it takes only one Indian to kill a soldier who’s lost his courage.”

“Yessir.”

“Romero, give my message to Myers, and stay with him.”

Custer watched the interpreter wheel and gallop off into the sparkling, frosty light of midday. He turned to the Cheyenne chief.

“Medicine Arrow, we will go with you to your lodge now—to talk of peace, or war … between our peoples.”