Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1

by Terry C. Johnston

  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 b
ack 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.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “I’LL curse their bloody hearts straight into the pits of hell!”

  Tom Custer had rarely seen his older brother this angry. More than angry—stomping, raring, spitting-fire mad. No soldier in the valley of the Washita could blame Custer, either. After all, what man wouldn’t be driven blind mad when he’d just been lied to, his trust spat on and betrayed.

  Yesterday had done it.

  Following yesterday’s introductions to more than twenty additional chiefs who would accompany Satanta and Lone Wolf to Fort Cobb, Custer had taken his guests back to Lieutenant Bell’s commissary wagons, opening the larder for his new friends. All to Sheridan’s consternation—and his eventual, begrudging agreement.

  “It really isn’t much,” Custer had argued. “Some hardtack and parched corn, a little of the poor sowbelly we have along. Nothing of value, General. But enough to fill the empty, hard-winter belly of Indian chiefs who always serve their guests a meal before talking over important matters.”

  When their bellies had been stuffed and the Kiowa custom of complimentary belching satisfied, Custer gave the order to move out once more. By late afternoon the command reached the benchlands near the banks of the Washita. Here Custer’s entire command established camp for the coming winter night.

  That evening after supper with their copper-skinned guests at officer’s mess, Custer and Sheridan began more preliminary discussions with the great gathering of Kiowa, Comanche and Apache chiefs. The army commanders listened to repeated guarantees of peace and friendship for the white man, the army itself, and especially for the war chiefs themselves: Custer and Sheridan.

  “Doesn’t seem you have much faith in the Kiowa tongue either,” Custer whispered to Sheridan.

  “Bastards up to their eyeballs in goddamn treachery,” Sheridan growled. “The whole scheming bunch followed your columns all day, Custer.”

  “I feel something in the air, too. And ordered a double guard posted.”

  Yet there was something more that irritated the young cavalry commander like a tiny thread unraveling from one of his long wool stockings. “The more I listen to the Kiowa’s speeches, the more I’m convinced they have no intention of bringing their villages in to Fort Cobb.”

  “What do you think they have up their sleeves?” Sheridan asked.

  “I can only guess—stealing some wagons, running off some stock, harassing our rear guard. Something’s afoot, and I can smell it.”

  By the time he finally closed his eyes near midnight, Custer couldn’t escape that hard rock of a feeling lying cold in his belly that he was about to be made the fool. But not by the Kiowa.

  The next morning at dawn Custer knew the chiefs had put their foot in it. And what it was didn’t smell sweet at all.

  Awakened by shouting soldiers clamoring around his tent at first light, Custer rolled from his blankets. What he had in his belly wasn’t only growling hunger. Suspicion and anger are never a hearty breakfast. Custer burst from his tent to discover the reason for the uproar.

  A few yards off stood three of the chiefs. Only three.

  A chagrined sergeant of the guard stomped up, saluting. “General … Custer, sir,” he stammered. “Sometime last night, the rest of the Injuns … well—they slipped away through our pickets. Back to their own camps, I guess, General. These three fellas here … they hung behind to be the last to go, it seems. And they are setting to fly when we caught ’em.”

  Custer roared through the troopers surrounding the chiefs like a cat with lightning at its tail. And found Satanta, Lone Wolf, and a Kiowa subchief called Licking Bear huddled together in a ring of army carbines.

  “Get me Romero!” Custer bellowed. “He won’t sleep in this morning!”

  A corporal turned on his heel and darted away.

  “I’ll watch these blackguards burn in hell before they’re shown any mercy from here on out!”

  The high-pitched shriek of his voice had done its job. All around him the camp awakened with a start.
Within moments Sheridan, Crosby, Moylan, and Tom Custer joined the growing crowd. Dragging in last on the the scene was Romero, groggy and frog-mouthed, wiping last night’s sleep from his eyes.

  “Tell these buggers I’m holding them for ransom, Romero! Ransom for the rest of their villages—every last nit and prick of them!”

  Custer stomped in a small circle as he spoke, sticking his nose into the Kiowa’s faces from time to time, roaring, spitting mad.

  “They won’t play me the fool like this! They’ve picked the wrong tree to shake this time. You tell them every last word of what I said!”

  The coloring of his pale eyes had turned that color of blue at the center of a flame wrapping a sulphur-head match.

  “Tell them, Romero. This time they’ve knocked down a hornet’s nest and they’re bound to get stung!”

  Romero did as he was ordered, and got the response he figured he would. “General, they haven’t got an idea what you’re mad about.”

  “They’ve got to be joking! I’m not blind! The lying swine never had any intention of coming in to Fort Cobb!”

  “They say they’re your friends, General. Can’t figure why the others ran off last night. They say, maybe because they fear you’ll harm ’em.”

  “Blathering fools, Romero! They’ll learn not to lie to Yellow Hair. Blackhearted thieves. From what Milner tells me, we’ll be at Fort Cobb by nightfall. When we arrive, we’ll have these lying brigands slapped in irons!”

  “Irons? How are these three Kiowa gonna be any good to you in irons?”

  “Don’t question me, Romero! Just tell them they’re my honored guests until their people come in to Fort Cobb. As guaranteed by their own tongues! Their treachery will get them more than they bargained for—their people are to come in immediately or the chiefs will rot in irons!”

  Tom Custer watched his brother stomp off to his tent as the interpreter explained their captivity to the three Kiowa. Lone Wolf began singing his mournful death song. Its high, wailing notes cast an eerie pall over the camp as Custer disappeared beyond his tent flaps, his seething anger rolling over him.