Long Winter Gone sotp-1

by Terry C. Johnston

  Starting to sweat, Romero wheeled his horse in a spray of snow. He raced back, sliding to a halt beside Custer, who stood in the stirrups, eyes flicking to the rear.

  “Can they see my troops now?” Custer asked.

  “From that hill, you damn bet they can.”

  “They won’t try anything stupid, will they?”

  “Wouldn’t put a thing past a Dog Soldier, General.”

  “Then by all means, Romero, tell those warriors to halt where they are.”

  Despite Romero’s signs, the three kept coming. Worse yet, the twenty behind them galloped to catch up. The interpreter watched Custer yank his pistol free. With the weapon in the air for the Cheyenne to see, he brought up his empty right hand to show the warriors they had the choice: either heed the warning of the empty hand, or deal with the consequences of the loaded one.

  The Cheyenne understood without translation. They finally brought their ponies to a halt.

  “Tell one to come forward to talk,” Custer instructed.

  After a momentary conference, a tall, imposing figure urged his war pony forward, smiling as if he were on some afternoon lark.

  Stalling tense minutes while the soldiers advanced toward the clearing, Custer and Romero parleyed with the solitary warrior called Bad Tooth. From him the interpreter learned much about the enemy. The tribe was indeed Cheyenne, under Chief Medicine Arrow, who was himself in that larger group of riders watching the parley. Their village of three hundred lodges was camped at the mouth of a stream emptying into the Sweetwater. Nearby stood a village of two hundred lodges under Chief Little Robe.

  “The soldier chief knows of Little Robe,” Romero explained to Bad Tooth. “He is a good friend to the soldiers. It would please the soldier chief to meet the great Medicine Arrow.”

  “Who brings pony soldiers to our village of women and children?” asked Bad Tooth. “The powerful Medicine Arrow will not stoop to talk to soldiers like those who butcher helpless ones or burn the villages of the frail and sickly ones.”

  “Black Kettle?”

  “He was a weak old man. Medicine Arrow is the mighty leader of the Southern Cheyenne. Not some tired old man waiting to die wearing the white man’s bacon grease on his lips.”

  “I’ve heard about all I’m going to take of this one’s surly mouth, Romero,” Custer said. “I’d love to knock the smile off that face. Tell this loudmouthed one he looks upon the Yellow Hair. Tell him I want peace, but only if Medicine Arrow wants peace. Will there be peace, or war? Yellow Hair waits for Medicine Arrow’s answer.”

  “Yellow Hair is with you?” Bad Tooth demanded.

  “I am Hiestzi!” Custer shouted in Cheyenne, startling both Romero and the warrior.

  The warrior swallowed, gave the soldier a harsh once-over.

  Custer removed the buffalo-fur cap, running his fingers through his long curls. Beneath the midday winter sun, his hair was burnished gold.

  “Yellow Hair! Aiyeee!” Bad Tooth ordered another of the trio to dash back to the growing line of mounted warriors easing down the slope into the meadow.

  “They’re getting a bit too close, General,” Romero cautioned.

  Custer glanced toward the rear. “They’ll have us surrounded before the troops show.”

  “Surrounded—” Romero gulped, “or worse.”

  Custer raised his pistol, pointing the muzzle at Bad Tooth’s chest while nudging his own stallion forward. “Stay close, Romero. If there’s any gunplay, this big one will be our shield.”

  Custer halted beside the astonished warrior staring at the gaping bore pointed at him.

  “Ask him if he speaks with one tongue, Romero.”

  “I speak with one tongue, Yellow Hair,” Bad Tooth replied.

  “Why do your friends creep up on me? Do they want to see your blood?”

  The Cheyenne’s anxious eyes flicked over both shoulders, seeing the warriors easing along the sides of the meadow, hoping not to attract the soldier’s attention.

  “Tell your friends to stop where they stand, or your blood will be spilled on this ground!”

  Bad Tooth’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared into the muzzle.

  “That’s right. You will be first, my faithless friend. I will blow a hole in your heart big enough there will be nothing left of it for your dogs! I do not trust a man who tells me he wants to parley while others sneak up to take my hair.”

  “No!” Bad Tooth shook his head, hypnotized by the pistol bore.

