Romero pointed out the animals three soldiers brought up: two horses decked with McClellan saddles, a pair of blankets lashed at the cantle, and a young pack mule swaying beneath more blankets and burlap sacks.
“They have provisions for fifteen days. A kettle and some fire-making gear in that greased pouch there.” Custer stepped up to Iron Shirt. “Tell the old chief I trust him with this mission. On the mule are presents of food, clothing, and blankets. I don’t want Mahwissa returning to her people empty-handed. Tell the Cheyenne I’m sending these gifts because I want peace. I don’t want another village destroyed.”
When Romero concluded, Mahwissa hugged Stingy Woman, then leapt atop the horse she chose to ride, regally peering down on those gathered to watch the departure. She nudged her animal close to Custer.
After she patted the belt that tied an old blanket coat about her waist and finished a short speech, the scout translated.
“She says she’ll do what you ask. You’ll hear from her people very soon. And she wants me to tell you that the soldier chief is sending her on this journey without a weapon. Important to a Cheyenne squaw to have a weapon. A knife’s such a small thing, she says.”
“A knife?”
“What they call a mutch-ka. May not be a big thing to you but mighty important to her.”
With the way the old woman stared at his belt, Custer realized Mahwissa wasn’t after just any knife. She had her heart set on his own hunting knife.
Custer slid the sheath off his belt. He refused to let it go as he held it up to her, waiting for Romero to translate his instructions. “Tell her I want the knife back the next time we meet. When she comes back before the moon changes. My favorite knife—I’ll let her use it on this important journey to talk of peace with her people.”
As quickly as Romero finished, Mahwissa yanked the knife from Custer’s hand and jammed it in her belt. Patting the knife, she gazed into the distance, refusing to utter any thanks or even acknowledge the soldier chief.
Iron Shirt raised his wrinkled hand in farewell, then signaled the woman to follow. Jerking on the mule’s rope, the old Apache set off through the cold mist hanging in the trees like frosty cotton. Neither he nor the old woman ever looked back.
* * *
Custer jerked awake—frightened.
He was reassured only when he gazed down at her sleeping face nestled beside him in the gray of army wool. He’d been afraid she wasn’t there. Afraid Libbie had found out and—
It washed back over him. Monaseetah had remained all night, falling asleep while he scratched nib and ink across paper. A letter to Libbie, then one to his half-sister back in Monroe, and finally the official work: reports and catching up on those never-ending journal entries. He recalled the sound of her gentle, childlike snoring as he had slipped beneath the covers a handful of hours ago.
The first night they hadn’t coupled beneath his heavy blankets and robes.
A smile crossed his lips, recalling how she loved licking the sweat off him, tasting it with the delicate tip of her tongue as the beads glistened down his neck, along his shoulder, and across his chest. Tracing the pink tip of her tongue over his heated flesh whenever they lay exhausted in the joy of one another.
“General?”
He’d wait a minute, breathing shallow and slow. Maybe the soldier would go away.
“General? It’s Sergeant Lucas.”
He wasn’t going away. Not this one. Sergeant Gregory Lucas believed it was his duty to awaken Custer when any need arose. Good soldiers never let their commanders sleep in.
“What in tarnal blazes is it, Lucas?”
“The scout Romero is here.”
“What’s he want?”
“He’s here with the old Apache.”
Custer bolted upright in bed.
“Iron Shirt, General,” the interpreter spoke up.
“Very well, Romero. Get both the Indians something to eat. I’ll be out shortly.”
“Both, General? Iron Shirt came back alone.”
Custer kicked his feet out of the blankets. “Where’s the woman?”
“Says she stayed behind at the—”
“Behind!” Custer pulled on his long-handles, yanking dirty stockings over his feet.
“Says she was ordered by the chiefs not to come back.”
“Ordered, was she?” His boots on, Custer rose. His breath fogged the tent as he slipped his arms into the wool tunic, angrily jamming buttons through their holes. He noticed Monaseetah watching him from behind her blankets.
“See that he has some coffee and breakfast. I’ll be right there.”
“Something else he says.”
“Sounds like bad news. Spit it out.”
