“Even after you were adopted?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t believe they trusted me completely.”
Harvey grunted softly as he pushed back in his chair and picked up a thick black cigar. “So, they didn’t trust you?”
“Not completely, sir.”
“But they were willing to let you take part in the Sun Dance ceremony which, I believe, is considered highly sacred and not for non-believers.”
Culhane drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Yes, sir.”
“Whose side are you on, Sergeant?”
“I’m in the Army, sir.”
“That’s no answer. How are you going to feel when we take the field against the Cheyenne? Will you fight with us?”
Culhane experienced a brief sense of deja vu. Elk Hunter had put a similar question to him not long ago. If we are attacked by the soldier coats, where will your loyalty be? Will you defend our people, or will you turn on us and seek to return to your own kind?
Culhane drew a deep breath. He thought of Elk Hunter and some of the other warriors he had come to know and respect. “I’ll do my duty, sir,” he replied stiffly.
“I hope so, for your sake,” Major Harvey said, rising. “Renegades are still shot in this man’s army, Sergeant. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Turning on his heel, Culhane walked swiftly out of the Major’s office. Renegade, he thought angrily. Is that what he’d become?
Inwardly seething, he left the fort and went to the saloon nestled against the foothills. Ordering a shot of whiskey, he tossed it down and ordered another. The liquor burned a path down his throat. It had been a long time since he’d tasted whiskey.
Leaning on the bar, he stared at the man reflected in the mirror behind the counter top. Renegade. He looked much the same as always and yet, inside, he wasn’t the same man at all. He had grown to like and respect the enemy, had fallen in love with a woman. Winter Star. His arms ached to hold her, his mouth yearned for the taste of her lips. He thought of deserting, of going back to the Cheyenne, but the thought left a bad taste in his mouth. Renegade.
His enlistment was up in another six months, he mused. He could wait six months if he had to. But would she?
Days passed, and Culhane settled back into the routine of Army life. He felt the men watching him, wondering if he was still one of them. When they rode out on patrol, he could feel their eyes on his back. They knew he’d been with the Indians, had participated in the Sun Dance. And he could feel them watching him, waiting for...what? Did they expect him to light out for the Cheyenne encampment if he got the chance? Were his thoughts that transparent?
Renegade. No one dared say the word to his face, but he knew that’s what they were thinking.
The patrols encountered no Indians, turned up little sign that there were any hostiles in the area. Scouts brought word that the Cheyenne had joined up with the Sioux in the Black Hills.
Later that summer, word came that the Cheyenne and Sioux had launched a vicious attack against the Crow. Culhane smiled when he heard that. The Crow wouldn’t be so eager to steal Cheyenne ponies the next time.
As the summer of sixty-eight wore on, attacks against white settlers increased. Patrols were increased, and the Seventh began tightening up, drilling longer and harder in preparation for the battle that was sure to come.
* * * * *
In September, Phil Sheridan sent for Custer, and on October 4th, the Boy General arrived at Hays.
Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer was a man you either loved or hated. Culhane despised him. Back in sixty-seven, Custer had been court-martialed for a number of serious offenses, among them insubordination, failure to pursue Indians who had attacked his command, failure to recover the bodies of men killed by savages, and deserting his command. He had been convicted of having deserters shot in the field rather than bringing them back for trial, and for refusing to give medical attention to those who were wounded. As punishment, he had been suspended for a year without pay.
Now he was back in command, eager to ride out against the Sioux and Cheyenne, eager to regain his lost glory, to rebuild his tarnished reputation.
Custer and a number of men, Culhane among them, rode out to join the Seventh, which was camped along a creek about a half mile south of Fort Dodge.
On the twelfth of November, Custer led eleven companies of the Seventh, five companies of Infantry, and a wagon train across the Arkansas and headed South.
A week later, they reached the north Canadian River and began to build a stockaded supply base which was named Camp Supply. The camp would be manned by the Infantry while the Seventh took the field.
