The girls’ attention alternated between parents as the battle waged. Libbie renewed her suspicious glare. Custer tried boyish charm. Libbie intensified the accusation in her look. He countered with a shrug of honest intents gone athwart of a greater power. Her gaze softened with the return of good humor. He encouraged it with a smile and open arms. Libbie conceded defeat and embraced him, chuckling.
“I knew you were hiding something,” she said, and the girls squealed.
“Isn’t it divine?”
“I just can’t believe it!”
Big Nose crept through the ferns and underbrush that lined the banks of the White Water and came up alongside Storm Arriving. “Have you seen him?” Big Nose asked.
“No,” Storm Arriving answered. “I have seen plenty of bluecoat soldiers and one of their warchiefs, but no sight of Long Hair.”
“Perhaps he stays in that lodge.”
Storm Arriving looked at the scene that had changed little since before dawn.
The bluecoats had arrived after sunrise with four wagons and hundreds of men on the domesticated elk the vé’hó’e called “horses.” They had spent the first two hands of daylight inspecting the bones of the cloud-that-fell and shouting at one another like deaf men in a story circle. When they came to inspect the trees along the riverbank, it was as easy to stay hidden from them as to hide from a child. The bluecoats made so much noise of their own—crunching through the brush and shouting to one another—that they could not hear the river’s voice much less the breath of the men who lay beneath the ferns at their feet.
The rest of the morning had been taken up with raising the strange lodge. It was a clumsy thing, with poles meant to stand straight and alone instead of leaning in on one another for support. It required ropes at every point to keep it from falling down and they had set it up with its door to the west so with every breath of the prairie wind the lodge billowed and pulled at its ropes.
The lodge was flanked on both sides by a cloth-covered wagon. The curving tops of the wagons reminded Storm Arriving of the cloud-ribs that still stood so eerie and bare against the rain-heavy sky.
Since then there had been lots of activity, but little purpose as far as he could tell.
“There,” he said, pointing. “That man at the door of the lodge. He seems to be one of their chiefs. See how the others come up to him with questions and walk away with answers? He seems to be the leader of this group of vé’hó’e.”
“Yes,” Big Nose said, “but he is not Long Hair. The bluecoat messenger said we were to meet with Long Hair.”
“I do not think he is here. That warchief is the only one who has gone in or out of the lodge in three hands.” He rolled over on his back and looked up through the canopy of waving greenery. “The sun is two hands from the top-of-the-sky.”
“We must hurry,” Big Nose said.
The two men gathered their weapons and crept down to the river’s edge. From there they ran along the banks until they came to their whistlers and thence they rode against the building wind, back to the Council.
The gathering of chiefs waited at the brow of a low rise. They stood in a line along its length. The wind was at their backs and the deer tails, fox tails, feathers, and fringes that decorated their clothing and weaponry danced and fluttered. In their midst was One Who Flies, an island of dark blue amid the bright colors of the host.
Like the vé’ho’e warchief, the chiefs of the Council, too, had brought their warriors. Storm Arriving saw several hundred men on whistlers and over a hundred walkers at the Council’s back. The faces of the men and the haunches and tails of their mounts had been painted with the stark patterns of war.
“It looks like all of the rifles are here,” Big Nose said.
Storm Arriving looked again and saw that, indeed, many of the warriors held rifles across their legs instead of bows.
They rode up to the Kit Fox chief, Two Roads, and the Council.
“Any more to come?” Storm Arriving asked him.
“No,” Two Roads said. “You are the last ones to return. What did you see?”
Storm Arriving and Big Nose related the layout of the force and the numbers they contained. “The horses are corralled directly east of the meeting place,” Big Nose said. “That is a bad choice. With this wind, they will smell our walkers before they can see them. The bluecoats will have their hands full just keeping them quiet.”
“Did you see Long Hair?” Two Roads asked.
“No,” the two men said in unison.
“I do not believe he is there,” Storm Arriving said. “I would like to ask One Who Flies what this might mean.”
Two Roads conferred with the chiefs and agreement was quickly met. Storm Arriving spoke the Trader’s tongue to One Who Flies.
“I have been to see the meeting place,” he said. “Your father is not there. Why?”
One Who Flies was genuinely surprised. “Not there? Are you sure?”
Storm Arriving described what he had seen and asked his question once more. “Why is he not there?”
There was fear in the eyes of One Who Flies as he searched for an answer. “He…he might have been delayed—he is always late—or maybe he couldn’t make the trip. He is very busy, you know.”
“Too busy to save his own son?” Storm Arriving asked.
One Who Flies did not respond to that. After a moment, he asked, “What are you going to do?”
Storm Arriving pointed to the chiefs. “It is up to them.” He turned back to Two Roads and the others. “He does not know. It seems that the son is not as important to the father as we thought.”
In the presidential offices, the mood was much more severe than it had been in the family quarters.
Samuel and Jacob Greene stood near the door while General Meriwether and his attaché stood behind the desk, near the window. A large table had been brought in, leaving an aisle along the bookcases. Custer used it now, pacing slowly and methodically.
