Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1

by Terry C. Johnston

  “She and I,” he explained, “cannot have children. Long have we tried. It is not to be.”

  She gazed up at his sunburned face, his bushy eyebrows burnished red-gold like the summer-burned grasses before the first autumn frost. Already little wrinkles marked the corners of his eyes like heron tracks on the wet sands of a riverbank. She wanted their child to have his eyes.

  “Perhaps, because this wife of yours cannot have children, Yellow Hair thinks he cannot have children.”

  “We have tried for so long.”

  “This woman with the pale skin—she is the one who cannot bear a child.”

  He looked at her strangely. “How can you be so sure of this?”

  Instead of speaking, Monaseetah took his rough hand and guided it to her soft, rounded hip, gliding it across to the mound of her belly. The little life within kicked against its father’s touch.

  He yanked his hand away, afraid. Shaking his head. Refusing to believe.

  “It is true, Yellow Hair. This is your child. He moves for you now—to show you.”

  “This cannot be my child.”

  “Your wife cannot bear a child, Yellow Hair—but your loins are strong. Her body is dead inside, shriveled like a dry, brittle flower—hardened against the coming of winter. My body is made to give life to children. Your children, Yellow Hair.”

  She took his hand, placed it on her belly. “I am meant to carry your child. My body is dark and fertile, like the soil. Many times you dropped your seed on that fertile ground.”

  “Stop it!”

  As he said it, he knew she told the truth. The many times he had crawled atop her young body, taking his pleasure there. Now, it was all jumbled inside him: the relief of knowing he could have a child, the fear of having a child of his own, the fear of Libbie finding out. Always the fear …

  He looked at her. Afraid most of all of losing Monaseetah.

  “I wanted Yellow Hair happy with this news,” she pleaded.

  “Happy? Yes, I am happy. You are sure? I am the child’s father?” As he said it, he saw the wounded fawn in her eyes.

  “There is no doubt in my heart, Yellow Hair. You have been the only one. No other seed but Yellow Hair’s grows within me.”

  He ran his palm over her belly, feeling it tumble in response to his touch. “It moves … so much.”

  “More than my first child,” she replied. “It could have no other father. This little one moves as you do.”

  “Like his father.”

  “Your child will be born in the Moon of Black Calves. The moon when the buffalo born in spring finally shed their coats of red.”

  “Fall?”

  “Before Hoimaha comes to lay a blanket of white across the prairie with his vengeance upon the land.” She laid her hand atop his. “I am five moons now. This child is halfway to greeting its father, Yellow Hair.”

  “It comes so soon.”

  His brow knitted as he paused, considering, brooding. He must find some way to return her to the Cheyenne reservation before she grew so large there would be questions. Besides, he told himself, she will be much safer there among her own people. And he would be safer with her having their child away from white eyes.

  “I must find a way to return you to your people,” he told her.

  “But I am with my people. And you are here. I will stay.”

  “No, it is for the best. This child cannot be born among the white men. I fear for its safety.”

  “Someone would harm our child?”

  “Perhaps.” Custer sighed. “Among the Cheyenne, children of many colors are adopted all the time. As Romero was when he was a child.”

  “Yes, I understand that.”

  “But it is different among whites. To them, our child would be nothing more than a half-breed.” He did not like the taste of that word on his tongue.

  “He would not live well in your world, Yellow Hair?”

  “Far better that he grow up Indian, among those who will accept him.”

  “Your people would harm our child?” Her eyes filled with fear.

  “He might be a curiosity for a time. The half-breed child of Yellow Hair, the great Indian fighter.”

  “If the child is a girl?”

  “She would be treated poorly. Perhaps used by some man, then discarded.”

  “If our child is Yellow Hair’s son …”

  “Worse yet. He would not be allowed to be his own man. He would always be threatened by men who thought less of him because of his Indian blood. Especially those who wanted to attack me by attacking my son. He would never be his own person, but instead a spirit without a home.”

  There was but one choice. Monaseetah had to leave for the reservation and raised their child among the Cheyenne.