  “None of you will wear the scalp of Yellow Hair. Many want it. None is brave enough to take it. Today is a good day for you to die.”

  With the Cheyenne’s angry, frightened warning, the rest of the warriors withdrew, flinging gritty threats and curses. Then they fell silent as they parted for an old warrior leading a band of some forty others who loped right up before the pony soldier.

  “I know this one,” the old warrior sneered, pointing to Romero. “He lived with Cheyenne.”

  “Who’s this, Romero?” Custer whispered.

  “The old boy himself. Medicine Arrow. Always been a treacherous snake. Years back his name was Rock Forehead. Now among the Cheyenne he’s called Medicine Arrow because he’s keeper of the tribe’s sacred bundle of arrows—big medicine going back before the grandfather of any man now alive.”

  “Medicine Arrow,” Custer muttered, assessing his enemy.

  “But the red bastard hasn’t changed,” Romero added. “Rock Forehead always was a bloodthirsty scorpion.”

  “You!” The old chief whirled on Custer. “You are the Yellow Hair who defeated the sleeping village of Black Kettle?”

  “I am.” Custer bowed his head to the whispers and mutterings, murmurs of awe and respect, hearing also the growls and yelps for his scalp.

  “You bring many soldiers with you, Yellow Hair?”

  Custer considered that question before answering. “I bring enough to show the Cheyenne that my word is strong.”

  Medicine Arrow’s eyes darkened. He hadn’t heard the answer he wanted. “With so many horses, there will be little grazing for Cheyenne ponies. How many horses ride with Yellow Hair?”

  Custer turned to Romero, whispering, “Cagey old reprobate, this one. Treacherous snake would love to kill us all.”

  “How’ll he do that?”

  “I think this old bat figures we’re a small expedition. Most likely, word reached him of a small party of soldiers roaming the countryside last month—a scouting party I led from our camp on Medicine Bluff Creek.”

  “Could be, General. Suppose he did get wind of a small outfit—Medicine Arrow might figure to wipe us all out quick.”

  “You bet your cold backside he would!”

  “Want me to give him the bad news?”

  “No,” Custer answered. “I’ll break it to him in my own way … in my own time.”

  “Can’t wait to see it, General. This old boy’s done his share of evil—and then some. Some claim he’s an evil wizard. Can perform magic—even tell the future. Heard tales of some he’s cursed in years gone by, ones died in strange mysterious ways. Be a pleasure to watch you take the starch outta him.”

  Custer studied Medicine Arrow. “Let’s see if he can predict the future when he sees how many soldiers ride with me.”

  “You white men talk too much!” Medicine Arrow grunted as he signed angrily. “Yellow Hair mixes courage with foolishness, coming to see the Cheyenne with only this Mexican dog at his side. A dangerous mistake for the man who destroyed a weak village on the Washita.”

  “Medicine Arrow!” Custer shouted, surprising all with his precise Cheyenne. “You anger me with such bold talk. I come to you in peace—but you growl like a dog snapping for a fight! If that is what you want”—and he glanced over his shoulder—”then behold—war is what Medicine Arrow will get!”

  Custer flung his arm at the advancing columns heaving into view at the far edge of the meadow. “Romero, tell this old bag of wind how many soldiers march with Yellow Hair. Te
ll him!”

  Romero grinned. “Happy to, General.” It was his turn to sneer at Medicine Arrow. “You have no more than a hundred warriors in this meadow. Yellow Hair has many times more. He can crush you like a wolf spider.”

  “It will take many soldiers to crush our warriors.”

  “Old man!” Romero barked. “See how many march against you!”

  Medicine Arrow studied the blue shapes bursting from the timber at the far side of the meadow. He whirled on Romero. “You turn against your people, dark one, bringing soldiers down on us to kill children and the old ones.”

  “Old man, your warriors have done evil. Yellow Hair comes to fight only if you want war. It is your choice. Yellow Hair demands your warriors stop their raids, and demands your villages return to the reservations.”

  “We can find no buffalo to hunt on this reservation.”

  “You must return,” Romero repeated. “If you do not do what Yellow Hair tells you, you will suffer as Black Kettle’s village suffered.”

  “Is this the word of Yellow Hair?”

