“That is true, but I still must have all the captives,” I insisted.
“Let us sit and talk. We will smoke a pipe,” Soars Aloft suggested.
“I will be honored to smoke a pipe with Soars Aloft,” I answered.
* * *
Mark Kellogg could be a pain, but on this occasion he proved useful, supporting Seguin’s assessment of the Comanche. They were inveterate thieves. Horses, cattle, people, it made no difference. The years ahead would not be easy for them, for they did not perceive the wrong the way a civilized culture does.
“We will be friends,” Soars Aloft finally said after an hour of bartering, holding out his hands in the gesture of acceptance.
“Yes,” I said, shaking his hand. As was my custom.
The teepee was not crowded. Soars Aloft, his two sub-chiefs, and a few women sat on one side of a small fire. Tom, Señor Seguin and I sat on the other.
“We will tell our people. In the spring, we will meet again to speak of a new treaty,” Soars Aloft said.
“I hope we will meet again,” I agreed, for I had started to like the old chief, thieving rascal though he may be. Soars Aloft did not fool me, and I don’t think I fooled him.
The command had moved into the village for lunch where they accepted hot soup and rested under the trees. The men were friendly but watchful, having visited many similar villages over the years. I allowed Sergeant Butler to fire his Sharps at a few ducks, much to the delight of the Indians, but he was careful to conserve ammunition. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf were more guarded, having no special love for enemies of the Cheyenne.
It was late in the day as we prepared to return to Casa Blanca. There had been no rain, though dark clouds threatened.
“You are quite the cavalier,” Isabella said, holding my arm as we walked from the camp. “Do you always rescue damsels in distress with such flamboyance?”
“No. Sometimes lobbing an artillery shell does just as well,” I said, captured by the glint in her exquisite eyes.
The other freed captives trailed behind us, preparing to ride double once we cleared the woods.
“You remind me of someone I loved,” she said.
“A lost love?” I asked, jesting in the accepted style. Isabella grew serious.
“My husband, Joaquin. He was a captain in Santa Anna’s cavalry, and a hero of our revolution against Spain,” she solemnly explained. “But Joaquin spoke against the tactics used by Santa Anna to crush his enemies, believing them harsh. In revenge, the dictator ordered my husband to his death in a pointless skirmish. We had no children, so I left our beautiful hacienda in Mexico City, having no further interests there. I returned home last year. And now the revolutions have followed me.”
I looked again at this beautiful woman, the wife of a cavalry officer, and wondered what my Libbie would do without her beau. We were in debt when I left for the Dakotas, my career wrecked by Washington politicians. The press was no longer interested in Indian fighters. The newspapers wanted to hear about the latest inventions by Thomas Edison and Alexander Graham Bell. Harper’s Weekly wrote of Cornelius Vanderbilt’s great wealth and the depravations of Boss Tweed. Americans no longer cared about the soldiers they sent to fight their wars, flocking instead to Wild West shows and boardwalk carnivals.
“Have you travelled somewhere else, General Custer?” Isabella teasingly asked, noticing I had become distracted.
“A great distance, but I’m returned now.”
“Very good. A woman does not like to be ignored.”
“Rest assured, señorita, I could never ignore you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.
It must be admitted that having such a beautiful woman nearby was confusing. Though I could not imagine marrying outside my race, or faith, there could be no doubt about Isabella’s attractions. She was charming, intelligent, and wealthy. And I was now a bachelor, whether I felt like one or not.
The hostiles, or rather, our new friends, followed us from the camp until we reached the tree line, waving and shouting. I noticed a few of the privates wearing beaded Indian jackets and long-legged moccasins. I don’t know what they traded for these comforts and didn’t ask, provided they were still carrying their Springfields and Colts.
Once we were through the woods and ready to ford the creek, we mounted the horses and let out our breaths. Though successful this time, no one believed that every encounter with the Comanche would end as well.
“You know that is only one band. One of dozens. They have no central authority,” Seguin said.