The table—a heavy, oaken, pillar-legged affair left by one of the house’s Federalist tenants—was covered by all manner of paper. Around the limits of its surface were notes in Custer’s hasty scrawl, sheets lined with his aide’s miniscule notation, and block-lettered telegraph messages. Small stacks of books rested near the corners—military tactics, the memoirs of Lincoln and the perfunctory musings of Sherman, the writings of Cicero, Plutarch, and Caesar. The weight of their words, assisted by four teacups, held down the large yellowed map that took up the center of the dark surface.
Thin brown lines meandered across the age-stained paper like ant trails. Custer studied them as he paced off the length of the Frontier. On the map, inked lines paired up to form the Red River of the North, also called the Santee after the natives who used to live there; the wide Missouri, which they called the Big Greasy or the Fatfoam River; the Niobrara, known as the Unexpected River to the Cheyenne; and—the crux of Custer’s attention—the one river that carried the same name for both races: the White.
On the table, on the map as it was out on the Frontier, three groups of figures had gathered. On the table they were small painted blocks of wood: blue, with various stripes. On the Frontier, they were phalanxes of might; men, horses, guns, and artillery. Three groups, all beyond the Mississippi, beyond the Red, and now, beyond the Missouri.
“Mr. President,” said Jacob, opting for formality in the tense atmosphere. “It will be some hours before we hear anything.”
Custer scowled but did not look away from the tokens on the map. “Permit me to worry, Jacob. There’s a little more at stake here than I’m used to.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
He stopped at the corner and picked up the stack of telegraph messages. “You told him about the sabers?,” he asked, paging through the sheets. “You told him to ride in without sabers?”
“As per your request, sir.” Meriwether came to his side and lifted out the sheet that had been used to send the information.
“Good,” he said, a
nd resumed his pacing. “They make an awful racket, you know. You couldn’t sneak up on a deaf banshee riding in with sabers.”
“He knows,” Meriwether assured him. “He learned it from you.”
Custer pulled out his watch and checked the time. Noon. An hour yet at least before the meeting would take place, nearly a thousand miles distant. His boy was approaching the nexus, the fulcrum point of power. His survival—along with the future of the Frontier—depended on how well his father had guessed.
There was no other way for George to put it: he was frightened. While the Council had sat down in the waves of green grass to discuss their next action, he had tried to rename his feelings as anxiety, worry, nervousness, even as excitement. Each time, however, the lies scattered like dead leaves and he was left with only the cold, bare truth.
He was afraid.
They rode in three groups; the Council chiefs with their whistler escorts, and two squadrons of walkers loping along to either side. At the news that his father was not present at the meeting place, most of the warriors were sent off in another direction. Of the remaining delegation, the attitude had transformed. Before, they had been serious, with few words exchanged and a strong sense of purpose among them. Now, however, they were all completely silent, and every eye was grim. Rifles—and there were many—were held on hip, upraised and ready. Quivers had been laced to first ropes. The sense of purpose had been honed and focused down to a point, and that point was now aimed due east.
George jumped as Two Roads shouted a command. The two squads of walkers moved ahead and away from the group of Council chiefs. When they were a hundred yards to either side and perhaps a quarter mile in the lead, he heard another shout.
The men atop the walkers began to sing a pounding, angry chant. The rhythm pulsed and one by one the walkers fell in with it. Their long strides matched it, their feet coming down in heavy concert, and George could feel and hear the very ground around them reverberate like a huge, monstrous drum. The warriors around him joined in the song. Only the chiefs remained silent. No one would meet George’s gaze, each man was set only on the goal—now their target—that lay ahead. He felt as if caught up in one of the twisting winds of the Frontier, surrounded by danger and power, helpless to alter anything.
The wind swept across their backs and ran before them. Grey clouds piled up behind them and George heard the distant cannonshots of thunder.
The men sang. The walkers pounded the earth. The land rang and the heavens rumbled. They crested a rise and George saw the spars and beams of the ruined A. Lincoln. Toward the river were a tent and wagons, their fabric luffing in the wind. Beyond that, he could see soldiers trying to control a hundred frantic horses and more soldiers running to help.
“Nóxa’e!” came the order and the Indians halted an eighth of a mile distant. At the meeting place, soldiers took up ceremonial positions at attention with rifles at right shoulder arms.
The arriving Indians surveyed the scene from their three-pronged vantage and then, as one, the warriors shouted and the walkers sounded, issuing forth a terrifying mix of sound like a ten-story locomotive and the scream of a monstrous eagle.
Down at the meeting place horses reared and soldiers lost their footing with knees turned to water. Many horses broke free, adding their own screams to the cacophony. The bellowing continued for some seconds and then the walkers stepped forward, advancing at a menacingly slow pace and blasting their challenge with each breath. It was terrifying. George felt his own heart thudding in his breast. He could not imagine the fear of the soldiers ahead as fifty giant, toothsome, taloned lizards approached them, maws open and howling for blood.
More horses broke free and ran. Chaos bred within the heart of the army position. The walkers advanced to within two hundred yards, halted, and fell silent. Only the clouds above continued with their ominous thunder.
Three Trees Together motioned to Two Roads. The chief of the Kit Fox soldiers beckoned to Big Nose and Storm Arriving. Storm Arriving looked in turn at George.