Scouts had cut fresh Indian sign the day before they reached Camp Supply and spirits were high. Custer was always ready for a fight, Culhane thought disdainfully. Sheridan rode into Camp Supply on November 21st; two days later, the Seventh was ready to ride out.
Reveille sounded at four a.m. on the twenty-third. Culhane swore softly as he rolled out of his bunk. It was below zero. There was a foot of snow on the ground, and it was still coming down.
They moved out after a hasty breakfast of coffee and hardtack, accompanied by the post band, surely the hardiest bunch of musicians Culhane had ever seen.
With the notes of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” ringing in their ears, the Seventh rode into the teeth of a snowstorm. They rode until two o’clock, then stopped on the banks of Wolf Creek, some fifteen miles from Camp Supply.
Huddling beside a small fire, Culhane quietly cursed General Sheridan for his decision to mount a winter campaign against the Indians, and then he cursed Custer simply for the hell of it, and because he heartily disliked the man.
They marched down Wolf Creek the following morning. It had stopped snowing, but the temperature was still below zero. It didn’t phase Custer. He was a determined man, if he was nothing else, and Culhane knew he’d keep going as long as his men drew breath.
November 26th, Thanksgiving Day, they reached the north bank of the Canadian River. Custer dispatched Major Elliott and three troops on a scouting expedition up the river.
Dinner that night, which was the only meal they’d had all day, consisted of coffee and hardtack, accompanied by a lot of grumbling by the men.
Culhane stared into the flames. The scouts had found a wide trail and there was a lot of excitement as the troopers realized they were closing in on their quarry.
Culhane shook his head. He had told Major Harvey he would do his duty, but now he was not so sure. What if Elk Hunter turned up in his gun sights? How could he kill Winter Star’s father? How could he kill any of the men he had smoked with, gambled with, laughed with?
The next day, Custer announced that the wagon train was to be left behind with Captain McLane Hamilton and eighty men. The rest of the regiment would take one day’s ration of coffee and hardtack and one hundred rounds of ammunition, and they would push on at all possible speed to join Elliott.
They rode all the next day. The weather had warmed a little and the top crust of the snow grew soft, so that the horses sank through it up to their knees. They rode until nine o’clock that night and ate their first meal since morning.
Wrapped in a blanket against the cold, Culhane chewed on a piece of hardtack, his thoughts bleak.
At ten o’clock, they were on the move again. They found the Indians camped in a sleepy valley along the Washita River.
Custer gave his final orders. The regiment was divided into four squadrons: Major Elliott was ordered to take three troops, G, H, and M, and circle to the left to get behind the Indians; Captain Thompson, with Troops B and F, was to make a long detour to the right and join Elliott. Captain Myers, with Troops E and I, was to take position to the left of Thompson, while Custer would take the four remaining troops and approach the village from where they now stood. The attack would be delivered at dawn. Until then, no one was to make a sound. Sabers were removed. Conversation was forbidden.
A number of dogs had followed the soldiers from camp and about a half hour before the attack, Custer ordered them all killed because they might bark or howl and alert the Indian camp to their presence. All, that is, except his own favorite staghound, Blucher.
Culhane swore under his breath, his hatred for Custer growing, as he saw the dogs being muzzled and then strangled.
Squatting on his heels, Culhane watched Custer. The man was practically foaming at the mouth in his eagerness to attack. A year of enforced inactivity had him spoiling for action. He hadn’t taken time to scout the area, nor had he any idea of how many Indians were in the camp, or if they were friendly or hostile. He knew only that they were Indians.
With the coming of dawn, the band struck up “Garry Owen” and Custer’s men attacked, urging their horses down the snow-covered slope toward the sleeping village.
Riding into the camp, Culhane was appalled to see women and children shot down, or trampled beneath the iron-shod hooves of the cavalry horses. Indians, half-dressed or naked, stumbled from their lodges. Custer rode into view, flanked by one of the Indian scouts, and his brother, Boston Custer.
