by Tatjana Soli
TOM CUSTER
MY BROTHER’S OBSESSION
He took us out weeks too long, to the most barren desert prairie, drove us to the point that the skeletal horses fell over from exhaustion and lack of food. Far from considering this a loss we counted it a bonus as at least we’d have nourishment that night. After eating we were still every bit as hungry as before. The men were on the verge of mutiny until the Indian trail was found, and then as if by magic Armstrong was again hailed a hero. Not to my thinking, but I had learned the hard way to keep my mouth shut. The possibility of glory, like gold-fever, blinded men.
To his credit, Armstrong managed to negotiate the captives’ release without bloodshed. Once we had the women, we immediately headed to the closest fort. I’ll never forget the look of the soldiers on duty when we passed through the perimeter fence. A few men in undershirts on their way to the barber stopped to stare at us while still holding their bowls of lather.
We were a rough-looking bunch: half of us mounted, the other half walking as their horses had died underneath them; burned dark as Indians; our clothes in tatters; our boots fallen apart. We inspired apprehension.
What amazed me, though, was the appearance of the stationed soldiers. They had cheeks as full as pillows. I could not understand why they appeared puffy and bloated, why they moved so fast and spoke so loudly. It was as if the fort were under some spell. It gave me the most unnatural feeling. Only later did I realize that these men were not deformed at all, but it was we who had become the circus act. Cadaverous, filthy, weak, starved, the soldiers could not tell us apart one from another any more than one could tell apart skeletons on the prairie, which we had just missed becoming.
As I was about to comment on the strangeness in appearance of our hosts, I saw the mess tent where they were unpacking supplies. A great quantity of hard bread and sides of raw bacon were being laid out. We stood as one, enchanted, and then as one dove down on the supplies like a flock of ravenous buzzards. The men from the fort watched speechless as officers, soldiers, and even scouts stuffed their mouths alternately with bread and raw pork. We ate it all down to the last scrap. For the rest of the month the fort had to make do without either on its menu.
LLANO ESTACADO, THE PALISADED PLAIN
They left Indian Territory and kept heading west till they entered Texas then crossed into the Llano Estacado. They tracked the small hunting party for days, hanging back so as to not spook them. Custer’s theory was they were on their way to reunite with the larger mother village of Cheyenne, who were thumbing their nose at orders to appear on the reservation. The Indians would rather die in such desolate surroundings than change their warrior life for the threadbare existence of meager handouts, starvation, and disease that were rife on the reservations.
Custer understood their risking everything to leave. He would have done the same, and yet he was tasked with bringing them back.
Traveling through those empty spaces, stopping only for food and rest at night, he found the most satisfying way of life imaginable. The Indian would not willingly give up his ways any more than he, a cavalryman, would give up his. If either of them did, they would be much the poorer for it, their very heart eaten out of them.
He stared at his calendar, the grid of dates swimming meaningless before his eyes. These surroundings were beyond the reach of time or the commonplace rules of society. By his rusty calculation, he figured out it was his wedding anniversary.
To-day is our wedding anniversary. I am sorry we cannot spend it together, but I shall celebrate it in my breast.
With each passing mile the soldiers understood that they were attenuating their chance of rescue by supply train. Desperate, they decided to make contact. They galloped their horses into the Indian camp they had been trailing, taking possession of lodges, ponies, everything except for a single living Indian. The troops were mystified about how they had been discovered; it seemed an evil enchantment.
Then, a mile away, he spotted a party of Indians on horseback, heading straight at them at a full run. He called for a charge, and his men raced across the desertscape. When they were within a few hundred yards, the Indians morphed into the decaying carcasses of half a dozen buffalo, given number and movement by the effect of the mirage. It was as if the land plucked the wants and fears from their minds and projected them out on the landscape.
No clue appeared on the ground to lead them forward, nothing except faith and hopelessness, which came close to being the same thing in such perilous times. Then an Osage guide espied the track of a lone travois pole scratching the earth like a plowshare. The man reluctantly offered the discovery, torn between duty and self-preservation.
They tracked as if they were following the ancient swish of a dinosaur tail. Many of the officers cursed that it was a wild-goose chase, the path figured to be a month old if not more. Custer knew the ways of the Indian, no one stayed alone for long in such country, solitariness equaling death. He took private council with Golden Buffalo, who agreed with his assessment. There was a chance that this lone straggler was hurrying to meet up with other members of his tribe. He browbeat the men into another few days of tracking before he would agree to turn back.
Sunset found the troop at a small stream. There was evidence of the single trail being joined by two or three others. The dusted circles of lodges could be seen. The men became reenergized, their recent hardship forgotten, and looked more kindly on his demands.
He sent for Monahsetah to examine the remains of a campfire, which confirmed that the single hunting party had joined others like rivulets joining together and forming a stream, which itself would be traveling to join a greater river. She guessed the camp was at most two weeks old.
Studying the ground, she looked off into the distance, then followed a trail off into the desert. Behind a small swell lay the decayed body of a warrior.
