Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1

by Terry C. Johnston

  “He doesn’t figure they need protecting, General,” Cheyenne Jack replied. “He just wants to make sure Kiowa camps aren’t butchered like Black Kettle’s.”

  “Black Kettle’s! We followed a trail of a hundred war ponies straight to the heart of his village!”

  “A hundred warriors in Black Kettle’s village? If that don’t smell of horseshit! Black Kettle’s band hasn’t counted a hundred warriors since Sand Creek almost wiped his little band out for good.”

  Custer slapped a gloved fist into a palm. “Suppose you tell me what’s going on with Hazen and his Kiowa!”

  “Love to, General. But, I don’t know any more than what I see with my own eyes.”

  “And that is?”

  “Kiowa rode in some time back, telling what happened upriver to Black Kettle’s camp. Last fall Hazen hoped the tribes would come to Fort Cobb for safety. But you caught the Cheyenne hunkered for the winter.”

  Clark watched Custer’s eyes narrow.

  “Hazen protecting his wards, eh?” Custer snapped.

  “Looks that way.”

  “And now he’s got the Kiowa under his wing? After they sent warriors north to rape and pillage and burn and kill? Right?”

  “Hazen doesn’t figure the Kiowa had a thing to do with that.”

  “I’m sure Hazen doesn’t!” Custer scowled, once again scanning the message from the commander of Fort Cobb. “What’s he mean the Kiowa will tell me where the Cheyenne and Arapaho are?”

  “Cheyenne and Arapaho are assigned to Fort Cobb by treaty, General.”

  “By treaty, you say? Seems that Hazen’s wards didn’t stay at home this past summer, did they?”

  “If you mean that Hazen’s to keep the tribes under his thumb at all times, watching every move they make across the seasons—you’re poking into a blind hole there. Hazen isn’t here to wet-nurse a single band of these Indians. It’s his job to prevent the trouble that you enjoy stirring up.”

  “How dare you lecture me on army policy!” Custer sputtered.

  Cheyenne Jack straightened. “I ain’t lecturing, General. You asked the questions. I answered ’em. Now, I’m all talked out.”

  The messenger tugged on the reins, backing his Indian pony from the crescent cluster of scouts.

  “Wait! You just hold on there!” Custer shouted, nudging his horse forward until he sat opposite the half-breed. “These Kiowa know where the escaping Cheyenne and Arapho are?”

  “That’s what Hazen told you, ain’t it?”

  “I take it they aren’t nearby?”

  “General, you hit the mark on that one.”

  Custer flicked his eyes to his scouts. “You hit the nail on the head this time around, boys.”

  The half-breed perked up, curious. “How’s that?”

  “We already learned the tribes had split up, didn’t we, fellas?” Custer said. “So all we had to do was find out which band of murderers went where. My scouts told me the Kiowa headed down here to Fort Cobb. We just needed you to confirm where the Cheyenne are headed.”

  Cheyenne Jack’s dark eyes slewed over Custer’s scouts. “Sounds like you know it all but the shouting.”

  “You’re riding back to Fort Cobb now?” Custer asked, his eyes accusing.

  “Shortly.”

  “You’ll report to General Hazen?”

  “Like I said.”

  “Be sure you get it right, then. That’s Philip H. Sheridan, Commander, Department of the Missouri. And George Armstrong—”

  “Custer, of the Seventh Cavalry.” Cheyenne Jack smiled, a lick of humor crossing his face. “I won’t forget you, General.”

  With that the half-breed wheeled his horse. He turned in the saddle to holler over his shoulder, “Won’t anyone ever forget George Armstrong Custer and his Seventh U.S. Cavalry.”

  CHAPTER 17

  BY the time the soldiers had camped that afternoon of the seventeenth, the Osage trackers had located the Kiowa camps. From their brown lodges oily smoke raked across the sky a few miles north of Fort Cobb along the icy Washita. Custer figured it was time to let Sheridan in on how Hazen had been protecting the very tribes he had been sent to punish.

  Sheridan fumed when Custer told him the commander of Fort Cobb had made government wards of the guilty Kiowa.

