Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1

by Terry C. Johnston

  When this land is frontier no longer, Libbie can share a home with me here in my wilderness. When Monaseetah no longer belongs to me.

  “What’s the ruckus?” Custer hollered, stepping from his tent the next morning.

  “Indians spotted, General!” shouted a young guard rushing up.

  “How many?”

  “Fifty. Maybe more.”

  “Good. Fetch Romero for me, Lieutenant!” He clapped his hands, wheeling back into his tent, where he strapped on his pistol and tugged on the buffalo cap. By the time he reached the northernmost picket line, a large crowd of troopers and Kansas volunteers had gathered to watch the approach of the Cheyenne.

  Less than a mile off the Indians dismounted, put their ponies out to graze under the care of two young herders, and began their walk into the soldier camp behind two older men.

  “You’ve got visitors, General.”

  Custer turned, watching Romero slide up. “Those two in front. Chiefs?”

  Beneath a shading hand, Romero squinted, studying the pair. “Can’t say. Don’t see feathers.”

  “Whoever that bunch is,” Custer grumbled, “they aren’t coming like beggars. Every one is loaded for bear.”

  Beneath a bright winter sun it was plain enough to see every weapon carried by the warriors following the two leaders. Besides a bow, most carried an old rifle or musket. And many had a pistol or two at their waists. The delegation stopped a quarter-mile off, conferring among themselves.

  “Romero, take a good look,” Custer instructed. “That Little Robe out there?”

  “The short one? By God, it might be!”

  Custer turned to his brother. “Tom! Tell me that doesn’t look like Little Robe.”

  “Goddamned, Autie—that’s him! I’d recognized the rascal anywhere. Good sign, him coming to see us.”

  “You bet your freckled hide on that.” Custer lunged past the pickets. “We just might get those girls back in one piece now!”

  “Where the hell you going, Autie?” Tom got no answer from his brother. He glanced at Romero, who shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sergeant Lucas!” Tom called. “Get a squad together—move out to protect the general! Left flank!”

  The crowd buzzed with alarm as they recognized Custer striding across the icy, windblown prairie alone.

  “Johnson! Grab a squad and cover Autie’s right flank! Jump to it, man!” Tom yelled.

  Romero eased behind Tom to whisper in an ear. “If that is Little Robe out there, the general has nothing to fear.”

  “Why? ’Cause he was such a good guest of ours?” Tom snarled. “Doesn’t mean the rest of those bastards won’t take Autie prisoner, maybe even slit his throat if they get the chance.”

  “Little Robe’s an honorable man.”

  “He may not have much say about it, what with them sonsabitches ready to guy any one of us!” Tom shouldered Romero aside. “That’s not your brother out there. Damn, but Autie’s always made it hard for me to keep up with him!”

  Out on the frosty prairie, Custer stopped, waiting for the chiefs to walk the last few yards between them. Wearing his famous smile, he made sign. “Little Robe! It is good to see you!”

  “Yellow Hair! They told me you lead the soldiers. It brings my heart joy to see you!”

  They shook hands, touched each other’s breast. Little Robe gestured to the warrior beside him. “This is my friend, Slips Away. He came to meet the Yellow Hair. He is a wise and honorable man.”

  The tall warrior presented his hand. At the same time, Little Robe turned, announcing to the rest of the warriors gathering behind him, “My brothers! This is truly a day of rejoicing. Here stands the great soldier chief, Yellow Hair!”

  That name sent a shock wave through the fifty, each straining for a glimpse at the destroyer of Black Kettle’s village.

  “I invite Little Robe and his warriors to eat at Yellow Hair’s lodge!” Custer said.

  The old chief stood dumbfounded. He smiled. “You speak Cheyenne now!”

  “Yes, I have a very good teacher.”

  “The girl?”

  “Monaseetah.”

  “Daughter of Little Rock,” the old chief replied. “I remember her as a skinny girl, all bone and legs. She has grown much?”

  Custer chuckled. “Yes. She has grown much in those summers since last you saw her. She has a son, born two moons ago.”