“Iron Shirt says after the Cheyenne chiefs talked it over, they decided their ponies couldn’t make the trip right now. “
“Don’t they understand I’ll track them down and destroy their villages?”
“Two of ’em wanna come talk with you,” Romero said.
“Only two?”
“Little Robe—a Cheyenne chief. And old Yellow Bear, Arapaho. They told Iron Shirt to tell Hiestzi they were coming in to talk with him.”
“That’s more like it!” Custer cheered, bursting through the tent flaps. “More like Christmas greetings!”
“It is Christmas Day, ain’t it, General?” Lucas said.
“Merry Christmas! Now, be off, Romero—get some breakfast in Iron Shirt’s belly.”
He listened as their steps worried across the old snow before he ducked back in his warm tent.
Christmas Day. Custer felt guilty for not even missing Fort Hays, much less Christmas back home in Monroe with his family. Home: glowing candles and fragrant spruce garlands draped along every wall, wrapping every banister; smells of fresh-baked goods from the kitchen as the door swung open to the huge dining parlor.
Soon enough would come the new year, 1869. What it held for him, Custer dared not ask. All that concerned him at this moment was a young creature of the wilderness who pulled back the covers for him, exposing one breast as firm and round as a ripe melon.
Monaseetah patted the blankets beside her and cocked her head, coy as always. Her eyes invited him back into the garden. Dark, liquid eyes shy behind the long, raven-black lashes. She invited him.
“Why not?” he asked. He swallowed hard, his breathing quickly labored, shallow. His nostrils filling with the heated woman-musk of her. His mate.
As his shadow crawled over her, Custer realized deep in the very being of him that every man deserved at least one Christmas like this.
“Happy New Year, Angel Face!”
Custer toasted his young brother, holding a cup filled with nothing stronger than black coffee.
“A very happy New Year to you, Autie!”
Tom had been toasting one and all with whiskey he had brought from Fort Dodge in small flasks. At twenty-three, the young captain loved revelry. There was a lust for life flowing in his veins that in some way, for some reason, had always seemed diluted in his older brother.
Up and down officers’ row on this night of celebration men danced with one another to tunes pumped out by the regimental band. Bright fires leapt into the inky darkness of the late night as a soft snow drifted down upon Fort Cobb. General Hazen and his staff had come down to pay their respects, celebrating at Sheridan’s quarters.
Here at Custer’s camp his officers had gathered: Myers, Yates, Thompson, Benteen, along with Godfrey, Cooke, and Moylan. Young Tom Custer had dragged along the reporter Keim, with everyone well on his way to seeing in the new year in uproarious style.
Since leaving Camp Supply three weeks ago, Monaseetah had genuinely come to enjoy the company of these white men. Not only because they showed her a consideration she had never known among Cheyenne males, but because these white men knew how to have fun. Their joy was like that of a young Cheyenne warrior celebrating a victory with his young friends.
From time to time, she gazed up at Custer.
Studying the fine cut of his face, that sharp angle of his Teutonic nose as it blended into his cheek. Or the clean line of his thin lips nearly lost beneath the bristling mustache and beard tinted red-gold with dancing firelight. He let the snow fall on his long, combed curls, scented with cinnamon. She studied the eyes—clear as the glasslike surface of a prairie pond at sunrise, as yet unruffled by the breeze of day.
She was wondering again now, why for close to a week he had not pressed himself on her, contenting himself to lie with her as they fell asleep together, entwined without-passion. To her repeated question, he merely patted her swollen belly.
She sipped at her steaming coffee mixed generously with sugar. A treat, this, rarely found in a Cheyenne winter camp. Sugar or coffee. Together they were a magical potion fit for the Everywhere Spirit. A delicate dance upon her tongue.
So much like this Hiestzi. Brave and strong, unafraid of the unknown. A man so alive and unconcerned in riding headlong toward the mysteries of time beyond … and through it all this soldier chief smiled at his enemies. His joys must be genuine.
He caught her staring at him. Monaseetah smiled and gazed into the fire. She sensed him moving around the others, stepping up behind her.
“Here, Autie!” Tom Custer leapt up, shoving his tin cup into Custer’s hand. “Take this!”