  “Seems he promised the chiefs that if they camped near Fort Cobb they’d be safe!”

  Sheridan’s Irish temper boiled furiously. “Damn is hide! That bastard’s got my hands tied, Custer!”

  “Got your hands tied?”

  “When you brought me news upon your return to Camp Supply—that you’d found evidence in Black Kettle’s village that his band had received annuities—I passed word on to division H.Q. I wanted Sherman to know you found them in a hostile village.”

  “What’s this got to do with Hazen and the Kiowa?”

  “Goddammit, Custer! Can’t you see? I’m made to punish the Indians Hazen is instructed to feed!”

  “Sherman?”

  “Sherman would have no part of such idiocy! Goddamned Indian Bureau. Time you realized this, Custer. They wear the pants these days over at the War Department. And when they run the War Department, they run Sherman.” Sheridan slammed a fist down on his field desk, scattering papers and maps. “Something must be done to end this insanity.”

  “You’re saying on one hand the government’s told to feed and present gifts to those murderers, while the other hand is ordered to hunt them down and shoot them all.”

  Again, the hero of the Shenandoah drove a fist onto his field desk. “I’m ordered to fight these goddamned savages while Hazen feeds the beggars. Even shelters them in the shadows of his post! We’ll just have to find a way around Hazen.”

  “A way around Hazen?”

  “Bastard’s got me trapped. I can’t burn him, Custer,” Sheridan moaned. “As an officer, I’m obligated by Sherman to honor Hazen’s command here in the Territories.”

  “But you’re his superior!”

  “Best you start to realize the army has two fathers when it marches into Indian Territory: Sherman and Grant on the one hand,” Sheridan said, gazing at his boots, “and the Indian Bureau on the other.”

  “Hazen takes his orders from civilians?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “I must protest! To bring my command all this way, and now you tell me I’m forced to fight with one hand tied behind my back? I’ve got the Kiowa right where we want them. I can punish them now. Attack! The Nineteenth Kansas is itching for a good scrap. They feel cheated, you understand.”

  “Cheated?”

  “They weren’t in on the Washita battle.”

  Sheridan knitted his dark brows. He grappled with the problem a moment longer before speaking. “I must give the Kiowa a chance—”

  “A chance, sir? Why not give the Nineteenth Kansas a chance for glory?”

  “Goddamn your hide, Armstrong!” Sheridan’s black eyes were full of sudden fire. “You’re the impetuous one. Can’t you see for once that this is something even bigger than you? Hell, even your friend Phil Sheridan couldn’t protect you if you galloped off into that Kiowa camp and wiped them out.

  “Who the hell do you think saved you from reassignment to some dead-end, no-account, chair-jockey job when your year of court-martial was up?”

  “I had no idea—”

  “You don’t enjoy much favor back in the War Department, Custer. Mind you that! Grant himself wonders why he had to spend so much time explaining his fair-haired Boy General who shoots deserters without trial. When Grant and old Bill Sherman start peering over your shoulder, you’d best watch your backside.”

  “But one swift blow here!”

  “Oh, shut up, Custer. This isn’t the Shenandoah. Don’t you realize the hour has come and gone when you and I can move freely, without shackles in this army?”

  “I thought we were to punish the tribes.”

  “Time you learned about the world. You listen to me and listen good, because
I’ll say it once. This whole winter campaign’s got nothing to do with these blessed Indians. If they all starved to death, I wouldn’t give a goddamn. What it’s about is you. I designed this campaign for George Armstrong Custer. You’re here this winter on probation. Oh, the little bastards with all their braid back in Washington didn’t want you to know that, but there it is. I talked and talked and finally convinced them that this winter campaign needed someone with your abilities. We don’t want you to think. You’re paid to follow orders. Not go charging off. I did my best for you as a friend. But you’d better understand—you’ve been handed your last chance to make something of your military career.”

  Sheridan let that sink in a moment while he drew the withered stub of a cigar to his lips. “That shit about you chasing back after Libbie without permission the way you did—and shooting deserters! You almost bungled yourself right into some dead-end command. With no chance to crawl out of the hole you’d buried yourself in.”