  Romero turned to Custer. “General, the old one wants to know if I speak for you when I say we will attack if need be.”

  Custer glared at the chief, then nodded. No word spoken.

  Medicine Arrow’s eyes flicked to Romero. “Ask Yellow Hair if he intends to wipe our villages from the breast of our Mother of All Things as he did to Black Kettle.”

  After a moment, Custer thoughtfully replied, “I will not destroy your villages—unless you want war. The choice is up to you. You must make that choice now.”

  The old chief fumed a moment, listening to the angry vows of his young warriors, gazing at the swelling strength of the soldier columns led into the snowy meadow.

  “I want Yellow Hair to show me you want peace with the Cheyenne. So many soldiers come, they will frighten our women and children. My people will wail when they hear it is Yellow Hair come to surround their village. It is for Yellow Hair alone to assure my people that what happened to Black Kettle will not happen to them. We must hurry, Yellow Hair—before my people run to the hills and Medicine Arrow has no one to lead back to the reservation with him.”

  When the translation was completed, Custer whispered to Romero, “Why, that sly old fox. He wants me to come with him to his village—alone.”

  “Be quick, Yellow Hair.” The chief motioned with an arm. “Come to my village with me now. Show my people you talk straight. They will know you mean them no harm if you ride into my village at my side.”

  “Why alone?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Can’t be a good reason, whatever it is. Always been a treacherous snake.” Romero sighed, eyeing the old chief. “Years back, his name was Rock Forehead. Now he’s called Medicine Arrow because he’s keeper of the Cheyenne’s sacred bundle of arrows—a sacred object going back before the grandfather of any man now alive. But, he hasn’t changed. Rock Forehead always was a bloodthirsty bastard.”

  Custer turned at the sound of hooves beating the winter-hardened earth, watching Moylan gallop up. “Well, I’d best find out what this sly fox is up to.” He called to his adjutant. “Mr. Moylan! What the Hades took you so long?”

  “It’s one thing for you to get the columns moving.” Moylan sounded breathless. “It’s quite another for me to do it.”

  “Lieutenant, this here’s the great Cheyenne chief, Medicine Arrow. And he wants us to have a talk with him.” Custer turned to Romero. “You head back. Find Myers. Have him assume command of the troops in my absence.”

  “You’re riding into that village alone, General?” Romero asked.

  “Not alone, Romero.” And Custer smiled. “I’m taking Mr. Moylan with me.”

  “M-me … with you?” Moylan squeaked.

  “That’s right. We’re accepting this cutthroat’s invitation to dine in his lodge.”

  “Tonight, General?”

  “No, Lieutenant. Right now.”

  Moylan glanced back at the swelling columns of blue. “Shouldn’t we wait until the troops come up and they can go to the hostile camp with us? Hard Rope says there’s bound to be more warriors than you can count.”

  “Mr. Moylan, the Seventh Cavalry will never be intimidated by a large force of warriors. Mere numbers are meaningless. To your grave I want you to remember it takes only one Indian to kill a soldier who’s lost his courage.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Romero, give my message to Myers, and stay with him.”

  Custer watched the interpreter wheel and gallop off into the sparkling, frosty light of midday. He turned to the Cheyenne chief.

  “Medicine Arrow, we will go with you to your lodge now—to talk of peace, or war … between our peoples.”

  CHAPTER 23

  LIEUTENANT Myles Moylan watched Medicine Arrow wheel his pony about, parting the warriors in a V like a beaver’s nose breaking the glassy surface of a high-country pond. Moylan gulped, not sure what he was following Custer into.

  An eleven-year veteran from Massachusetts, Moylan had first served with the Second Dragoons where he had risen to rank of sergeant by 1863. Later that year when he had been transferred to the Fifth Cavalry and been given a commission, the young Yankee was dismissed from the service for some unnamed and impetuous act. Under a false name, Moylan turned around and reenlisted in the Fourth Massachusetts Cavalry, where he fought out the rest of the war, earning a brevet major for heroism. When the Seventh Cavalry was formed in 1866, Moylan was appointed its first sergeant major. Custer soon took a liking to the scrappy Irishman and commissioned Moylan as first lieutenant. While the rest of the officers did not appreciate Moylan’s “left-hand” promotion. Custer himself took young Myles under his wing, where with Tom Custer and Billy Cooke he became part of Custer’s first inner circle.