The fight inside the village lasted only a few minutes, but Culhane saw things that made him sick to his stomach, atrocities committed by soldiers that made him ashamed of the uniform he wore. He saw several warriors make a stand in a little depression near the river. All refused to surrender and were killed. He saw a woman hiding in the underbrush, her leg broken, shooting at the white men as they rode by.
He saw Black Kettle jump on his pony, grab his wife, and start across the river. He was shot in the back. His wife died beside him.
He saw a young boy of perhaps fourteen years of age firing at Captain Benteen, saw the boy fire three times while Benteen tried to make the boy understand he wouldn’t be hurt if he’d only put the gun down. As the boy raised the pistol a fourth time, Benteen shot him.
Culhane turned away, his stomach heaving as he watched men and women he had talked with and laughed with slaughtered before his eyes. He tried to locate Winter Star and her parents, but he couldn’t find them in the churning sea of humanity.
The soldiers rode through the village like a giant blue scythe, cutting down everything in its path. The warriors fought valiantly, but they were out-numbered and they fell before the relentless tide of Custer’s cavalry.
And then he saw Winter Star. She was running toward the river, her arms crossed over her stomach, her eyes mirroring the horror of what was happening to her people.
Spurring his horse, Culhane raced toward her, a horrified cry rising in his throat as a trooper rode up beside him, his rifle leveled in Winter Star’s direction. Without thought, Culhane drew his sidearm and shot the man out of the saddle, then, reaching down, he wrapped his arm around Winter Star’s waist and lifted her into the saddle.
She fought him, her nails raking his cheek, until he called her name. Disbelief was quickly replaced by joy as she turned to face him.
Weak with relief, he reined his horse around, determined to leave the scene of the slaughter. Only then did he realize that the battle was over and that Custer was standing beside him, his revolver aimed at his head.
“Drop your weapon, Sergeant,” Custer ordered curtly, and when Culhane hesitated, Custer thumbed back the hammer of his gun. “Drop it.” He nodded as Culhane surrendered his weapon. “Consider yourself under arrest, Sergeant. I’ll file charges when we return to the post.”
Culhane nodded. Jaw clenched, he watched as Winter Star was herded toward the other prisoners.
Culhane felt his stomach churn as he glanced around the village. Bodies of horses and Indians littered the ground, their corpses smeared with blood and mud. Troopers looted the lodges, gathering up buffalo robes, saddles, rifles, revolvers, spears, shields, quivers, and hatchets. The wounded Indians were executed. Lieutenant Godfrey was ordered to burn all the lodges and the rest of the property, including all the food and blankets so that any Indians who had escaped could not come back and find shelter. Soon columns of thick black smoke darkened the skies.
Turning away from the blaze, Culhane watched as Custer allowed his officers and scouts to help themselves to the Indian ponies. Fifty-three horses were picked for the captive women and children to ride so they wouldn’t have to walk the sixty miles back to the base camp.
And then, to Culhane’s horror and disgust, Custer ordered Lieutenant Godfrey to take four companies and slaughter the remaining animals. He felt the gorge rise in his throat as the soldiers shot over eight hundred Indian ponies.
Culhane looked at Winter Star. She was standing with the other women and children, her face impassive as she watched the slaughter. He saw tears welling in the eyes of some of the Indian children, saw the sadness in the faces of the women as the tribe’s wealth was brutally slaughtered.
Culhane glanced beyond the camp. No doubt there were surviving warriors hiding out of sight, watching their village being destroyed, their animals killed.
With the fighting over and the troops about to pull out, it was determined that Major Elliott and his men had not yet returned. Earlier, they had ridden after a group of Indians. One of the men remembered hearing Elliott shout, “Here goes for a brevet or a coffin!” as he galloped off. He hadn’t been seen since.
It was suggested that Custer go and look for Elliott, but large numbers of Indians began to appear in the distance. One of the Indian captives said they were from another village located further downstream. There were, the Indian said, at least two thousand warriors camped some distance away.