  “Lo, the winters pass so quickly when you are an old man—with only dreams to warm you at night!”

  “Come, Little Robe. There is much for old friends to talk over.”

  The chiefs finely chisled face lost its smile. “Let us go to your lodge to discuss these matters as friends.”

  By the time Custer led the delegation to his tent, everything was in order as he had sent Tom ahead to prepare. The tent flaps were tied back so the entire interior was exposed. Several cottonwood trunks had been dragged up for seating. Little Robe selected twelve of his number to accompany him into the tent itself while the rest arranged themselves outside, where they could observe the council.

  “Moylan, see that the mess sergeant gets the rest of last night’s venison and turkey over here on the double. Fire the coffeepots and bring lots of sugar. We have important guests to feed!”

  After the introductions came a meal supplemented with Custer’s favorite, wild onions, then the lengthy smoking of the pipe among the thirteen Cheyenne in his tent, and finally Custer’s council got under way.

  “My soldiers stare eye to eye with Cheyenne warriors, Little Robe. This is dangerous. Tell me how we can help each other, old friend.”

  “Once more Yellow Hair comes to the heart of the matter without delay. It is good to hear you talk of helping our people. I want to put an end to this trouble, so my people can return to the way we have lived for a long, long time.”

  Custer said, “Life for us both is changing. Never will it be the same again. We can’t stop the flow of history. It is as the river. No dam will ever hold the rushing waters of destiny.”

  “Does Yellow Hair tell his old friend that honorable men have no say in the writing of history?”

  “That is not what I’m saying. We can change the course of history—move the river a little this way, perhaps a little the other way. But we cannot stop the flow of destiny.”

  “Yes, Yellow Hair. We both know men who have used that river of time for their own selfish ends.”

  “It is my wish that we can put this talk of war to rest. History will remember us for that, old friend.”

  “Sadly, I disagree with you, Yellow Hair. History remembers only the wars. History forgets those who work for peace. They are ground underfoot.”

  Custer fell silent. Then he said grimly, “I understand. All too well. Because you believe in the cause of peace, you must answer to Medicine Arrow. But together, you and I are stronger than he. You must help me help your people. I ask you now for the sake of the Cheyenne nation—do you have the two white girls in your camp?”

  Little Robe’s eyes never flinched, nor wavered from Custer’s steady gaze. Around the old chief ignited an electricity as the other Cheyenne resented Yellow Hair’s challenge.

  “Yes,” Little Robe answered. “They are in my camp.”

  “Above all Cheyenne, Little Robe is an honorable man. I expect no less than the truth from a friend. My respect grows for your courage in the face of enemies!” Custer’s eyes slewed over the hostile warriors.

  “Cheyenne!” Custer flung his voice at the angry crowd. “It is a brave man who speaks the truth when all about him are afraid of his words.”

  While many young warriors murmured haughtily, Custer turned back to Little Robe. “Tell me how I am to get the girls back alive and not be forced to use my mighty hand against your people.”

  Little Robe shook his gray head. “It is a question I have asked myself many times. Before the first snows of last winter came to this land, I tried to buy the girls from their owner, the one who captured them in the land to
the north. Once they were mine, I could take them to soldier chief Hazen. Many times I offered to buy them. As I raised the price I would pay, so too he increased his resistance to me.”

  “Little Robe sees justice in freeing the girls to Yellow Hair?”

  “One man cannot own another,” the chief answered. “Other tribes own slaves. Even you white men buy many black-white men. My heart tells me that when we possess another man, does that not make us a little less worthy before the eyes of the Everywhere Spirit?”

  “You speak true of the white men, old friend. One reason the men from the south pulled their council fires away from our Grandfather in Washington City was they did not want to give up their slaves. Across four summers I fought those men who believed it right to own another human. Now I am prepared to fight your warriors who believe it’s right to enslave these two women.”

  “You are just in asking for them. We should return the women to their families. Likewise, the Washita captives belong with the Cheyenne people. When will you free them?”

  Custer was shocked at the surprise question. “I will tell you what rests in my heart. The captives stay with me only until the white women are freed and your people return to the reservation.”