  As the warriors parted for Medicine Arrow, Moylan recognized the old Cheyenne woman, the one called Mahwissa. Wrapped in a leaf-green blanket atop her gray pony, Mahwissa intently watched the parley in the meadow.

  Custer halted at her side, a forced smile on his lips. “You have fared well with your people.”

  “You have learned some Cheyenne talk,” she replied.

  “I have a good teacher.”

  “How is Monaseetah?” she asked.

  “She is well. Monaseetah rides with us.” Custer threw a thumb to indicate the advancing cavalry and wagons.

  “She has a child?”

  “A son. Born the first week of the Moon of the Seven Cold Nights.”

  “Will he have a brother, Yellow Hair? Will you give Monaseetah a child of your own? She is your woman.”

  “Monaseetah is not my woman,” he stammered, his eyes searching the faces of the curious warriors.

  Mahwissa’s wrinkled lips curled. “It is true no black-robe waved his hand over your marriage. Yet the Everywhere Spirit knows you took Monaseetah as your wife. She is fertile like the prairie soil in spring. It is not yours to decide, Yellow Hair. The Everywhere Spirit will use you in His way. Not even the great Hiestzi can change that.”

  Agitated, Custer glanced at her belt, anxious to change the subject of this conversation. “You have my knife. The knife I let you carry to visit your people.”

  “Yes.” She giggled, pulling aside her blanket to expose the scabbard at her belt. Mahwissa had trimmed it with small, tinkling tin cones and strips of red cloth.

  “You decorated it for me. I thank you.” Custer extended his hand.

  “No longer is this your knife.” She closed her blanket.

  For a moment Custer was speechless. “I see,” he finally replied, straightening in the saddle. Custer gazed at the old chief. “Tell me, is Medicine Arrow like you, Mahwissa? Is he a liar too? I gave you warm food to fill your belly. A blanket for your back. Yet now you steal my knife. Is the word of the Cheyenne an empty sound?”

  Mahwissa threw her head back, cackling. “Do not talk to me of lies between our people, Yellow Hair. You offered food and I ate. You gave me a blanket and I slept. You gave
me a pony and sent me back to my people. I stayed. Would you not remain with your people?”

  “I asked you to help—”

  “Yellow Hair, hear me! I would sooner starve in freedom with my people than live with a full stomach as your prisoner. Though I would shiver at night without your blankets, I would sooner let my bones freeze and my flesh rot in freedom than live my years beneath your warm blankets.”

  Moylan watched Custer draw in his shoulders at the tone of her words as if flinching at a painful wound. Without knowing what was said, he sensed the air sour between Custer and the woman. And Moylan knew as few others would exactly how shame stung Custer like a slap in the face.

  “I will remember, Mahwissa,” he whispered. “You spit in my outstretched hand, like an ungrateful dog.”

  “No longer will you treat me like a dog, Yellow Hair,” she said with a sneer.

  Custer gazed at the amused faces of the onlookers. “Sadly, it will not be you, nor this Medicine Arrow, who will suffer. Instead, the Cheyenne of the future will pay for your stupidity here today. Listen! You can hear the Cheyenne of winters to come—hear their keening on the prairie winds. Listen! I hear Cheyenne children crying, growing weak with empty stomachs. Fathers killed by soldiers. Mothers chased into the wilderness to starve. Listen to the winds of the future!”

  Custer straightened in the saddle, signaling Moylan to follow. Medicine Arrow studied the renowned Yellow Hair as he rode up, as if appraising the portent of the moment.

  Written on both faces Moylan saw the realization that they were about to play out a drama neither one had the power to stop. Two men brought here to confront each other, setting in motion the gears of some machinery that would grind inexorably for eight more years.

  Something in the haughty way the old chief sat on his horse told Myles that Medicine Arrow had made his choice—to defend his people and their ancient nomadic way of life.

  Moylan studied Custer as he and the commander drew closer to the Cheyenne villages on the Sweetwater, wondering if Custer had learned that all his kindness had gone for naught. Moylan sensed something tighten, shrivel and die in Custer back there when Mahwissa shamed him.