Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1

by Terry C. Johnston

  “I’d bet on it,” Romero replied.

  Yates continued. “Nearly all the Cheyenne’s clothing is in our possession. Those who escaped have only what they carried on their backs.”

  “That’s the way I planned it. Dawn’s the time to catch ’em napping, don’t you see? Does that conclude your report?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Very good. Then go to Myers with my suggestion that he put all this captured matériel on those piles he’s making of the lodges. I suggest he pour some of the Cheyenne gunpowder over the lot of it. Have him see me when he’s ready to set it afire.”

  The tall, husky Yates saluted and was gone.

  In less than half an hour Custer’s chosen lodge was secured in a wagon for the return trip. Meanwhile, the remaining tepees had been gathered in mountains of buffalo robes and tanned hides, blankets and weapons, clothing and food. Everything was to be destroyed, save for those few ponies the prisoners would ride while leaving behind their winter home along the Washita.

  “Yates told me you wanted to see me,” Myers said when he arrived.

  Custer saluted the captain. “Torch it all!”

  Myers signaled his men. They tossed their flaming brands on each mountain of captured goods. The powder caught and flared. Some exploded, spraying showers of brilliant sparks over the scattering troopers. With the goading of a freshening breeze, the mountains burned like bright funeral pyres. The shivering troopers inched as close as they dared to warm their fronts while their backsides froze in a brutal wind. The troopers turned around and around, reveling in the warmth of the dancing flames. Over the trees and up the slopes of snow-whitened hills climbed a black, oily haze. Dark clouds reeking of destruction and death sent the warriors on the surrounding hillsides to keening in grief or angry fury.

  Tom turned to see his brother staring at the hilltops bristling with enemy warriors. Custer’s azure eyes were as merry as ever.

  “You know those red bastards are vowing revenge on your Seventh Cavalry, don’t you, Autie?”

  “Yes, Tom. Promising someday to reverse the fortunes of war. Cursing us—that come a day they’ll destroy the pony soldiers the way we’ve destroyed Black Kettle’s band.”

  “Don’t laugh too hard, General.” Ben Clark stepped up to the Custer brothers. “You ain’t begun to wipe out the Cheyenne nation. Curse the man who can’t see there’s a lot of fight left in those warriors. Pity the man who thinks he’s got ’em whipped.”

  A winter sun raced into the western hills faster than a mule with the smell of a home stall strong in its nostrils. Securing the village had burned more time than Custer had planned. His count and destruction of the captured goods had taken far too long. Tom watched his brother grow angrier as winter’s light drained from the day.

  “Look around you, Tom. Not one of these men realizes the danger in our march back to Camp Supply. We’re hampered now not only by our own wounded, but we’re dragging along better than fifty prisoners.”

  “We’ll get out of this valley without getting jumped. You’ve done it before, Autie. Just have to make a night march of it.”

  “Even doing that, I’m troubled we’ll draw attention to our supply train near the Antelope Hills. If we march in that direction, the hostiles might figure where we’re headed. And that could spell a sentence of death for the men guarding the train. The warriors could reach them on fresh ponies faster than we’ll be able to march.”

  “Or set up an ambush for the rest of us along the way,” Tom said. “Tough choice. I know how it’s eating at you, Autie. You grip this victory in your hand—something to redeem you before your superiors, to show them the injustice of that court-martial. But that year away from the regiment was really nothing more than an annoyance diverting you from your goal—”

  “That’s it, Tom! A stroke of genius!”

  “What’d I say?”

  “We’ll do the same with the hostiles! And at night, as you suggested. We’ll draw them away from our supply caravan. The way a sage hen draws the weasel from her nest.”

  “It can work, Autie!”

  “Tom, it’s got to work.” He whirled. “Lieutenant Moylan! Prepare the men to move out in columns of two. I want the regimental band in front, right behind our scouts. Post all guidons. Have them snapping, Lieutenant.”

  “A march … now, sir?” the adjutant inquired, glancing at the sun sinking behind the hills.

  “Why, Mr. Moylan, we’re going to march on down the Washita and chase the rest of these beggars right out of the country!”