  “Monaseetah, it rests with you to see that our child grows strong.”

  He clutched her shoulders more tightly than ever before. She winced in pain beneath the iron of his grip.

  “What of you, Yellow Hair? Will you come see your child?”

  Custer sensed something more painful than fear in her voice. “I will come see my child. Before he grows to be a man.”

  “When will I see you next?”

  “I will come soon. I must hurry, to plan the return of your people to their reservation. Sooner than I had hoped. I did not want you to go.”

  At the gate, she looked for prying eyes before taking Custer’s freckled hand in hers, again pressing his palm against her belly.

  “See?” she giggled softly. “The little one kicks for you.”

  “This second child, Monaseetah—will it be a boy?”

  She closed her eyes, as if heeding some mystical voice within her. “Yes, Yellow Hair will have a son.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “HEY, Autie!” Tom Custer stood with several other young officers, waving him over. “You gotta hear this story Yates is telling.”

  “Good to have you back from furlough, George,” Custer said to Yates. “How was Monroe?”

  “Perfect as ever, General. No better hometown in all this great land.”

  “What’s this story you were recounting for the boys?”

  “I was telling about California Joe. Soon as you mustered him out, he was determined to have a ride on a train. Bought a ticket east to Leavenworth. Watched him sitting at his window seat like a boy handed some penny candy, eyes big as a schoolhouse clock when that steam whistle blew and they dumped sand under the wheels. He must’ve figured that was about the grandest thing he’d ever done—getting pulled along without mule nor horse.”

  “You rode east with him?”

  “Not exactly. Bumped onto him in Hays City when I laid over for an hour of switching engines. Found him right in front of Drum’s Saloon—or maybe it was John Bitter’s place.”

  The staccato of pounding hooves drew their attention down company row.

  “General Custer!”

  Three horsemen galloped up to the group, horses lathered.

  The sergeant among them saluted. “Danged happy to catch up with you. Begging pardon, sir.”

  The mounts snorted and stamped, prancing sideways, fractious with the closeness of so many men on foot.

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “There’s been a disturbance among the prisoners, sir.”

  “Prisoners?”

  The sergeant nodded, catching his breath. “The three chiefs calling for Ouchess. Colonel Miles says they mean you.”

  Tom stepped up. “That’s Cheyenne for Creeping Panther.”

  “What about the prisoners?” Custer asked.

  “Them three bucks you brought from the Sweetwater, sir. Fat Bear, Big Head, and Dull Knife. Been some stabbings. A little shooting too. Colonel Miles sent me to fetch you, sir.”

  “Moylan! Someone, bring me a fresh mount. Saddled or not—just bring me a horse!” He asked the sergeant, “Any other casualties?”

  “Can tell for sure, sir. Time I left, no one gone in the stockade. Injuns running all about
in there. No soldier would be safe to check on them Cheyenne, you see.”

  A horse was led to him. Custer lunged to the saddle in a fluid motion, pivoting the animal into the company street between rows of tents. With a leap, the horse wheeled and galloped away, followed by the sergeant, caught by surprise at Custer’s sudden departure.

  Clouds of yellow dust burst from the hooves as Custer haunch-slid the animal to a halt on the sun-baked parade near the prisoner stockade. His pale eyes scanned the milling captives for some sign of Monaseetah. Tossing the reins to a nearby trooper, he started to dart away when Miles called out “Custer!”

  “Colonel! What in tunket’s going on here?”

  “The prisoners—”

  “Anyone killed?” Custer stammered, anxious.

  “Don’t know for sure.”

  “How the devil did it start?”

  “Near as we make out, for days now the prisoners have been led to believe there were other Cheyenne in the area who’ve come up to rescue them from the stockade.”

  “Why, there’s not a bloody Cheyenne within a hundred miles of here!”

  “We know that! But the goddamned prisoners didn’t.” Miles ground his teeth a moment, watching Custer seethe. “Seems one of our Indian scouts thought he’d have some fun with the captives, so he started the rumor.”