“I don’t drink!”
“Dear brother,” Tom replied, sweeping the ground in a grand bow, “I wish the honor of a dance with Sally Ann!”
“You’ve had quite enough to drink tonight, Tom.”
“Not near enough, Autie, ol’ boy!”
Tom wrapped one of Monaseetah’s hands gently in his. Her eyes searched Custer’s for approval.
“I ask only that you dance …” Custer paused.
“Civilized, Autie?” Tom brought Monaseetah from her perch. “I’d do anything for a dance with this dark-eyed beauty!”
In time to a tune played by the regimental musicians seated beneath a canvas awning among the trees yonder at Sheridan’s camp, Tom swept Monaseetah side to side. A light, airy waltz, Tom slowly circling the Indian princess. Turning her ever so slowly as he swung, side to side, circling the fire. Eventually she swayed with him, absorbing his rythmn, gazing now and then at Custer, her smile childlike with the novelty of it.
All around them the others clapped in time. Yates stepped up, tapping Tom on the shoulder. Confused and scared, Monaseetah turned to dash back to her seat as Tom released her. But Yates swept her up in his arms, gliding gaily with her around the fire. Joining in the fun, Myers and Thompson cut in for their dances with the Cheyenne maiden. Then Godfrey and Benteen, a chorus of laughter when Monaseetah giggled at each change of partners. Tom cut in again.
“Sally Ann … Sally Ann!” He spun her a bit too wildly, frightening her as his toes caught, stumbling, almost falling.
“Tom.”
Custer was at Tom’s shoulder. A strong hand clamped on his shoulder, slowing his drunken waltz. “You’ve had enough … she’s had enough for now, little brother.”
“But I’m not done dancing with Sally Ann.”
“I think you’re quite done for the night, Tom,” Custer whispered, sensing the eyes of the others between his shoulders.
“Done … for the night? Whatever do you mean, dearest brother?”
“Let me take you to your tent.”
“Damn you, Autie!” he cried. “It’s New Year’s Eve … I want my dance with the most beautiful woman in the world—to hell with George Armstrong Custer!”
“Please, Tom,” Custer soothed. “Don’t embarrass yourself. Come, let me get you tucked away so you sleep it off.”
“Dear, dear brother.” Tom tried to focus on Custer’s face, swaying, letting Monaseetah go. “Always was worried ’bout your little brother, weren’t you?”
Without struggling, Tom leaned into Custer, belching on the sour whiskey. “Back to the days we were boys in Ohio … Michigan. I was always the one raising hell. Always getting licks at school with those oak paddles. You know I even chewed back then? When the older boys dared not.”
Tom pushed himself to arm’s-length from his older brother. “But you, Autie? You never raised hell. Oh, you always played jokes on others, but never raised hundred-proof hell like me!”
“C’mon, Tom—”
“Why, can’t you see you got the only woman at the ball—and the most beautiful … oh, goddamn you, Autie! You always had the prettiest ones! You got Libbie and now you’re wenching with this girl.”
“Tom!”
The sudden slap of Custer’s voice silenced them all. “You’re drunk, but that gives you no right—”
“General,”—George Yates stepped in—“I don’t think he—”
“Don’t think what, Lieutenant?” Custer demanded.
“You’re right, Autie,” Tom said. “Always right, big brother. You’ve got a proper army wife back east. And here in the Territories you’ve got your army whore to keep you warm. What gave you the right to all the whores in the world, big brother?”
Custer savagely wrenched his brother around. In that moment his right hand drew back, open and ready to strike the babbling, drunken mouth.
“General Custer!”
With that foreign voice, Custer turned, watching two figures approaching: one a picket guard, his rifle across his chest, the other, Romero.
“What is it?” Custer asked, his hand dropping as Yates and Moylan steadied Tom on his feet.
“Indians, sir. Lots of ’em.”
“Indians?”
“Just come in. Cheyenne. Arapaho. Congratulations, General! Down at Sheridan’s headquarters, they’re all saying you got the head men to come in without a goddamned shot fired!”
“Where are they?”
“At Sheridan’s party.”