  Within a matter of minutes, the Seventh Cavalry had mounted, strapped in, and tuned up. Long after Custer’s “Forward, ho!” had echoed back from the hills, troopers shivered with the falling temperature. Nauseous from the hard, icy knots in their shrunken bellies, some grumbled.

  “Hey, Sarge! What the divil is Ol’ Iron Pants trying to do?”

  “What’r you griping ’bout, Dooley?”

  “Thought we was marching back to Camp Supply. But me got the feeling we’re nosing round for more Injuns!”

  “Just shuddup and keep that nose of yours in the wind, soldier!”

  “Will you listen to that, Dooley?” Private Miller said. “Custer’s band is playing your song! ‘Ain’t I Glad To Get Out Of The Wilderness’!”

  “Didn’t you hear the sarge up there?” Dooley snarled. “Shuddup!”

  Miller shut his mouth. But that didn’t stop him from wondering why Custer wanted the regiment to make such a grand and noisy spectacle of their march. Don’t seem like smart soldiering, he brooded, warning the Injins before we can sneak up on ’em.

  But veterans like Sergeant Mathey knew exactly what Custer had up his sleeve.

  * * *

  “They cross the river!” Sees Red shouted as he skidded to a stop before his Kiowa chief.

  “Coming our way?” Satanta asked.

  “They blow their horns in the falling light.”

  “The soldiers come to destroy our villages now,” Lone Wolf added sadly.

  “It is good the women and old ones have already started on the trail to Hazen’s post, my friend,” Satanta replied.

  “Soldiers come. Attack all the villages. I will see that all our people are gone, our campsites bare.” Sees Red wheeled about and was gone.

  “This soldier chief attacks at night,” Satanta murmured. “Is he a man? Perhaps this soldier chief has no soul.”

  No mistake about it; the warriors watched the pony soldiers cross the river, plunging into the same hills where Godfrey had been turned back by the Arapaho.

  “He is coming! The pony soldiers intend to attack all our villages!”

  The once bristling hilltops shed themselves of all but a handful of feathered warriors, the rest already gone to warn their villages of the army’s approach. Warriors prepared to fight, protecting their women and children and old ones while the lodges came down and the camps retreated into the wilderness.

  As the smoked buffalo hides fell, leaving naked lodge poles behind, the frantic women herded travois ponies, children, and dogs after the old people scurrying into the fading winter twilight.

  Pony soldiers in blue and buffalo fur come! Already they have laid waste the Cheyenne camp of Black Kettle!

  Aieeee!

  It seems the soldier chief is a madman, leading white soldiers who won’t even halt for the coming night when a man’s soul is in such horrible danger should he be killed after dark!

  “Are these soldiers devils?” Skin-Head asked of Left Hand.

  “Truly, the soldier chief himself has no soul.”

  CHAPTER 11

  NEAR midafternoon on the thirtieth, Moses Milner spotted a band of horsemen emerging from the gray oak timber a mile below. Barely two days ago, Custer had dispatched Milner and Jack Corbin to ride north to Camp Supply with word on their victory for General Sheridan. Now, on their way back to rejoin Custer’s column, it appeared their return might be in doubt.

  “We got company, boy,�
�� Milner barked.

  “I see ’em,” Corbin replied. “And lookee yonder.”

  “Brownskins. Damn!”

  A handful of feathered warriors burst from the timber a mile to their left.

  “More visitors over ’long the creek.” Corbin pointed to the right.

  “Hostiles?” asked Ed Guerrier, a courier sent by Sheridan to ride back to Custer’s Seventh Cavalry with Milner and Corbin.

  “Time we made ourselves scarce, fellas,” Joe said.

  “Don’t have to tell me twice!” Guerrier replied.

  Corbin was first into the trees. He reined up and slid from his horse before it completely stopped. “We almost made it, California Joe.”

  Milner spit mud into the snow. “Them red niggers’ll pay dear to raise this ol’ scalp, they will.”

  Guerrier joined the pair after tying their horses back in the darkened timber. “I count three bands of ’em.”

  “They’re tracking somebody,” Corbin said.