—What did he die of? Custer asked.
Monahsetah dispassionately examined the body and at last seemed satisfied.
—Horse fall. He must have broke his neck. He died before he starved.
Custer nodded.
—Maybe the horse was crazy, she added.
—Crazy?
—When I was a girl, my best friend rode her brother’s horse one day while we were on trail. Something spooked him, and he took off. She had not fastened her saddle tight enough. She slipped off but caught her foot in the stirrup. He dragged her to her death. Her father was so angry when he heard his daughter was gone, he came with a gun to the herd, picked the horse out, and shot it.
—That must have scared you. A bad horse.
—The horse wasn’t bad. He was crazy.
* * *
HE WONDERED AT MONAHSETAH’S HELP—leading them to her people to convince them to go to the reservation. She said that it was better than to be made war on. She was a pragmatist, a trait he recognized in himself. That night they ate in his tent, and after he finished his reports and letters, they bedded down with just as much appetite. It was a delight to be with a woman who didn’t need looking after. His Libbie quaked with every small scare. Not this girl. She rode as well as the men and was a better shot. When he looked down into her eyes he could not guess her thoughts but prepared to one night feel a blade lift his scalp from his head.
She lay on buffalo robes at night, lamplight gilding flesh, her voice a lullaby in his ears.
—You ride like a man. Who taught you? he asked.
—My father.
—Not husband?
She shook her head.
—You must learn to ride young to be comfortable on a horse.
—Why did you marry your husband if you didn’t want him?
—He saved me.
—Saved?
She stretched and rolled like a cat. She loved to tell stories of her life, even if it was to him.
—I was a girl. Eight or so. The village was moving. It was a very hot day.
* * *
A GROUP OF FIVE GIRLS rode behind the tr
avois, taking their time, when they saw the cool water of a stream beckon not far off. Time was short, the rest of the village was getting farther and farther away, yet they decided to plunge into the water so they could ride wet, cooled by the moving air. They led their horses into the water so they could drench themselves and water the horses at the same time to save precious minutes.
They were silly girls, always up to pranks, and Monahsetah dared her best friend to go underneath and see who could hold her breath the longest. The winner could pick anything of the loser’s to use for a day.
Monahsetah recalled the dark and cold beneath the surface, and when a mysterious underwater woman appeared, she was not in the least surprised. Instead of being scared, the girl wanted to know who the water witch was, and why she had appeared. Suddenly there was pulling on her arms, the other girls dragging her to the riverbank, saying she had won long ago.
Her friend stood on the bank, laughing, water dripping off her.
—What do you want of mine? she asked.
—I wish to ride your horse the rest of the day.
The girls’ mouths dropped open.
Monahsetah was the princess among them, already with an offer of marriage when she came of age. Her father had refused the warrior, saying the girl would decide for herself when she was old enough. Chief Little Rock doted on his daughter, giving her one of his best horses, a tall chestnut that ran like flame through dry grass. Her friend had an old, swaybacked white mare who moved slowly. Acts such as this were common from Monahsetah, though, used to deflect the envy she would have otherwise received. She did not have to ask twice. Her friend sprang up on her horse’s back and left.
The afternoon was hot and the water so refreshing, Monahsetah sat in the water longer, laughing at her friend’s haste. After the other girls left, she decided to use the occasion to bathe, and she pulled off her wet clothing and splashed herself. The water felt good on her bare skin. Such delay didn’t worry her, as she was used to her own horse, who could catch up easily. Now, mounting the old mare, her miscalculation was obvious.
Her friends were far ahead of her when they all noticed a large herd of buffalo moving quickly up the valley, right in between the girls and their disappearing village.
The herd was shaped like a long anvil, narrow at the head and much wider farther on. The end could not be seen and probably stretched out a great distance. Her friends galloped for all they were worth to reach their families. Monahsetah put her heels to the horse, at once realizing her mistake. The mare’s trot was as fast as a slow walk by any other animal, but still Monahsetah hoped she might catch up if the poor animal’s heart didn’t give out.
She whipped the horse, with the plan to get across the narrow tip before they got caught in the stampede. Something had spooked the herd into running—they were moving as fast as she had ever seen—and nothing would stop it. If she and the mare got caught in the center and couldn’t keep up, they would be trampled to death. This happened routinely to young and old buffs, but also to anything unlucky enough to get caught in the stampede’s path.
Instead of speeding up with the abuse, the old mare gave up all effort and moved slower as the herd bore down on them.
Monahsetah lost sight of her friends, her retreating village, and even the sky and sun went dark. There was only the herd. A dark, overwhelming mass of power, and she was caught in the center of it. She couldn’t focus because everything was in motion. The air was bitter and on fire, her breath tore from her lungs. Her nose filled with the oily reek of a thousand buffs close packed. Light-headed, she dropped the reins of the mare and felt herself slipping off. A buffalo pressed against the horse, and she pushed off its side to right herself. She was crying, the darkness blurred, and her ears deafened with awful roaring as if the earth were being ripped apart.