  Custer remained silent, staring at his boots. For the first time in their long relationship, he couldn’t look Sheridan in the eye. “What is it you’d have me do, General?” His voice had that clear, controlled ring to it.

  “From this day forward, you’ll never question a command given you, nor waver from it. Is that understood?”

  “Understood, General.”

  “Armstrong, can’t you see I need you to keep your nose clean? If you botch things now, they’ll reassign you. I need you here with me.”

  “Yessir.”

  “There’s this matter of the Kiowa now, Custer.” Sheridan turned to his field desk, where he glanced at a slip of foolscap on which he had been scribbling some plans of operation. “We’ll talk with these Kiowa first.”

  “Talk them into returning their prisoners?”

  “If there are any left alive,” Sheridan growled. “I’d love to hang a few of those bastards for what they did to Mrs. Blinn and her boy.”

  “From what you’ve told me, that would only get us in more trouble back east.”

  “You’re learning, aren’t you?” Sheridan slapped a paternal hand on Custer’s shoulder. “For the time being, we’ll try talking with them. Surround the villages in the event our parley fails. You must exhaust all diplomatic means before using any firepower.”

  “Diplomacy with murderers, sir?”

  “That’s what Washington asks of us, Custer. You’re a soldier, and a soldier—”

  “Follows orders.”

  “I know to some it might seem futile,” Sheridan said. “But you concentrate on one thing and one thing only until this campaign’s over.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The white captives these red bastards kidnapped. You remember them. When you eat and when you sleep. You think about those poor women and what they’re going through at the hands of the savages. And remember that it rests in your hands to free them. Destroying one village after another won’t win you favor back in Washington. Freeing those captives will.”

  “And Washington is the key to my promotion.”

  Sheridan smiled that Irish smile of his. “Now you understand how the game’s played.”

  “Got a good teacher in Philip H. Sheridan.”

  “Before this winter campaign’s over, Custer—we’ll wrangle that promotion out of those bastards back east. We’ll make you colonel and get you your own regiment if we have to hog-tie President Grant himself.”

  When Custer came face to face with the great Kiowa war chief Satanta, both men led armies itching for battle.

  After deciding not to join Medicine Arrow, Satanta fumed at the arrogance of the Yellow Hair in following the Kiowa like a hunting dog trailing wounded, bleeding quarry, knowing full well those pony soldiers on his back trail were capable of destroying his villages at will.

  On the other hand, Custer remained bitter, licking his own wounds. More than anything, he had wanted to capitalize on the Washita victory, taking the war into the Kiowa strongholds. No matter what any man might say about him, Custer had learned exactly what the Indian warrior understood best. Sheer might. War itself.

  Blood was a common language understood by all peoples.

  Custer’s horse pawed at the crusty ground.

  “Joe—” His eyes found Milner. “Take Corbin, Clark, and Romero. Maybe the Mexican can help Clark interpret Kiowa for me.”

  “What you got in mind, General?” Romero asked.

  “Ride to the middle of the clearing and wait there. Appears they brought their head men with them this morning. Go find out when I can parley with Satanta and the others.”

  “Lookee there, will you?”

  Custer whirled. From the far side of the clearing two warriors left the main body, heading down a short, gentle slope heading from the trees into the bottom of the bowl.

  “Time to earn your pay, Joe.”

  Milner grinned within his greasy beard. “Looks like the curtain’s going up on this road show at last, General. ’Bout damned time.”

  Custer gazed at the two crossing the windswept meadow. “Couldn’t agree more.”

  “I think it best you send just two of us out to meet them fellas,” Milner advised sullenly.

  “Because they’ve sent two?”

  “Right.” Milner nodded. “Make a good show of the soldier chief’s intentions.”

  “All right.” Custer sighed. “Joe, looks like you and Romero will be the ones. Go find out when I can meet with the chiefs.”

  “They’ll keep us as far away from their village as they can, General,” Romero said. “Won’t be anxious to talk to you with their women and kids around.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Custer glanced over his shoulder to check on his troops snaking their way down the river some distance behind his advance party. “We won’t push any farther till our command can support us.”

