by Sharon Ihle
"I told you," Jacob said quietly. He was out of options, and he knew what he had to do now. Harboring no regrets, thinking only of his promise to Dominique, he admitted, "All I know I learned from the Lakota themselves. I have lived among them for almost twenty winters. They are my family."
Custer's heart began to pound as he studied the man for signs of deceit. He could find none. "That's just ridiculous. I don't believe you for a minute."
"I have spoken the truth. I ask only that you send your men back to the fort and let my people go. There is no need for bloodshed."
"I make the decisions around here," Custer said, his arrogance overriding his uncertainty. "And I think you've gone crazy, running scout for me so much. That's not so unusual." He wiped a damp palm across his mustache and went on. "I'm going to make it easy on you and have you sent back to the Far West. You can accompany the wounded back to the fort, with no questions asked. I'm offering you a way out, Private. You'd best take it."
"And you, sir, had best listen to what I have to say. Retreat while there's still time."
Custer stared at the private, his mind spinning with possibilities. There was something here, some little thing he ought to believe, but what was it? What if the madman was telling the partial truth? Maybe he did have some kind of friendship with the Sioux, Custer suddenly thought, but what if his warnings were meant to protect the hostiles because there were so few instead of so many lodges waiting on the banks of the Little Bighorn?
His confidence again on the rise, Custer raised his chin. "Thank you for the information, Private. I'll be sure to consider all you've told me here. In the meantime, I'm going to have to place you under arrest. When we return to Fort Lincoln, you will be subject to a general court-martial."
"Fool," Jacob spat, down to his last chance of convincing the bullheaded soldier of what he faced. He grabbed a handful of the general's shirt and hauled him close to his face. "If you attack the Lakota, you will also attack your own flesh and blood. Dominique lives. She is with these savages, as you call them."
Custer's naturally pale skin blanched even further as he listened. Then he drew his snub-nosed revolver and drove it into Jacob's throat. "Take your hands off me, Private."
Jacob released the material, but didn't move, didn't avert his suddenly menacing gaze.
"You've made a lot of mistakes here tonight, Private," Custer went on between clenched teeth. "But one of the biggest was even mentioning the name of my niece in connection with this wild tale about the Sioux."
"I am sorry you feel that way," Jacob answered, his jaw tight. "But I thought you might want to know she is well and happy, and will soon be caught in your gunfire."
"Lies," Custer spat, "all lies. Dominique, even if she is alive, couldn't be happy in a Sioux village. Do you take me for an idiot? Now tell me the truth. If you have seen her, tell me when and where, soldier. I want the truth now, and that's an order."
A hot glare of loathing passed through Jacob's eyes, shook his thick body down to his boots, before he was able to say, "I have most recently seen her—alive and happy—in my very own lodge." Without thinking, he recklessly added, "I have taken Dominique as my woman."
Custer buried the barrel of the gun into Jacob's throat. "You son of a bitch," he screamed, grinding his teeth. "Take that back this minute or I'll blow your damn head off."
"Go ahead," Jacob sneered. "Shoot me, but be sure to tell Dominique of this conversation. Tell her what her husband tried to do before you murdered him."
Enraged beyond any fury he'd ever experienced, Custer pulled the hammer back on the gun, but at the last minute, some small ration of logic kept him from pulling the trigger. Custer himself had once been court-martialed for something very close to the act he was about to perform. Was this lying private worth his career? And perhaps the presidency?
Still grinding his teeth, he lowered the gun to Jacob's chest and shoved. "Turn around, Private. That's an order."
Jacob assumed the general was finally considering his warning. Understanding that if he wanted to see Dominique alive again, he must obey the general now, Jacob made a slow circle. Before he completed the arc, the gun crashed against his temple. Jacob dropped to the ground.
Custer backed out of the tent, calling to the first officer he spotted. "Lieutenant Woodhouse, get over here, on the double."
Barney loped to his commander's side. "Yes, sir?"
"I've found it necessary to place Private Stoltz under arrest. Get a length of rope."
"General, sir? What'd he do?"