  “I will trust to the word of Yellow Hair.”

  “Yellow Hair is honored by that trust, Little Robe. It is rare for a man to trust his enemy before he pays heed to the council of his own people.”

  “As long as there is breath in my body, I will work to release the captives to you. Know, too, that there are many in the villages who object to giving the women back to the soldiers without paying the owner for their loss. But I have given my word.”

  “I am here to do what is right,” Custer said. “Yellow Hair would be without honor to pay for the two girls. It would show that one man can buy another. No, Little Robe. You tell your chiefs that Yellow Hair will pay only with blood—his own, if he has to—but only with blood if he pays anything for the lives of the girls. Go to your camps and tell those who would not return the captives they should begin their death songs now. Tell them to think of the wailing in their lodges. Children without fathers. Wives without husbands.”

  Little Robe creaked to his feet as Custer rose.

  Custer looked down at the chief. “Tell your people that there will be much crying and wailing in Cheyenne lodges if your young men test the might of my hand.”

  Little Robe nodded. “Yellow Hair has spoken what rests in his heart. Now, this old man must go change the hearts of those who would see this land run red before they would give up the prisoners. I only pray I can say the right words to shift the rush of history.”

  The chief turned to go, accompanied by a crush of feathers and paint, rifles and bows.

  “Little Robe, wait!” Custer pressed a hand to the old one’s shoulder. “Yellow Hair prays for you too. May you find the strength our people require of you at this moment in history.”

  “What rests in your heart is good, Yellow Hair. Together we will find that strength.”

  Like a stone quickly swallowed by a still pond, disappearing beneath a corona of silent ripples, so too was Little Robe swallowed up by the fifty warriors who followed him back to the icy meadow where waited their winter-gaunt ponies.

  CHAPTER 25

  Two more days passed. The stalemate continued.

  Then, unexpectedly, the chief who had accompanied Little Robe’s delegation now visited Custer alone.

  The soldier chief fumed at Slips Away, stuttering his limited Cheyenne. “You tell me again your chiefs have decided not to release the girls!”

  “Yellow Hair holds our three chiefs. Too, you hold fifty more from Black Kettle’s camp. I am sent to tell you—release the chiefs, then we can talk of freeing the white prisoners.”

  His teeth on edge and close to boiling, hands clenching in fists, Custer shook with rage.

  “Hell, no!” he shouted in English. “Your people don’t understand. I hold my soldiers back. Many in this camp come from the land where you captured the women. They hunger to spill Cheyenne blood! Go back and tell them Yellow Hair sees the Cheyenne are worse than squaws—cowards! It takes no brave warrior to kidnap a woman. Remember—were it not for those two captives, I would level your village!”

  “Many stand ready to answer your guns, Yellow Hair.”

  Custer leapt up, almost upon the warrior’s toes, his cheeks flushed. “Silence! Go tell them Yellow Hair makes ready to wipe the Southern Cheyenne from the breast of their mother! Every man, woman, and child!”

  He turned away, afraid of what he might do if he glared into that Cheyenne face much longer. His heart eventually calmed. “Little Robe did not come today, for he is ashamed. Still, I know what course I must take.”

  Slowly, he turned back to the tall warrior, crossing his arms. Custer’s sunburned face clouded. “Take my word back to your people. I grow weary. No more talk. If you do not come to me by noon tomorrow to tell me when you will release the white captives, I will follow your villages. Each time you move, we will follow. Now, go!”

  He shoved past the warrior, angrily flailing his arms. “Moylan! Have Sergeant Lucas get this Indian out of my camp! Before I do something I’ll regret!”

  Custer disappeared into his tent, furious and fuming, collapsing onto his bed, his head propped between his hands. The only thing that helped was Monaseetah’s fingertips rubbing across his shoulders, up the tense cords at the back of his neck.

  Seeking those places only she knew … the calming places.

  Noon came and went the following day. And with it, Custer’s patience.

  “Moylan, there’ll be no more quibbling with these Cheyenne—I’m about to force their hand.”