“Word will spread of our meeting. The other bands will want to know more about the Seventh Cavalry before starting trouble,” I said, for that’s usually how things work.
“War is their way of life,” Kellogg said.
“Mine, too,” I replied, spurring Vic to the front of the column.
Two of Seguin’s vaqueros were leading the ride back to Casa Blanca. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf were riding flank. Tom and Morning Star rode just behind Butler and Cooke. The men waved as I passed, their spirits high.
“Don’t know how you did it, Autie. And without firing a shot,” Tom said.
“Fired nine shots,” I corrected.
“Yeah, and where did you learn that trick? Buffalo Bill?” Tom asked.
“It could have been Wild Bill Hickok,” I answered.
“Or P.T. Barnum?” Tom said.
“Yes, I suppose P.T. Barnum,” I agreed, grinning.
“Are these medicine chiefs you speak of?” Morning Star asked.
Tom and I laughed.
“No, my flower,” Tom said. “Hickok is a lawman turned actor. He goes before an audience to do tricks with guns. Buffalo Bill was an army scout who has started a traveling rodeo for Easterners. And P.T. Barnum is the world’s greatest showman, regularly pulling the wool over people’s eyes and calling them suckers.”
“They sound frivolous. How can they compare with what General Custer has done?” Morning Star said, shocked by our lack of reverence.
“My cousin speaks truly, Yellow Hair,” Gray Wolf said. “Tell us where to find this Barnum. His scalp will hang from your lodge pole.”
“I am sorry you and Spotted Eagle did not get to fight your enemies,” I apologized, for they were eager young men.
“You will find us more enemies,” Gray Wolf said.
“Did Slow tell you that?” I asked.
“He did not need to,” Gray Wolf answered, waving his new feathered lance and giving a hardy cheer. The men behind us cheered, too.
Their good morale pleased me, but I wondered what they could be cheering for. We were still on a mysterious journey.
“Casa Blanca, then on to Cibolo Creek. Then what?” Tom asked, reading my thoughts.
“We can’t go back East,” I said. “Andy Jackson would lock us away as imbeciles, swindlers, or maybe Frenchmen. I don’t see how we can stay here, either. I was thinking of California. I happen to know a nice little creek next to Sutter’s Mill that might be nice.”
“You’re not the only one who’s had that thought,” Tom mentioned. “But not everyone agrees. At some point, the men will want to break off. Go their own way.”
“Not going to worry about that today, Tom,” I said, giving Vic a kick.
Gray Wolf and I caught up to Spotted Eagle, racing him along the flat river road. I let out a whoop and waved my hat, urging them on. The lads laughed, struggling to keep up.
“Your brother is like a child sometimes,” Morning Star told Tom.
“Autie was known as the Boy General during our Civil War. He wasn’t much older than Gray Wolf, yet he achieved great glory and fame. And now eleven years have passed, and he’s no longer a boy.”
“Except in spirit,” Morning Star said.
* * *
I rejoined the column near sunset, Slow riding to my side as I fell in behind Voss and Butler.
“You did not slay your enemies,” Slow said.
“
Which enemies?” I asked, egging him on.
“The Comanche who stole your woman. Though they had greater numbers, your guns could have swept them aside. You did not need to make peace with them. They had many good horses you could have captured.”
“Superior firepower does not win every battle. In the great war of the whites in the East, the Union army often had superior firepower, but they only won half the battles. Warriors on both sides sold their lives dearly for causes they believed in. The Comanche are a brave people. It’s better not to fight unless we must.”
“You win all your battles. You always expect to win,” he pressed.
“I don’t win all my battles, but I’ve been luckier than most. I figured that luck would reward me today. It’s wet, it’s cold, and food is scarce. And it’s still winter. The Comanche did not want to fight. I just needed to give them a good excuse.”
“So they could keep their pride?”
“Something like that.”
“You could have been killed. An angry warrior might have defied his chief. Or Tom’s gun might have jammed.”
“I’ve walked into hostile villages before. It looks more dangerous than it is.”
