“Not to me, Eileen,” Dutton argued.
“I agree with Larry,” Faith added. “He was a very sick man and needed the special care.” She glanced around and said, “Now that we’ve consumed your delicious meal, Eileen, I’d like to do the dishes, so the rest of you scoot out.”
“I’ll dry,” Winslow offered.
After the others departed for the living room, Faith and Tom made a leisurely job of cleaning up. “I think Dutton’s coming here saved his life,” Winslow said. “I heard he was in a fair way of dying.”
“That’s true,” Faith nodded. “He’s a fine man, isn’t he?”
“Sure. He’s taken with Eileen, did you notice?”
“It’s pretty plain,” Faith nodded. “He hasn’t had much to do with women, Tom. I’m afraid he’s in for a disappointment.”
“Why?” Winslow asked in surprise. “He’d be a good choice for Eileen. She needs a husband and he needs a wife.”
Faith looked at him quizzically, then laughed. “That’s very neat, Tom, but love doesn’t work like that—all organized and orderly.”
Winslow mused on that comment, his eyes half closed. He made a strange-looking figure standing there, the fragile dish in his large hands. “That’s an odd thing to say,” he remarked. “Are you saying that love is out of control? Like in the dime romances where a man and a woman gaze at each other for the first time and go into some sort of fit?”
“Oh, Tom, how awful!” Faith laughed. Her face was rosy from the hot water, her eyes sparkling. “Of course love’s not like that—well, not exactly.” She washed another dish, then said, “You were married once. Wasn’t there something special between you two? Wasn’t she somehow different from all other women?”
Winslow dropped his eyes, remembering those days. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, there was something special.”
“Well, I’m not sure a person can arrange that. Larry may need a wife, and I know Eileen needs a companion. She’s born to be a wife. But it takes more than that to make a marriage work, I think.” She stopped, embarrassed by what she had said. “Listen to me—a spinster spouting off on courtship and marriage. And the only experience I ever had was getting jilted at the altar!”
The sadness in her voice touched him, and he turned her around with a firm hand. “Don’t talk like that,” he insisted. “You’ve got everything a man needs—and wants, Faith.” Then the memories of the past rose sharply. “Well,” he said almost brusquely, “that’s it with the dishes. Let’s see what the others are doing.”
Dutton and Eileen were listening to Laurie read a story she’d written. When she saw Tom and Faith, she stopped and said, “I’ll start over.”
When she finished, Winslow said, “That’s very good, Laurie.”
“Miss Eileen helped me with it a little,” she confessed.
“Just a tiny bit, but it’s your story,” Eileen responded, patting Laurie’s head.
Winslow picked up his coat, saying, “Got to be on the way before dawn.” He halted, then looked toward Faith, adding, “Lieutenant Grayson wants to make an early start.” He saw the startled look in her eyes, but she said nothing. He kissed Laurie firmly. “I’ll see you in three days.”
“Come and see me, Tom,” Dutton said. “I’ll be at the post hospital or back in my room.”
Later when Faith and Laurie had gone to the kitchen for cocoa, Dutton said, “Tom’s quite a fellow, Eileen.” When she nodded, he continued. “You know, he’s the kind of man I always dreamed about being—big, tough, and always doing something heroic.” He smiled painfully, adding, “At the orphanage, when I was a kid, I made up stories with a man like that as the hero, then pretended to be him.”
His confession touched her, and she smiled. “We all do that. I pretended to be the beautiful heroine I’d just read about in the romance novels.”
Dutton dropped his eyes. “Well, you turned out to be beautiful, but I turned out to be just a runty schoolteacher.”
“Why—Larry! What a terrible thing to say about yourself!” Eileen scolded. “You’ve gotten a fine education against all odds, and one day you’ll be a successful attorney.”
“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but I’d rather put on a uniform and ride out with Tom in the morning.”
“No! Don’t ever say that!” Her sudden vehemence caught him off guard, and he was acutely conscious of her hand squeezing his arm. “It’s no life for you, Larry. It’s terrible!”