  “Can’t figure why we ain’t run onto the general and his troops by now,” Milner hissed. “It don’t fit that we run across this war party first.”

  “Lookit that, Joe,” Guerrier said.

  “Well, I’ll be a mother’s son,” Milner whispered.

  Down below in the meadow the central party of horsemen had reined up. One of the figures held something to his face for some time. Meanwhile, the handful of Indian horsemen rode in from the left flank. A moment later riders came loping in from the right.

  “If that don’t beat all!” Milner said, scrambling to his feet. “It’s Custer his own self. C’mon, Ed. We’ll introduce you to the boy.”

  Back in the saddle, the trio cleared the timber. Once free of the trees, Milner spurred Maude to a gallop, tearing his old sombrero from his shaggy head. Back and forth he waved it at the end of his outstretched arm. “Whoooop! Hep-hawwww, ol’ gal,” he shouted to the mule.

  Custer bounded ahead of his columns alone, his arm held high above his buffalo cap. He reined up and waited once he recognized Milner’s wild cheers. All three scouts rode up abreast, bringing their army mounts to a snow-spray halt a few feet in front of Custer.

  “Afternoon, General!” Corbin sang out every bit like a boy just returned from a romp in the hills.

  “General!” Milner saluted in his own lazy way, then spit a brown stream of tobacco juice to the snow. “Mighty glad to see it’s you and your soldier boys.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Joe—you think we’re a war party out to relieve you of your sizable scalp?”

  “I counted on you being soldiers when I first got my eyes fixed on you until I saw two Injuns in your squad. Forgot about all them Osages come along. Damn—General! I’m powerful glad to see your face again!”

  Custer turned to Guerrier. “I suppose you riding in with these filthy renegades bodes good news, eh?”

  “Can’t keep a thing from you, can we, General Custer?”

  “I take it you fellas got to Camp Supply and General Sheridan with my report?” Custer inquired.

  “In the flesh!” Milner grinned.

  “You were right again, Joe. I wanted to send a whole squad with you boys.” Custer smiled.

  “A fancy notion that’d been, General. Always a heap better to have just two for the journey. More can be done by a lot of dodging and running than we can do by fighting.”

  “Two sprightly men can do far better than twenty, Mr. Milner. I congratulate you both!”

  Milner beamed proud as a boy given a shiny penny. “Why, I was some happy to see Little Phil my own self! He was monstrous glad to see me back so soon too. Say, did I ever tell you I used to know the general when he was a second—or was it a third?—lieutenant? Post quartermaster back to Yakima country in Oregon years ago?”

  “Sheridan a lieutenant? That was before my time! Well, Jack—what’s word from the general?”

  “He turned us near right around, riding south with a packet of orders, dispatches, and letters for the men. Sheridan was damned happy to hear your fight was a success. Spent near four hours stomping up and down, in and out of his tent. Reading your report over again. Asking us questions about the Indians.”

  Milner jabbed a hand half-covered with a threadbare mitten inside the flap of his greasy mackinaw coat to bring forth a leather pouch. From it he pulled a piece of foolscap folded and sealed with a dollop of blue wax. Nudging his old mule forward two steps, Milner handed it over to Custer.

  The soldier ripped open the notice, his eyes flying over the familiar Sheridan scrawl. The general’s words to his field commander were brief and to the point, the way Sheridan was in person.

  “Splendid!” Custer cheered. “Lieutenant Moylan, have the officers form the troops for review in that meadow ahead.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Custer watched his adjutant gallop away, heading back along the columns. Not until the companies began marching into the wide meadow did he turn once more to the three scouts.

  “How far are we from Camp Supply?”

  “You’ll be there by this time tomorrow,” Corbin answered.

  Custer slapped his right thigh. “By glory, back home with our victory, gentlemen! What say we share this good news with the regiment?”

  Custer nudged Dandy into a showy hand gallop as he tore into the meadow where the troops had gathered for review. With Milner, Corbin, and Guerrier at his side,wagons behind him facing rows of weary soldiers, and the Osage trackers scattered around the captives, Custer began his speech.