The mare turned to run along with the herd, at last understanding that otherwise she would be gored. Even at her utmost, she moved at half the speed of the animals around her, continually hit and bounced from side to side. Soon the mare would drop in exhaustion, and they would both be trampled to pieces. Monahsetah did not expect to see her family again.
She did not know how long she clung on to the mare’s mane, crouched over her neck, but her arms and legs ached. It was clear that they would go under long before the end of the herd was reached. Dizzy with fear, she closed her eyes and in that moment felt herself lifted off the mare’s back. Was it the mysterious woman from underwater? More likely it was a buffalo. Perhaps even now the animal was preparing to gore her on one of its horns, but as Monahsetah went limp she felt something grab around her waist. She moved through the air slowly, legs behind her as if swimming. Opening her eyes, she saw the mare had stopped, legs buckling, but Monahsetah was no longer on her. Instead she was in the arms of the young warrior, sixteen years old, who had asked for her in marriage. Skillfully he moved them across the herd to its edge, and they broke free.
* * *
—AFTER THAT, I agreed to marry him when I turned fifteen. He had proved himself a brave protector.
Custer ran a finger up and down her arm. The implication of the story was clear. Also the fact that when said husband later failed her, she did not hesitate to shoot him in the leg and leave.
* * *
LIKE A DOG on the scent of a fox, the troops mounted with more eagerness the next morning, and within a few hours came upon another recently abandoned camp, this one increasing in size to twenty-five lodges. Monahsetah was pleased by her detective work. Feeling secure, the Indian hunting party moved leisurely in their progress, figuring no one was crazy enough to pursue them into such inhospitable terrain.
Coming off the alkali flats to a high, grassy plateau, the cavalry was within a day of the camp, which had swollen to three or four hundred lodges, the embers of fires still glowing. The men declared Custer a seer and cheered him with their cups.
The last night, he permitted only small supper fires to be lit, and once the food was cooked they were quickly smothered in damp earth to prevent smoke ascending.
The next day the guides found the expected Indian pony herd. Custer rode in advance with a small guard to alert the sentry wolves posted. Hoping that this indeed was the Cheyenne camp with the captive women, he was at pains to call a parley before his troops caught up to him. The danger of a random shot from either side was too high. He had learned from Washita that it would lead to the captives’ murder. To signal a truce he rode in a circle and then in a zigzag toward the bluffs on which the Indians waited. Soon a party of twenty warriors rode out to him.
His main body of troops still a mile away, he signed for a single one of the party to advance to meet him. The two exchanged handshakes, each taking the measure of the other. He requested an audience with the head chief, Medicine Arrows. As they waited, the party of twenty approached closer. He objected and they backed off. Finally Medicine Arrows arrived, his face wrinkled and worn as old shoe leather. They exchanged suspicious greetings.
The retired party used the distraction of the chief’s arrival to press forward again. They now surrounded Custer as the chief demanded to know how many soldiers followed, the number clearly determining whether Custer would be quickly dispatched with a tomahawk or treated as an honored guest. As the number was enough—he doubled it for good measure—Medicine Arrows requested him to follow to the village, assuring their peaceful intentions. The canny chieftain hid his displeasure at having been found in such desolated parts.
In the chief’s lodge, a pipe was presented for him to smoke down. Much speechifying on their part followed, only partly understood because Golden Buffalo was back with the advancing troops. Custer omitted the rude observation that the tribe had clearly broken their pledge to move to the reservation, that their very presence was provocation. In friendship he requested to make suitable camp close to the village. The chief led him to a professed choice spot that yet was quite distant.
As his troops rode in to make camp, joined by the supply train, one
hundred Indians chose that importune moment to pay a visit. All were armed with rifles, pistols, bows and arrows, as well as sturdy knives. They performed various feats of horsemanship, then went on to serenade with musical instruments and song.
While the entertainments dragged on, observers reported back what Custer expected—the village, in great calamity, was packing up. The pony herd had been drawn in, the lodges were in the process of being torn down, and women and children were fleeing in haste. His command was ready to put a halt to the treachery and was surprised when he did not give the order to pursue.
Instead he instructed Tom with a contingent of soldiers to surround their circle of visitors in as unobtrusive a manner as possible, aware that any precipitate movement would result in bloodshed.
After the decoy show ended, he allowed the majority of the Indians to leave until only a few senior chiefs and warriors remained whom he had bribed to stay with the promise of a whiskey nightcap. These, he calmly informed, were now permanent guests of the U.S. Cavalry. In other words, they were under arrest. They would be treated well despite their attempted duplicity in trying to distract the soldiers while their village escaped. They would be held until the release of the two captives and the pledged return of the Cheyenne to their assigned reservation.
As expected, the reaction was much outrage and showboating, with a firm denial of the existence of any captives. The younger warriors called for bloodshed while the older men and chiefs urged patience. Custer wanted patience, too. He must be turning into an old man.