"That's no concern of yours, Lieutenant. Get the rope now. Be quick about it before he comes to and I have to shoot him."
Barney gulped, then dashed off to the supply wagon.
While he waited, Custer kept one eye on the big German lying on the floor of his quarters as searched the campground for his officers. Finally spotting Major Reno, he called to him, "Reno, bring Benteen. Be quick. We have a change of plans."
Barney returned with the rope then, gasping and out of breath, and stood there waiting for his next order.
"Tie him," Custer said. "Bind his hands behind his back as tight as you can, then do the same to his feet. It wouldn't be a bad idea to connect the hands and feet with another length."
"Lord almighty," Barney muttered, near tears as he began to tie his friend. "What'd he do, General?"
"He 's insubordinate, and he's a traitor, Lieutenant. Those are the charges for now." He glanced up, watching for his officers, and added, "I suspect when I return from the battlefield, I'll be adding more."
"A traitor, General?" Barney choked out. "I can't believe that of Jacob."
"You are not to second-guess me. You are to guard this tent and guard it with your life. Is that understood, or would you like to join the private?"
"Understood, sir." Barney snapped off a salute, then marched to the opening in the tent. Taking up a position just outside the flap, he observed as the general joined two other officers a few feet away.
"We have to ride out tonight," Custer said to the surprised officers.
"Tonight? But the men and horses are exhausted," Major Reno complained.
"And we're already ahead of schedule," Captain Benteen said, trying to sound respectful to a man he abhorred. "Maybe you have forgotten that General Terry warned us not to get greedy about this. He said we're supposed to wait until Sunday when we're at full manpower and go in all at once."
"There's no time for that," Custer barked, impulsively adding a statement that wasn't entirely true. "And General Terry isn't in charge of you men, I am. I say we go tonight and take them by surprise. I have word the Sioux know we're here, and they also know that we don't plan to march on them for a couple of days."
Major Reno's brows shot up. "Where'd you hear that?"
"That doesn't matter," Custer said. "What does is that we get our plans straight. Here's what we'll do."
The three men hunkered down and Custer began to draw a diagram in the soft earth with a stick. "I think it'll be best if we separate into three groups and surround the Sioux. There will be no running away from us this time. Reno, take your men to the southern end of the Little Bighorn Valley. Benteen, you go straight to the southwest. I'll take my group up north along the bluff. That ought to do it."
"That ought to do it," Major Reno echoed, exchanging glances and a disgusted shake of his head with Benteen. "That might just do it all right."
* * *
The following afternoon Dominique walked along the banks of the river, remembering the conversation she'd had with Jacob just six days ago. She gazed into the water, so clear the pebbles lining the bottom stared back at her like little eyeballs, and wondered if he had managed to do the impossible. Had Jacob found a way to turn her uncle's army back?
She glanced up and noticed a large dirty cloud rolling toward her from the south. A dust storm? she idly wondered. Then Dominique heard the screams of women and children, the shouting of a general alarm. She jumped to her feet, her hear
t in her throat, and began running toward the great dust cloud.
As she neared the rolling apparition, soldiers suddenly appeared through the earth-colored fog. Dominique slid to a stop and buried her fist in her mouth. "No," she screamed, strangling on her knuckles, her fear. "Please, no."
Dominique stood there, paralyzed by her terror and by the unwillingness of her mind to accept the message her vision sent.
Then she witnessed the unspeakable.
Amid the rifle fire, the screams of terror and agony, she watched a United States Cavalryman run down a fleeing woman, a squaw she recognized as one of Chief Gall's wives, and then fire point-blank into her unprotected back. The bullet passed through the Indian woman's body and through that of the child she carried in her arms as well.
Dominique swooned, nearly fainting, but her anger, her rage, quickly cleared her head. Able to propel her legs again, she charged the soldier, screaming as she ran. "Stop it. Stop it, you bastar.!"
As a screaming woman approached him, the soldier turned in his saddle and raised his rifle. When he peered down the sights and positioned his finger on the trigger, a cloud of beautiful red-gold hair filled the sights. "Huh?" he said, startled, as he looked up from the gun. "Well, I'll be damned."