  “I have most welcome news for the gallant and courageous men of the Seventh Cavalry: the finest cavalry the world has ever known!”

  He waited a moment as the cheers and shouts died among the ranks. A hard knot of sentiment clotted in his throat.

  “Moments ago we received word from General Philip H. Sheridan, who most eagerly awaits our arrival at Camp Supply. Almost as much as you look forward to getting there yourselves!”

  Another spontaneous cheer mingled with hearty laughter. The tension of a cold march and bloody campaign drained at last from weary shoulders.

  “In this dispatch handed me moments ago”—he waved the sheet high in the breeze—”General Sheridan sends his highest compliments and praise to the officers and men who comprise the finest horse soldiers on the face of this—or any other—continent!

  “The General says:

  “The Battle of the Washita River is the most complete and successful of all our private battles, and was fought in such unfavorable weather and circumstances as to reflect the highest credit on yourself and regiment.

  “The energy and rapidity shown during one of the heaviest snowstorms that has visited this section of the country, with the temperature below the freezing point, and the gallantry and bravery displayed, resulting in such signal success, reflect the highest credit upon both the officers and men of the Seventh Cavalry; and Major-General commanding,while regretting the loss of such gallant officers as Major Elliott and Captain Hamilton, who fell while gallantly leading their men, desires to express his thanks to the officers and men engaged in the Battle of the Washita, and his special congratulations are tendered to their distinguished commander, Brevet Major-General George A. Custer, for the efficient and gallant services rendered, which have characterized the opening of the campaign against hostile Indians south of the Arkansas.’”

  Upon hearing the congratulations of the highest-ranking officer in the whole of the department, lusty cheers rang through the winter-cloaked meadow.

  “He goes on!” Custer shouted above the clamor.

  “‘For your bravery in the face of hostile fire, for your steadfastness in the face of bitter cold and conditions that deprived you of warmth and food for much of your campaign, I express my eternal gratitude to you, your officers, and your men. What is more, my dear friend Custer, you will have the eternal and benevolent gratitude of those very citizens of the frontier who are bringing the blessings of civilization to this wilderness, order out of c
haos. In summary, be assured my superiors, both Generals Grant and Sherman, have been apprised of the efficient and gallant services rendered by the Seventh Cavalry, U.S. Army, under the capable command of the late brevet Major-General of the Army of the Potomac, your most able Lt. Col. George A. Custer.

  By command of LIEUTENANT-GENERAL

  PHILIP H. SHERIDAN’

  “Scouts Milner and Corbin have rejoined our command. Besides some long-overdue letters from Fort Hays, they have some exciting news, gentlemen! They tell me this will be the last night you sleep on the trail. Tomorrow night … we’ll be quartered at Camp Supply!”

  That singular bit of news caused cheering that drove masses of blackbirds flapping from off their roosts in the skeletal trees. At the height of the clamor, Custer signaled Moylan and his standard bearer to follow as he whirled his dark stallion about, leading his columns from the snowy meadow.

  Mahwissa beamed maternally at Monaseetah. The young Cheyenne princess fluttered her eyes, embarrassed that she had been caught gazing hypnotically at the soldier chief.

  “Hiestzi is brave. A leader of strong men. One who can exhort and inspire.” All this Mahwissa said to the young woman beside her.

  “And he will make a fine husband for you. Many fine warrior sons will spring from the fire in his loins, Monaseetah.”

  Romero rode behind them, herding the captives like cattle, prodding and swearing at the prisoners in their own Cheyenne tongue, whipping the rumps of the Indian ponies that failed to move quickly enough to suit him.

  “My first child comes soon,” Monaseetah whispered. “From that dog of a husband I was made to marry in the shortgrass time.” Monaseetah pouted, her head hung in shame.

  “You are heavy with child?” Mahwissa asked, surprised.

  “It comes soon.”

  “I did not know this when I married you to the soldier chief.”

  “I kept it a secret after my father ransomed me back from the bad husband.”

  “But you do not show!” The old woman’s eyes narrowed on Monaseetah’s belly, well hidden beneath the folds of her red blanket.