“Why, it’s not that bad, Eileen.” Dutton hesitated, then said daringly, “You wouldn’t refuse to marry Tom because he’s a soldier, would you?”
Agitated, she turned away. He had no way of knowing it was that very question that had plagued her for days. She had felt Winslow’s gaze on her, had known that it was for Laurie’s sake they had grown close. But she knew Tom was lonely and found her attractive. More than once she had felt that if she had chosen, she could have drawn him into a closer relationship, but she had not enticed him, though the thought was in her heart and mind.
“I don’t know, Larry,” she replied. “It’s a hard life for a woman. She’d have to love an army man a lot to risk that.”
Her answer depressed him, for he was perceptive enough to see that Eileen was thinking a great deal of Winslow. “Well,” he said, “he’s a fine man. I hope nothing happens to him on this scouting trip.”
“If it doesn’t, Larry,” she said evenly, but with pain, “there’ll be another scouting and another battle. That’s the life of a soldier—and of the woman who marries him!”
****
The first two days of the scouting were uncomfortable and unproductive. Snow threatened constantly, but on the afternoon of the third day the sun came out, shedding a welcome warmth, and Winslow found the trail of a large band of Indians.
When he brought back the news, Grayson’s eyes glinted. He had said nothing to Winslow up until that time, but now his voice crackled as he shot back, “How many and how far?”
“I’d guess at least a hundred, Lieutenant. I cut their sign about five miles from here. I figure they passed through less than twenty-four hours ago.”
Grayson looked up at the sky, calculating quickly. It was past two o’clock, but there was a chance they could catch up with the Indians before dark. He made his decision and called out “Mount!” and when the troop was in the saddle, he commanded, “Take us to the spot, Sergeant Winslow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Winslow led them at a fast trot to the sign he had cut, and pointed down at the trail. “Heads toward the foothills, sir.”
“Go ahead,” Grayson ordered. “We’ll follow so we don’t confuse the sign. I want to catch them, so make it as fast as you can.” His eyes shone with excitement. “Let’s go!” he said impatiently.
They followed the sign until almost dark, with Winslow ahead. Then he waited until the troop caught up with him. “Going to be too dark to follow the sign in another half hour, Lieutenant.”
A gust of temper rose and Grayson spewed out an oath. He shook his head stubbornly. “We can’t be too far behind. We’ll leave at first light.”
“Well, the general said to make it a three-day scout, for information,” Winslow said.
“You do the tracking, Winslow! I’ll give the orders.”
Sergeant Jess Moody was close enough to hear this exchange, and later when they were hunched over small fires eating supper, he asked, “What’s going on with the lieutenant, Tom?”
Winslow shook his head. “Can’t say, Jess.”
But Dempsey spoke up. “A glory hunter, that’s what he is!” He tore hungrily at the food, adding glumly, “Winslow, don’t you find them Indians tomorrow. If there’s as many as you claim, they could wipe us out.”
“Maybe I’m a glory hunter, too, Dempsey.”
“Naw. You got sense,” the burly soldier grinned. “You want to keep your hair just like the rest of us poor troopers. It’s the officers who got to get a bunch killed to get their names in the papers.”
/> The next day the sun rose brightly, and after a quick breakfast, Winslow rode ahead, following the sign, which was easy. At nine o’clock he halted to let the column catch up. “They camped here last night. Ashes still hot from the fires.”
“How far ahead, do you think?” Grayson asked.
Winslow gave a dubious look toward the horizon where some low lying hills scored the sky. “Not far. And we’re not going to sneak up on them.”
“Call me sir!” Grayson yelled. He looked toward the hills, his face sharp with anticipation. “You go ahead. We’ll follow. When you make contact, give me a signal.”
Sergeant Moody spoke up. “Sir, he’ll be a sittin’ duck out there that far.”
“Never mind!” Grayson snapped. “Get moving, Sergeant Winslow!”
“Yes, sir.” Winslow galloped ahead, and when he was far enough away, Grayson waved the command forward. For the next hour they covered the ground at a fast gallop until they reached Winslow, who had pulled up his horse to wait.