  “Did the prisoners attempt to break out?”

  Miles shook his head. “When I learned of the goddamned rumor, I thought I should put the chiefs in the guardhouse, until things simmered down a bit.”

  Custer glanced over to the raw-boarded building. “You got them locked up?”

  “We didn’t get that far.”

  “What the blazes you mean?”

  “My sergeant who was escorting the chiefs never learned a word of Cheyenne, so he couldn’t explain things to the chiefs.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Goddammit, Custer! The chiefs thought we were taking them out to a hanging!”

  Custer shook his head. “So they decided to die like warriors rather than at the end of a rope. What happened?”

  “All hell broke loose. Squaws came up, surrounding the sergeant’s men and the chiefs. One of the soldiers put a bayonet against Dull Knife’s ribs, to prod him to the gate. But the old chief just stood there like a stone. They all watched as that bayonet pushed through the blanket into his ribs. As soon as the squaws saw blood on the old man’s blanket, the knives came out.”

  “Where’d they get weapons?”

  “Hell if I know. We didn’t search a damned one after they were brought north from Camp Supply. Could be they were mess knives sharpened on stones.”

  “Any of our men dead?”

  “Not yet. One sergeant gutted pretty bad. Lippincott tells me he may not see the morning.”

  “Any others?”

  “The lieutenant—officer of the day. He heard the commotion and came running. Got a knife in his neck for his trouble. Blood gushing over his tunic. All hell broke out. The troops fired across the compound.”

  “Dear God!”

  “In all the excitement, I’m glad no more than the one was killed.”

  “Killed? Who?” Custer grabbed Miles’s tunic.

  “A chief. Big Head, we believe. A bullet through the heart.”

  “But you don’t know if anyone else in there is bleeding or dead.”

  “No, that’s why I sent for you. Way they’re worked up, you’re the only one can go in there now.”

  “What about Fat Bear?”

  “Knocked out cold—a rifle butt to the jaw.”

  Custer dashed to the stockade gate. “Open up!” he called to the guards.

  “But General. I ain’t got orders—”

  “Open those gates or I’ll open up the side of your head!” He shoved aside the sergeant’s rifle. “The rest of you brave soldiers … What can those Cheyenne in there do to you boys out here—penned up as they are, like cattle for the slaughter?”

  The gate opened slightly at the sergeant’s urging. Custer dove through, hearing the clunk of wood on wood as the gate clattered shut behind him.

  “Custer!”

  He turned, finding Miles at the wall. “For God’s sake, come out until things simmer down.”

  “Things won’t simmer down on their own.”

  “Watch out, Custer!”

  Custer whirled at Miles’s warning. Cheyenne squaws crept toward him from all sides like sheep, their eyes wary, watchful of the soldiers at the stockade walls. Fear and panic glistened in every eye. Like the eyes of trapped animals.

  Two dozen ringed him, jabbering excitedly. He waved them quiet. “Monaseetah?”

  “She comes, Yellow Hair,” said one old woman, her earlobes tattered from earrings pulled out across the years.

  “She is hurt?”

  “No one saw her hurt,” another squaw answered.

  “Will the soldiers shoot us, Yellow Hair?”

  “We only protected our chiefs,” another explained.

  He said. “The soldiers will not kill you.”

  “It is true,” one old woman exhorted the others. “These soldiers will not shoot women down in cold blood like buffalo caught in a narrow valley.”

  “They came to hang our chiefs!” an old one shrieked.

  “No.” Custer pointed to the guardhouse across the parade. “They were taking your men to the little house.”

  He saw Monaseetah hurrying to him across the sun-baked compound. The women parted for her respectfully, as Yellow Hair’s woman.

  “You are safe?” he asked, clutching her shoulders.

  “I am not harmed.” A hand went to her belly. “Bullets close.” She pulled aside a flap of her blanket, the red one she had worn since that freezing morning beside the Washita.