Culhane identified the warriors as Cheyenne, Arapaho, Kiowa Comanche, and even a few Apache. Perhaps the fighting wasn’t over after all, he mused bleakly, and wondered what Hard Ass would do now.
Custer, the boy general, decided to retreat. Under cover of darkness, he marched his troops away from the battlefield.
Culhane rode between two men who had been detailed to keep an eye on him. He glanced often at Winter Star, who was riding some distance behind. Did she hate him now, he wondered, and cursed the men who had attacked her village, cursed the fact that he was as much a prisoner as she was.
The next day, Culhane learned from one of his guards that Custer had sent a message to Sheridan, informing the General of the Seventh’s casualties: Major Elliott and fourteen men were missing; one officer and five men had been killed, three officers and eleven men had been wounded.
However, it was to be noted that the Seventh had killed a hundred warriors, including Chief Black Kettle. They had also killed and wounded “some” women and a “few” children. A few, Culhane mused. There had been over ninety women and children killed, and only a handful of seasoned warriors.
Culhane shook his head in disgust. How like George Armstrong Custer, to make his sneak attack on a peaceful village sound like a great victory! It was reported that Sheridan had called the affair the most complete and satisfactory battle ever waged against the Indians.
Culhane swore softly. No doubt his move to save Winter Star’s life would be made to sound like high treason against God and country.
He loosed a heavy sigh as Major Harvey’s words echoed in the back of his mind: Renegades are still shot in this man’s Army.
Chapter 12
They rode into Camp Supply on December First. Custer had his wild Osage guides ride in front of the column, their plaited scalp locks adorned with feathers and silver ornaments looted from the Cheyenne. They carried rawhide shields, rifles, spears, and bows. Bloody scalps dangled from their spears. One of the braves, known as Trotter, boasted that he carried the scalp of Chief Black Kettle.
The white scouts followed the Osages, then came the regimental band. And next, arrayed in fringed buckskins and riding a prancing black stallion, came Custer.
The captive women and children came next, looking neither right nor left.
The enlisted men and supplies brought up the rear.
At the appropriate moment, Custer rode forward to greet Sheridan wh
ile the band struck up “Garry Owen”. The sun was shining, the snow was melting. It was a moment of triumph for Custer, and he made the most of it.
That night, the Osages held a scalp dance.
Culhane, his hands shackled behind his back, sat in the dark and watched the scalp dance, but it meant nothing to him. His eyes sought Winter Star. She sat with the other women, looking tired and afraid.
He saw Mo-nah-se-tah sitting a little apart from the others. Her father, Little Rock, had been killed at the Washita. Custer fancied Mo-nah-se-tah, and who could blame him. She was a pretty thing, about twenty years old. She was well aware of the General’s interest and Culhane supposed that explained the slightly smug expression on her face.
His gaze returned to Winter Star and he sent her a reassuring smile, though how he’d get her out of this mess he didn’t know. No doubt they’d both wind up at Hays. She’d be a prisoner, and he’d find himself standing in front of a firing squad.
Contemplating his future did not make for a peaceful night, and Culhane was still awake long after everyone else was asleep.
It was perhaps an hour past midnight when Mo-nah-se-tah made her way toward him.
“You go now,” she said.
“How am I going to do that?”
Reaching into the pouch on her belt, she withdrew a key. Moments later, his hands were free.
“Take woman and go.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Long Hair looks at your woman.”
Culhane nodded. Jealousy had its uses, he thought.
“There is an opening in the back wall. Two horses wait for you. Go, now.”
Nodding his thanks, Culhane ghosted toward Winter Star. Covering her mouth with his hand so she wouldn’t cry out, he shook her awake.
Her eyes widened when she saw him. “Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
She didn’t question him. Rising, she followed him across the quiet compound and out through the opening in the back wall. As Mo-nah-se-tah had promised, there were two horses waiting.
Tales of Western Romance Page 15