She was upon him now, and before the soldier could say another word, Dominique grabbed the barrel of the rifle and jerked it out of his hands. Swinging it as hard as she could, she arced it upward and cracked the soldier alongside the head with the butt of the weapon.
After the man hit the ground, Dominique tossed his rifle toward the river, then pulled herself up onto his horse. Wheeling the animal around, she plunged headlong into the dust cloud, screaming as she rode, "Who's in charge here? Where is General Custer? Take me to the general."
Surprised soldiers parted, making way for the madwoman as she galloped through their ranks, but none tried to stop her until a horse veered up alongside her and a big hand reached out and grabbed her reins.
"Whoa, now," Major Reno called out. "Easy, now."
Dominique glanced over at the officer, but didn't really look at him. She repeated her demands. "Take me to General Custer. This must stop now."
"Dominique? It is you, isn't it?"
Catching her breath, working to slow her rapid pulse, she studied the officer more closely. "Major Reno? For God's sake. Stop this."
"Take it easy, girl. I'll get you to safety."
"No. Where's my uncle? Make him stop this."
In spite of her protests, Reno kicked his mount in the flanks and began leading her away down thorough the column to the rear. "He's not with this group," he shouted above the din, "but he's going to be mighty thrilled to see you. I'll have a soldier take you to safety."
"But I don't want to go to safety." She grabbed at the reins, but Reno held fast. "I want this stopped, you murderer. Stop it now."
"Dominique, I'm sure you've been through hell these past weeks, but I can't take time to explain anything to you right now." He beckoned to a soldier, a sergeant major he trusted implicitly, then said to her, "Go with this man. Your uncle will explain all this later if you're still interested."
She opened her mouth to object, to complain about the outrageous cruelties she'd witnessed, but then Dominique remembered Jacob's words. "If the soldiers come into our camp, show yourself and go with them." She'd promised him that she would.
Swallowing hard, fighting the urge to look back at the Hunkpapa village, Dominique bit her lip and allowed the sergeant major to lead her away from the battle.
* * *
All through the night and into the next day Jacob worked to free himself from his bonds. Finally, as bright sunlight trickled in through the crack in the tent flap, he pulled a raw and bleeding wrist through the loop and quickly removed the rest of his bindings. His head pounded and he was disoriented. Crawling on his hands and knees, he silently made his way to the opening and peered out. All was quiet, save for a few summer birds singing their love songs. Jacob stuck his head through the flap, then ducked back inside. Barney sat on a chair to his right. From his quick observation, the lieutenant appeared to be asleep.
Jacob rubbed his aching temple. A Lakota warrior wouldn't even have to stop and think. He would simply reach through the opening and break Barney's neck. But Jacob could no longer think like a warrior, could barely think at all. There had to be another way out.
Again peering through the opening, Jacob inched the flap open. He studied his sleeping friend for a moment, then he struck. He whipped his arm around Barney's head, firmly clasping his palm across the surprised soldier's mouth, and dragged him inside.
"Do not fight me," Jacob implored in a whisper. When Barney's struggles ceased, he relaxed his grip but kept his hand over Barney's mouth. "I am sorry, friend. But I do what I must. Do you understand?"
Wild-eyed, confused, Barney nodded.
"I cannot explain everything to you now," Jacob went on. "But I must go after the general and try to stop him. This war cannot happen. Please forgive me for what I must do now."
And before Barney could understand or have any sense of danger, Jacob smashed him across the back of his head with his own gun. "I am sorry, my friend."
Jacob quickly bound him with the ropes he'd just escaped from, then checked his pulse. Relieved to feel life surging through Barney's veins, he whispered, "Rest well, my friend. Enjoy your long and happy life." Then he stole from the tent.
The camp was nearly deserted. On cat feet, Jacob crept over near the supply wagon where the surplus horses grazed. After choosing the fittest animal, Jacob silently coaxed it through the dense timber and heavy undergrowth, walking alongside the horse until he was well out of earshot of those who were left behind. Then he mounted up and urged the horse into a gallop.