“He hasn’t served them whiskey, has he?”
“None I know of.”
“Good. Can’t have them getting drunk … no hangovers while we parley.” He turned. “Moylan, see that Tom’s bedded down. I’ll look in on him in a bit.”
“Awww, Autie,” Tom murmured. “Be a lot warmer you get me a beautiful squaw to snuggle down with.”
“Goodnight, Tom. That whiskey in your belly is doing all your talking for you. Moylan, please.”
“Well, boys!” Custer turned back to the others at the fire. “Looks like this’ll be a grand new year for us all.”
“No mere bunghole tooting in the wind there!” Myers cheered.
“C’mon, Romero—smile!” Custer cried. “Why, for most of last year, they had me in exile. So this new year can be nothing but an improvement!”
An impressive delegation of Arapaho and Cheyenne leaders greeted Custer two days later when he held council at Sheridan’s camp. What amazed Tom Custer the most was that they had been frightened enough to come on foot to meet with the renowned Yellow Hair.
Looking at the poor shape of the chiefs, it was easy enough to believe their ponies were too weak to allow the villages to journey across the winter wilderness. The tribes hadn’t located buffalo for better than two moons. For a time they had survived on pemmican. Once that staple was gone, they were driven to eating their camp dogs. The chiefs admitted a man would be hard pressed to find a dog in any of their camps.
Tom Custer attended the council chaired by General Hazen. What had begun in the morning hours lasted past dusk, replete with the usual smoking and eating, the presentation of gifts before the negotiations could start. By midday, the younger Custer found himself liking the Cheyenne chief Little Robe. With a quick wit, the stocky leader often let himself bear the brunt of his humor. What appealed to Tom most was that Little Robe appeared to recognize that his people must find accommodation with the white soldiers and settlers crowding onto the southern plains.
Long after dark the army and tribes reached an agreement. In return for a resumption of their annuities and a guarantee the army would not destroy their villages, the Indians agreed to maintain peace with the government. Cus
ter insisted that this meant their villages must return to the reservations—immediately.
With the next sunrise the tribes dispatched runners carrying word of the new agreement, expressing the urgency of coming in to the reservation as soon as the camps could be put on the trail. Sheridan instructed the chiefs to bring their people to the new post he would construct in the shadow of the Wichita Mountains, a short ride to the south.
Over the next two days, wagon trains of badly needed provisions reached Fort Cobb. From those wagons Sheridan and Custer presented more gifts to the head men of each band in recognition of their new peace agreement.
Two days later, Custer pointed both his Seventh Cavalry and the Nineteenth Kansas volunteers south. By January 8 the entire command arrived at the juncture of Medicine Bluff and Cache creeks flowing at the base of the Wichita Mountains some forty miles south of Fort Cobb. Sheridan selected an ideal site offering enough grass, timber, and stone for construction of a permanent post, in addition to a good supply of water and game found in the surrounding hills. He announced he was naming the post in honor of his West Point classmate and Civil War comrade, Joshua W. Sill.
As the weary troops erected tents and teamsters removed stiffened harness from the mules, the wind swept out of the north, forewarning of yet another winter storm. Within an hour, that storm slashed down on the Medicine Bluff Creek camp with a vengeance, driving rain and sleet before it. Winds blew with such a fury that no man dared step out to seek firewood. Enough wind for every man to hunker in his tent, making the best of it.
Still, try as they might, two soldiers ordered by Surgeon Lippincott to build a fire and boil some water failed in their every attempt to shelter the sputtering flames from the wind.
“Keep trying, boys,” Lippincott growled. “Gonna need that fire for heat if not for sterilizing.”
“Damned Injun squaw,” one of the soldiers grumped. His head was wrapped in a worn woolen scarf, and he blew on his frozen, cramped fingers.
Again the soldiers bent over the sparks nursed in the lee of Lippincott’s hospital tent. A raw wind drummed over the rattling canvas, sweeping all sides with a fury as it clapped like two huge hands, roaring in laughter at the feeble efforts of these men. Yet their perseverance paid off and flames licked along the firewood, sputtering beneath the icy sleet and tobacco-wad raindrops.
Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 Page 24