“But never into a Comanche village. My grandfather said they are a people without honor,” Slow declared with conviction.
“All people have some sort of honor. Even Comanche. You just have to look for it.”
“Would you still have saved the women captives if Isabella wasn’t one of them?” the impertinent son of a gun asked. And it was a good question. I wasn’t sure of the answer.
Near the last stretch of road before Casa Blanca, Señor Seguin summoned me to the rear of the column for a private conversation.
“No thanks are too great for your service, George,” he started.
“None needed, sir.”
“You must call me Erasmo, because we are going to be friends. And business partners.”
“Business partners? Sir, I don’t want a reward for saving your daughter,” I said, almost insulted.
“Isabella can do her own rewarding, I am speaking of arms,” he said, taking no offense.
“I’m not inclined to sell our guns.”
“But you are going to need ammunition,” Seguin said.
He took several .45-calibur copper cased cartridges from his breast pocket, holding them up in the waning sunlight. “The bullets you carry are not an ordinary thing in 1836. You are going to need more.”
“Do you know where I can get more?”
“I was quartermaster of San Antonio, responsible for purchasing supplies for the garrison. I have many friends. Jewelers. Blacksmiths. Machinists. They will make your bullets. And someday, make your guns, too. I think great riches may be had by manufacturing such weapons.”
“It’s good to have friends,” I said, making a quick decision, for the ammunition supply had me worried.
“Erasmo, instead of copper, can we make the bullet casings in brass?”
“That should not be difficult,” he said.
“If the opportunity arose, would you be quartermaster for Texas?” I asked, for he seemed a logical choice.
“Texas has no government, only squabbling land grabbers devoted to self-interest. And even if Texas had a government, there is no money for a quartermaster to spend. Why do you ask?”
“Just a thought,” I answered.
We spent a final night at Casa Blanca. Ten of the vaqueros had returned from rounding up cattle. A few had been in San Antonio but left when Santa Anna’s army grew into the thousands. Señor Seguin was worried about his son, but I had not remembered seeing Juan while we were there. Kellogg mentioned Juan had probably been sent to find Sam Houston, but a dozen of his neighbors had been left behind in the Alamo.
I had not smoked a cigar since the night before my wedding in Monroe, but Seguin coaxed me into relaxing on the upstairs veranda. It had been a fine meal of roast beef and creamed corn, with all of my staff invited. We even sang a few songs before most went off to bed.
The night was cold but pleasant. Isabella sat to my right, Seguin to my left. Tom and Morning Star cuddled together at the far end of the balcony, in a world of their own. I had seen Tom with scores of girls over the years: tavern wenches, seamstresses, nurses, and even a congressman’s daughter. Morning Star seemed different. She certainly had a charming smile, deep enticing brown eyes, and a perfectly shaped figure, all of which ranked high on Tom’s necessary list, but the couple also had something very important in common—they were both ghosts.
“What troubles you tonight, George? Not enough victories for one day?” Isabella asked.
“Señor Seguin, you have a very insolent daughter,” I remarked, puffing cautiously on my Cuban cigar.
The outline of the ranch was vaguely visible in the moonlight, and it was a comforting sight. The farmland below us was tilled and ready for spring planting. Nearby, a herd of sheep lay bunched in their pens. In the darkness beyond, I heard the river despite the rowdy noise coming from the bunkhouse. The boys were celebrating, making me glad I’d put Cooke in charge.
“My daughter is of age to have her own mind,” Seguin said. “And her question is well asked. Though, as you say, insolent.”
“Young woman, I have been a soldier since I was seventeen years old,” I said, taking a good puff while suppressing a need to cough. “I fought in my country’s greatest war. Then I fought the Cheyenne and the Kiowa. And I fought the Klu Klux Klan. Now I’ve fought the Mexican army, and I almost had to fight the Comanche. So your answer is no, one victory a day is not enough for George Custer. I expect more.”
“And how often do you get more, Señor Custer?” she asked.