“They’re right ahead of us, just the other side of those hills, Lieutenant.”
“How many?”
“Must be over a hundred. And these are braves—no women or children to hold them back.”
“Have you actually seen any Indians?” Grayson demanded.
“No, sir. But they’ve seen us.”
“You can’t be sure of that! Let’s push on.”
Winslow looked up, his face bearing a trace of shock. “Through that gap, sir?”
“That’s where they are, Sergeant.”
The spot Grayson was looking at was a barrier of rock with a peak in the center. The rock was a six-foot breastwork heaved up by some ancient slipping of the earth’s crust; it lay a quarter mile forward, and to either side the land rose in broken hummocks. “That’s a bad place to be caught, sir,” Winslow protested.
But Grayson was adamant. “Forward!” he called out, waving his hand in an imperious gesture. The column broke into a trot, aimed at the lowest section of the rock barrier. The steady run set up a clatter of iron hoofs on the solid ground, and suddenly what had appeared to be clumps of brush became round black heads. A shot broke the silence, its echo rocketing all up the hillsides.
“Skirmishers!” Grayson called.
Sergeant Moody’s voice beat at the troopers as they rushed along a long, broken line abreast Grayson. Winslow flung his horse around and rushed to the right of the line. Rapid firing broke from the rocks, the smoke indicating the Indians to be scattered along the parapet. Grayson took a quick look toward an empty spot to the left and promptly rushed for it, signaling the men to follow. The move whirled the troopers into an irregular grouping, forcing them to cross the line of fire. Instantly a trooper dropped lifeless and his horse bolted.
When they halted, Winslow saw that a series of broken hummocks rose sharply before them. Grayson urged his horse toward the end of the rock parapet, his troops close behind. When they neared the hummocks, they were caught by the cross fire of lead as the bullets rained upon them. The Sioux showed themselves between the hummocks, and the troopers returned their fire. Winslow saw Dempsey shoot one of the Indians at point-blank range. Suddenly, Tom was caught between two mounted warriors armed with carbines. He lifted his revolver and shot one of them in the chest. The other Sioux was right on top of Tom, ready to fire when the warrior fell away, his face a bloody mask. Winslow looked up to see O’Hara grinning at him. He rode in, saying, “Let’s git out of here, Sarge, this place is too hot!”
Firing as they rode, they caught up with the rest of the troop. It was a tight and wicked moment, the troopers caught by the fire of Indians stationed along the uplifting rock, well-hidden and safe from return fire. They kept fading and reappearing from spot to spot, giving ground stubbornly.
Grayson had charged straight at a small group, taking a few of the men with him. Winslow saw other Indians were heading for that spot. The lieutenant waved the men forward. “Come on! Stick close! They can’t stand a charge!”
As Grayson got farther into the broken country, the Indians kept retreating, vague as shadows. He suddenly realized that he was cut off from the troop with only three men and that the Indians were closing in from three directions. There was no way to fight his way back, yet he knew no fear, so great was his battle fury.
As he prepared to sell his life dearly, he looked up to see the bulk of the troop appear from over a slight rise, firing as they came. With a bitter twinge, even at that moment, he saw that Tom Winslow was leading them.
The charge broke the back of the Indians’ defense, and they faded away, like vanishing shadows, but not before shooting two of the troopers. Even Grayson knew that there was no use to pursue. The country was rough and the Sioux knew it well; to follow them would be to invite another trap.
As the last few shots rang out, troopers dismounted, going to the fallen men, walking loose-jointedly along the uneven earth. Sergeant Moody came to stand before Grayson, his old soldier’s eyes bitter as he asked, “What’s the order, Lieutenant?”
Grayson was filled with acrid disappointment. He looked around at the men, feeling the judgment in their eyes. “We’ll return to the fort.”
“Tyson’s dead, sir, and so are Given and Pearson.”
“We’ll take them back for burial.”