  In a fold of the crimson wool he saw a shabby beam of sunlight pour through the bullet hole. Anger scraped across his bowels. Now, more than ever, he had to get her out of Hays. Far from here.

  An old woman shoved her way through the crowd, showing him three bullet holes in her blanket. With a gnarled finger she made a pistol, imitating the whistling bullets zinging around her during the fracus. “Ping! Ping!”

  “Yes,” he replied. “No more shooting now. No more—ever.”

  Monaseetah pressed against him. There were no easy answers to any of this. Yet, as a man hopes for spring in the cold heart of winter, he realized this tragedy held the solution he had been seeking. Now he could send her south.

  “There are no Indians coming to rescue you,” he explained. “Yellow Hair made you his prisoner. Only Yellow Hair can free you.”

  He gestured to Monaseetah. “Even she will tell you how Yellow Hair rode alone into the camp of the great Medicine Arrow. Yet no warrior touched a hair on my head.”

  Monaseetah nodded in agreement. Her gesture set the women wailing and keening. Tears slid down the deep crevices of their old faces. There was no escape.

  “Yellow Hair is mightier than all our warriors!” one old woman shrieked.

  “Mightier than our chiefs!” another wailed, ripping at her hair in mourning.

  One by one they wandered off to begin their self-mutilation for the dead and wounded. Slashing arms and legs, blood oozing into the sticky, red mud at their feet. They hacked at their hair and chopped off fingertips. Above it all hung a keening wail like a winter wind through dead and dying trees.

  “Where is the body of Big Head?” Custer asked her.

  “He is with Dull Knife,” Monaseetah said. “Come.”

  She pulled aside the flaps of the weather-grayed canvas wall tent for him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw women huddled on the floor, quietly sobbing. Blinking in the dust, Custer made out two chiefs laid upon blankets. Around each body was a cluster of old squaws.

  Custer knelt beside Big Head—this tall, gray-headed warrior he had determined to hold at all costs beside the Sweetwater. A winter day, so long ago. Bringing Big Head here, far from his people’s land …
and for what?

  He cursed himself for the foolishness of others.

  If a man is to die, shouldn’t he fall as he’s lived? As a warrior, protecting his homeland and the weak ones?

  This was the irony of Big Head’s death. Falling with no glory. A victim of folly and stupidity.

  Custer bent, touched Big Head’s brow where the women had painted his face with bear grease pigments. That touch was the closest thing to a Cheyenne prayer he could offer.

  With a sigh, he turned to Dull Knife.

  The old chief opened his thick-lidded, glazed eyes. Feebly, he waved, moving the old women back.

  “I am not dead yet,” he whispered with a fluid rasp.

  Custer recognized that unmistakable rattle in the old man’s chest, those flecks of pink foam dotting the Indian’s tongue. Death itself etched the old man’s weathered face.

  “We only wanted to—” Dull Knife hacked up bits of lung and blood, spitting them into a smelly rag an old woman held beside his wet lips. “Yellow Hair … we wanted to be guarded by your pony soldiers.”

  “Dull Knife must not work so hard,” Custer replied.

  The old Indian’s strength faded with every breath. The war chief smiled weakly. “The walk-a-heap soldiers did not know the signs to talk with us. These who have killed us this day will never know the sadness I feel for them.”

  Dull Knife hacked up more bits of lung into the red rag. “I feel more pity for the young soldiers who killed us than for my old friend Big Head. We were children together. We stole our first ponies together. Now these walk-a-heaps, mere children, have killed two old Dog Soldiers by accident.”

  “I promise you will be guarded by pony soldiers now.”

  “Yellow Hair promises this?” His glazed eyes narrowed.

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “Your word is worthless, Yellow Hair. You have cursed yourself. Medicine Arrow … all of us were there in his lodge when you cursed yourself.”

  “There is no curse!”

  Dull Knife tried to focus on those winter-blue eyes. Recalling a winter none of them had believed would ever end.….

  “Remember, Yellow Hair—attack a village of women and children, then you and all your children will die.”

  “We did not attack you today!” Custer argued.