He rode hard and fast, stopping only to allow his mount to rest. Hours later, Jacob pulled up and listened to distant echoes. Off to the south, where his own Hunkpapa village lay, he could make out the vague popping of occasional rifle fire. Ahead, to the north along Custer's path, tremendous bursts of gunfire resounded. There could be only one decision.
Heartsick, he galloped toward the northern bluffs. As he rode, the wind carried an ominous warning, a message of death to his ears, and a deep sense of failure nearly overcame him. Still, Jacob forged ahead.
By the time he reached the battlefield, an eerie silence had settled over the valley. Jacob rode to the top of a small bluff, then groaned as he made a visual sweep of the area. Puffs of dust and gun smoke rose above the dead, a shroud of sorts protecting the lifeless skin from the sun's burning rays. Sickened by the carnage, the mountain slopes carpeted with the bodies of red men and white men alike, Jacob slid down off his mount and fell to his knees in despair.
"Why?" he screamed, pounding his fist into the earth. "Why didn't anybody listen to me?"
In shock, unable to accept what his eyes told him, Jacob got to his feet and began walking through the field of bodies. Even in his dazed condition, he began to understand the futility the soldiers must have felt as their numbers were overwhelmed by his people. Many of the men died behind barriers constructed with the bodies of their own horses, shot no doubt by their loving masters in a last ditch effort to save themselves.
Jacob called a halt to his journey and sucked in a huge gulp of air as he caught sight of a thatch of red-gold hair. As he moved toward the fallen leader, Jacob's shoulders slumped and he groaned in frustration as he looked down on Custer's almost peaceful features. A small bullet hole near his temple and a dark stain at the side of his blue shirt were the only hints that the great general had not simply fallen asleep.
Again Jacob said, "Why? Why couldn't you have listened to me?" He rubbed his eyes, then glanced around. Boston and Tom Custer lay nearby, their faces much more gruesome in death, the loss of their lives somehow more terrible. Thinking of Dominique and the white burial custom, Jacob looked around for a tool with which to dig a common grave for the Custer brothers. For her, he would try to save them f
rom the final indignity.
Then up ahead he noticed movement. When he looked toward the ridge, he saw several warriors descending the slopes. His people would return to the field now to collect their wounded and dead. Then, to complete the final ritual they would strip, scalp, and mutilate their enemies to prevent their passage to the heavens.
As the Indians drew closer, Jacob recognized his father, Gall. Wearing his full headdress, he was a regal sight, a dramatic antithesis of the testament to death all around him. When the chief waved, acknowledging and greeting his son, Jacob's response was to turn his palms up and shrug, mutely asking the same question of his father that he'd asked of his wife's dead uncle.
From behind Jacob, a dying Cheyenne warrior caught the movement through hazy eyes. Spotting Jacob's cavalry uniform, determined that not even one of the soldiers would live to tell this tale, he raised his rifle.
"Death to all Long Knives," he screamed as he began firing.
Jacob turned at the sound, but he was too late. He caught the full impact of the first round against his skull.
Two other bullets slammed into his body as he fell to the bloodied earth, but Jacob never felt them tear open his flesh.
Chapter 20
June 27, 1876
Dominique paced up and down in her small cabin on the steamship, the Far West. As she walked, she loosened the collar of the shirt she'd borrowed from an officer, and then eyed her buckskin wedding dress, which lay on the bunk. The heat was especially stifling in the confines of the cabin. But here she was, decently covered in a man's long-sleeved flannel shirt and a skirt hastily thrown together from one of the ship's fine tablecloths. Again she eyed the more comfortable buckskins, then sighed and crossed over to the porthole.
Where was Jacob? she asked herself for the thousandth time. What had become of her uncles? She stared out at the Little Bighorn River and at the calm waters and un- scarred landscape where the ship was docked. Only a few miles upriver, the battle still raged. The memories of the horrors she'd witnessed added to the perspiration on her brow. Hoping to catch a gust of fresh air, Dominique pushed the porthole open. The minute her fingertips touched glass, the crew below began shouting. She froze.