“More often than people think, señorita,” I relied in a whisper.
Señor Seguin stood up, his shoulders a bit stiff, and snubbed out his cigar.
“The hour is late for an old man. I will let you young people have the beauty of it,” he said, quickly retiring to his rooms.
He had barely left the balcony when Isabella was in my arms. We didn’t speak, for there seemed no need to. We understood each other perfectly.
The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast of eggs and ham, I went out to the corral to saddle Vic. We could delay our departure no longer, finally starting out at seven o’clock. Vic seemed rested, ready for the trail. I gave him a carrot I’d found in the kitchen.
“Thank you, George,” Seguin said, holding an envelope of signed documents we had drawn up.
The papers signified our partnership, for a new thought was lingering in the back of my mind. Something strange and unlikely, yet so intriguing that I couldn’t let it go.
I have rarely known fear. After four years of leading daring cavalry charges into hails of bullets and cannon fire, one learns to separate desire and fear. Desire for victory can make one fearless. Anything less on a battlefield is not helpful. But I was sensing fear now. Not a physical sense of fear, but just as troubling. A fear of gambling with people’s lives in a way that could end badly.
The command fell into formation, a steady column of twos ready for a full day’s march. Tom led the men out, followed by Cooke, Morning Star, and my sergeants. Only Slow and Kellogg lingered back with me.
“Thank you for such hospitality, Erasmo,” I said, doffing my weather-beaten campaign hat.
“You are always welcome at Casa Blanca,” the great gentleman said.
“But next time, don’t bring so many friends,” Isabella added, offering a short curtsey.
“Madam, it will be as you say,” I lustily agreed, giving Vic a boot.
Kellogg, Slow and I followed the column out to the road and turned south. The road east that we needed was only two miles away.
“Sad, isn’t it?” Kellogg said, announcing that he was going to be an ass again.
“Yes, Mr. Kellogg. What is sad this time?” I routinely asked, looking aside to Slow and rolling my eyes. The boy smiled.
“After Houston wins independence for Texas a
t the battle of San Jacinto, white men will flood into Texas. Southern white men, and they’ll bring their slaves with them. Tejanos like Erasmo Seguin will be pushed aside, often treated no better than the negros. Their rights will be trampled, and in time, their lands will be stolen.”
“Just like the Cherokee were pillaged by Andy Jackson. And just like the Sioux will have their land stolen by a succession of corrupt congresses,” I interrupted.
“You already know?” Kellogg said, dumbfounded.
“Lord Almighty, you must think me a dunce,” I said.
“So what are you going to do about it?” he demanded, as if I were omnipotent.
“Ask Slow,” I said, tired of hearing the reporter’s preaching.
In school, I had learned of Rome conquering Gaul. Genghis Khan conquering China. England conquering India. Peoples get their lands stolen all the time—it’s just the way of things. Better to stick your finger in a dike than try to stop history.
I looked at Slow, riding quietly to my left. The boy was not on a pony now but a golden Spanish mare loaned by Señor Seguin. The saddle was fine leather with full-length stirrups, the rings stitched higher to accommodate Slow’s short legs.
“What does Slow know of such things?” Kellogg asked.
“My God, Mark!” I shouted. “How long have you been a reporter?”
“Well, I’ve been bumping around here and there the last ten years. Council Bluffs. Brainerd. St. Paul. A little of this, some of that.”
“If this story with the Seventh worked out, what was your next career going to be?”
“Thought I might run for mayor of Bismarck.”
“And we wonder why the world is in such a state,” I said.
“I think you’re trying to insult me,” Kellogg suddenly realized.
“What do you think, Slow? Am I trying to insult Mark?” I asked.
“You merely think faster,” the boy said.
“And you know what I’m thinking?” I responded with a grin.
“Not always. In some ways, you think faster than me,” he solemnly answered. “But in other ways, you have not thought at all. I think it is your way not to see too great a future, for it frightens you.”
Custer at the Alamo Page 16