  “You’ve been more patient than most, General.”

  “Those days are over,” he spat. “They squat in their villages, laughing at me. I’ll not be treated like some treaty diplomat! I’m a soldier.

  “We’ll force their hand or I’ll chop it off in the process. Have Romero take a detail of troops to the village and inform those Cheyenne they must send their chiefs to me at sunrise tomorrow. Not noon. Sunrise!”

  “Yessir.”

  “And when Romero’s on his way, inform the companies this camp’s about to move. We’ll sit on the Cheyenne’s doorstep before nightfall!”

  By six A.M., before the next sun had crept into the east, Custer was up and about, anxious to see matters forced off dead center. Once more this warrior, this cavalry officer who had become known in the Shenandoah as “Sheridan’s firebrand,” found himself preparing for that to which he had been born—to fight.

  By the time the morning frost began to burn off, Custer had fifteen Cheyenne chiefs seated before him.

  “You will hold your tongues,” he began without preliminaries. “No food. No pipe. I’ll leave that to the treaty makers you laugh at. Yellow Hair is a warrior. You will listen without speaking a word. The time for discussion has gone.”

  Custer pointed at his three prisoners seated nearby. “These men are your leaders. What stupidity to want me to kill them.”

  He paced in front of the fifteen, reminding them how patient he had been with the slow progress in freeing the white women. Then Custer dropped the other boot.

  “Upon your heads rest the responsibility for war!”

  Rhythmically, he slapped the rawhide quirt against his muddy boot top for emphasis, like ticking off the seconds until releasing his mighty army on the Cheyenne villages.

  “You hold the women. We came to get them back. If you won’t release them peacefully, we’re prepared to pay for their lives with our own. I’ll lay waste to your villages—leaving them a smoking ruin for all Indian nations to know of Cheyenne stupidity!”

  Custer stepped close to the fifteen now, assured of their rapt attention. “If you harm one of the women, I will kill ten Cheyenne. And if one of the captives is killed, I will put two hundred of your own to the sword myself! I’m prepared to keep on killing until no more Cheyenne wal
k the face of this earth! No more wombs to carry Cheyenne warriors!” He said to his interpreter angrily, “See that they understand that, Romero!”

  Custer and the other officers gathered with him watched the chiefs eventually indicate their understanding.

  “Now, Romero—have Dull Knife join me.”

  The tall, stately chief, one of the three held captive, followed the pony soldier to a nearby cottonwood. From one of the overhanging branches dangled a length of hemp rope at the end of which hung a noose. Custer signaled Sergeant Lucas.

  Two soldiers immediately seized Dull Knife, binding his hands behind him. The warriors shouted furiously. Quickly the soldier guard around them leveled rifles at the delegates. Angrily, the Cheyenne fell silent as the noose fell over the chiefs head, tightened at the base of his skull. The rope was raised until the chief was on tiptoe.

  Big Head’s dark eyes glared flinty hatred at Custer. Yet not a muscle in his face betrayed any emotion.

  “See your mighty chief now!” Custer cried, flush with anger. “Listen carefully, for you’ll no longer play me the fool. Release the two girls by sunset tomorrow, or you will watch your chiefs hang—one at a time!”

  Custer turned to the sergeant. “Lucas, ease the chief down.”

  When he could stand flat-footed once more, his neck no longer stretched and his hands released, Dull Knife joined the other captives. He sat rubbing his wrists and raw neck.

  “None of you’ll be so brave tomorrow when I have your bodies hanging from this tree!” Custer roared at the Cheyenne. “I’ll watch the magpies feast upon that flesh left on your bones when the buzzards have had their fill!”

  In two steps he stood before his interpreter. “Romero, tell our visitors they have five minutes to talk with their chiefs. For if the girls are not freed by sunset tomorrow, this is the last time they’ll see their chiefs alive!”

  Throughout the next long, fateful day, a hushed tension wound itself through camp like a watch spring; every man was fearful it would get one rough twist too many and the whole thing would snap. Not a soldier could fail to know this was the day the Seventh Cavalry would go back to war with the Cheyenne.