  Better than a mile back, those long, dark columns of Seventh Cavalry and Nineteenth Kansas Volunteers had begun to reach the high ground north of the river. They made an impressive show of it snaking against the white tableland. Every bit as impressive, however, were the warriors backing the two delegates descending into the frosty meadow.

  “Better than five hundred warriors, by my count, General,” Clark said.

  Back and forth across the hills loped the Kiowa decked out in full war regalia. Their songs of war and profane challenge crackled through the air, which was heavy with the excitement of impending battle. Waving aloft their rifles and lances, bows and shields, even a blind man could tell the young warriors weren’t the least bit interested in suing for peace.

  What really concerned Custer were those warriors hanging back among the trees ringing the meadow. With him now were enough men to make a good stand of it should the need suddenly arise: Lieutenant Pepoon’s fifty-man squad of civilians, Osage, and Kaw scouts, every man-jack of them armed and expecting a surprise if not outright treachery from the Kiowa. Captains Myers and Yates waited with Lieutenant Tom Custer. And beside the younger Custer sat reporter DeBenneville Randolph Keim, never straying far from center stage on Custer’s winter campaign.

  Custer settled on his McClellan saddle as his scouts reined up before the two warriors. All four moved their arms and hands, conversing in prairie sign.

  In less than a minute, the scouts headed back toward Custer’s group at a lope.

  “I don’t like the looks of that, General,” Clark said.

  “What’s gone wrong, Ben?”

  “Maybe nothing at all, General. Just figure they should’ve talked longer.”

  “By Jupiter!” Custer growled. “The truce break down? Is that why they’re coming back here at a gallop?” Custer wheeled, feeling the hairs prick along the back of his neck. “Cover ’em, men! Watch the bloody trees. I don’t like the smell of this.”

  Behind him rose the familiar clatter of men checking the loads in their weapons, unsnapping the mule-eared holsters, resettling their cold rumps on their colder saddles. Itchy. Itchier still as the two sco
uts came skidding back beside Custer.

  “You won’t believe this, General!” Milner yelled, yanking his mule up in a snowy cascade.

  “Don’t try me, Milner! I’m in no mood for your humor.”

  “Those two back there seem upset with you,” Romero explained. “They weren’t about to talk with us. Want to see the pony soldier chief himself.”

  “Smells like a trap, Autie,” Tom Custer said, inching closer. “Look at ’em. Just laying for you, waiting to get you in their claws.”

  Custer glanced at his younger brother. “Does have the foul smell of a trap, doesn’t it, Tom?” Then he looked at Milner and Romero. “Why’re you two grinning like coon hounds on the scent?”

  “Them red niggers ain’t planning no ambush, General,” Milner answered.

  “With my own eyes I can see two warriors sitting there as bait for me—”

  “Them two ain’t no everyday warriors, General,” Milner interrupted. That’s the head boys of the Kiowa nation sitting out there, waiting to talk with you personal. That’s ol’ Satanta and Lone Wolf themselves!”

  All eyes in Custer’s group focused on the two horsemen in the center of the snowy bowl. One of the Indian ponies pawed at the frozen ground anxiously. Its rider brought the pony under control.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Crosby?”

  “Yes?” The older officer, dressed in blue and a buffalo-hide greatcoat, nudged his horse forward beside Custer. Sheridan’s aide-de-camp was, as always, impeccably attired. Regulation army.

  “It would please me if you came along with me to meet these warrior chiefs as General Sheridan’s personal emissary.”

  J. Schuyler Crosby studied the pair of Indians. “Colonel Custer, believe me—it’d be an honor, sir.”

  “Very good. Mr. Keim? Care to go along? Recording first-hand what occurs for your readers back east?”

  Bobbing his head eagerly, the young newspaperman tapped heels to his mount, joining Romero. “You’ll never have to ask a question like that twice, General Custer!”

  “Fine.” Custer let his eyes touch every one of those who would accompany him into the meadow. “Gentlemen, be aware that our lives might be at forfeit in but a twinkling of an eye. Check your weapons. Have them ready. Understood?”