He rode over to where the dead men lay, realizing that he had fallen into the Sioux’s trap—like any raw beginner. He also knew what Custer, and his own fellow officers, would say. But the great rush of bitterness flooding him stemmed from the fact that Winslow had been right. That would be known, too. With a murderous look in his eyes he watched as Winslow lifted one of the fallen men. Memories of the past returned then. I hate him worse than I’ve ever hated the Sioux!
He sat there, enraged by the failure. It was an unreasoning anger, and he knew that nothing could erase it!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Blizzard
Libby Custer was exhausted. It was two in the morning, and the general and his wife had just returned to their hotel rooms. The Custers had been to see Julius Caesar, in which one of their closest friends, Lawrence Barrett, had played the leading role. Afterward they had been invited to a mansion facing Central Park where, surrounded by money and power and considerable beauty, Custer had dominated the conversation with the guests both by his exuberance and because of his reputation.
They had been in the East for several weeks, leaving the regiment at Fort Abraham Lincoln; but Custer’s driving energy was just as strong in the city as it had been at the fort. Even now as Libby sat slumped into a chair, so tired she couldn’t bring herself to get ready for bed, her husband was pacing the room like a caged animal, speaking of the things they would do the next day.
“Autie,” she broke in, “what is this trouble about the post traderships?”
Custer sat down beside her. They had a closer bond than most married couples. He was an incurable romantic, writing her love letters when out on a campaign, some of them running up to twenty pages. And Elizabeth Custer had one goal in life: to do what she could to advance her husband’s career. Her ambition was less obvious than his, but no less powerful. In the peacetime army, there were few promotions, and both of them were determined that the top was the only goal worth striving for. She had learned the politics of the army, and was more tactful than Custer, so it had disturbed her to hear him speak so bluntly at the dinner. Not all of the men there, she understood, were friendly to the general, but he had paid no heed to that. When someone had mentioned the scandal over post traderships, Custer’s eyes had flashed and swept the room with an impetuous gesture. “The system is corrupt to the core!” he had exploded. “The prices charged by the post trader on the frontier are three times what they should be. And what is their excuse? They have to pay such enormous fees—which is a way of saying ‘bribes’—that they must recoup themselves!”
“How can such things go on, General?” someone had asked.
“Because there are gentlemen in Was
hington who sell these post traderships to the highest bidder! There is a corrupt ring in Washington so protected by high-placed officials that they can’t be touched. In fact, one brother of the very highest public official of our land is deep into such dirty dealings!”
Thinking of that scene, Libby attempted to tone down her husband’s volatile way of attack. “Autie, was it wise to speak of President Grant’s brother so bluntly?”
Custer’s face flushed, and he said impulsively, “I shall be in Washington soon, and I shall speak the truth about the matter.” Then he looked at her quickly. “Libby, I’m caught in a trap. There’s no way to go up! My enemies are in high places, and dull officers are promoted above me. There’s no way to turn!”
“Why, Autie, you’re a famous man! We’re welcomed into the homes of some of the most powerful people in the country. I’m very proud of you. What more can you want?”
Custer didn’t answer, but they both knew that nothing but being at the very top of his profession would satisfy him. This was not unusual, for ambition is a common enough element in military men. In George Armstrong Custer, however, ambition had grown into what the Greeks called hubris, the sort of “vaulting ambition” Shakespeare dramatized in characters such as Macbeth and Henry the Fourth, men whose driving egos brought them to destruction.
Custer was a child of adventure. His fame had come from action, raw action, blind charges that ignored all odds. Routine was death to him, and now at the age of thirty-six he was less well known than he had been at twenty-five. And in the slow, ponderous turning of the machinery of the regular army his status was falling behind, so that in ten more years he would be just another middle-aged Civil War officer—his greatness forgotten.
Custer jumped up, grabbed a pen and began writing rapidly. “I shall offer my services as witness to Clymer. This corruption in high places must stop!” Congressman Clymer had begun an investigation of the Indian Bureau and the War Department, with Belknap, the secretary of war, as his target.
“Autie,” Libby said, putting her hands on his shoulder, “are you sure that’s wise?”
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