“Nóheto.”
The quartet headed out from the group of chiefs, riding up to within a stone’s throw of the nearest soldiers. Even from this distance George could see their eyes glancing back and forth, from whistlers to walkers, and his own fear was somehow drowned out by the terror of the others before him.
From within the tent came a grey-bearded officer flanked by two others. The older man walked slowly, almost leisurely, to meet the emissaries. As they came closer, George saw the man was a general with steel-grey hair to match his beard and eyes the color of soot. He recognized him from long ago days along the shores of the Gulf of Narvaéz. At his side were a captain and a lieutenant, both unfamiliar to George.
“Good afternoon, honorable guests,” said the general. The lieutenant translated his words to French, and Storm Arriving took the words onward into the language of the Cheyenne.
“My name is Stant, and I am here as the representative of the President of the United States. I would like to welcome you—”
Two Roads spoke loudly. “Where is Long Hair?” he asked.
Storm Arriving translated. The lieutenant glanced at his superior, puzzled at the question, but he relayed the words. Stant, a long-time comrade of The General’s, knew the Cheyenne’s name for his commander-in-chief.
“Long Hair is not here, and sends his apologies. I have been authorized to speak to you on his behalf.”
The words came back and before Stant could finish Two Roads had turned and started back to the group of chiefs. Storm Arriving grabbed George’s mount by the halter and began to lead him away.
“George!” Stant shouted. “Run!”
George slid off his mount, but not before Storm Arriving grabbed him by the sleeve. They both tumbled to the ground. George cried out as his side flared in pain and whistlers shrilled the alarm.
Two Roads and Big Nose stopped. George looked up. Storm Arriving had him by the collar. His knife was in his hand and death was on his face.
“Do not move,” Stant ordered, and the sound of rifle bolts chattered in the air. George glanced over toward the general.
Soldiers had taken a knee and now aimed at the Indians. The covers of the wagons had been thrown back and the multiple barrels of two Gatling guns gleamed in the grey light.
“If you harm him,” Stant said, “you will die. You will all die.”
Storm Arriving stood unmoving, his knife still raised to strike. George saw the blackness of his eyes and heard the sound of impassioned breath through flared nostrils. The general’s words were translated and the corner of the Indian’s mouth crept upward.
“You are outmatched,” Stant continued, “and harming the son of Long Hair will only earn you his eternal hatred. We can end this day in peace, if you return to us the son of Long Hair.”
George saw the smile above him broaden, as Big Nose passed the general’s words along. When the translation was complete, Two Roads spoke.
“You are wrong, bluecoat Stant. You are the one who is outmatched.”
From the woods along the river came a chilling ululation. The brush and ferns moved, and a long line of whistlers dropped their forest colors for angry patterns of red and white. In a heartbeat Stant’s position had fallen from one of even numbers and superior firepower to being outflanked and outnumbered three to one.
The general’s face twisted with frustration and anguish as he took in his change of fate. Arrows were ready to fly at front and rear. A walker chuffed its impatience. Others joined in, underlining their own threat. George could see the calculations that roiled in Stant’s head—first volley, initial wounded, second volley, distance to target, travel time, cavalry versus infantry. His lips pulled back and his teeth showed white beneath bristling grey whiskers. His neck was corded and his every muscle tensed as he gave the order.
“Stand down.”
“But sir—”
“Stand down!” he shouted. “There has been enough carnage today. I won’t add y
our lives to it. Stand down!”
Rifles retreated, pointing to the heavens, and the gunners relaxed from the brink of turning the firing crank. Lightning flickered between the clouds. George felt the shy touch of a first raindrop as thunder rolled across the sky.
Two Roads spoke to the general in a strong, steady voice carried by the rising wind.
“We came to speak to Long Hair,” he said, “but he is not here, so we will leave. We came to give Long Hair back his son, but he is not here, so the son will stay with the People. We gave Long Hair permission to cross our lands, but he is not here, so you must leave. You have until the sun has set to leave our lands and cross the Big Greasy. When the sun rises again, if you are still in our lands, you will die.” He turned before the translation was complete. Storm Arriving yanked George up by the collar. He commanded the whistlers to crouch and they mounted, though he kept hold of the halter to George’s beast.
George twisted in his seat and saluted as best he could. Stant returned it, and called out.
“Forgive me, George. May both you and God forgive me.”
The clouds released their rain like a long-held breath. George watched Stant dwindle and fade away behind the sheets of rain. The general repeated his prayer, arms held wide, embracing the storm’s violence as a penance. Thunder was his only answer.
George turned away from the sight, struggling against hopelessness and wrestling with suspicions. His military education and his knowledge of Stant clashed with the events of the past few minutes. Stant had come ready for a fight, but without the men to carry it off. He was outmaneuvered too easily, and had been unwilling to add the lives of his men to…
To what?
“Something is wrong,” he said to Storm Arriving.
Some of George’s concern penetrated the Indian’s disdain. “What?”
“I’m not sure, but something back there was wrong. That man never gets into a fight that he isn’t sure he can win.”
The Year the Cloud Fell Page 20