“Up to your old tricks with women, Grayson?” Tom asked softly, deceptively.
“Tom—I told you how it was,” Faith broke in. “He was caught in the storm just as you were.”
“Sure. He’s always got a reason for what he does to people.”
Grayson glared at Winslow. Ever since Winslow had come to his rescue from the Sioux, the dislike in him had grown, and now he said, “Get out of here, Sergeant. You can make it back to the fort. The blizzard’s over.”
Winslow was poised to move toward the officer. Grayson knew it and pulled his revolver, warning, “Don’t make that mistake, Winslow. You know I’d be justified by any court if you attacked me and I shot you. Get out!”
Winslow stared at him, then nodded. “I’ll dump the wood,” he said tonelessly.
When he left the room, Faith said, “I think both of you are fools!”
“You’re probably right,” Grayson nodded. He put his revolver away and went to the window to watch Winslow as he unloaded the wagon.
Faith was shaken by the confrontation and started making breakfast mostly to have something to do. When it was ready she put a plate on the table, saying, “Here’s your breakfast, Spence. I’ll take the sergeant’s out to him.” She was fixing a plate when the door opened and Winslow entered.
“I’ve got something cooked,” she said, holding out the plate.
“Thanks.” Winslow stepped forward to get it and moved slightly behind where the officer was sitting. Instead of taking the plate, he moved swiftly, throwing one arm around Grayson and plucking the revolver from his holster. Then he stepped back as Grayson scrambled to his feet.
Grayson’s face was livid with anger. “I’ll have you court-martialled for this, Winslow!” he cried out.
Winslow stared at him, then tossed the revolver across the room. It hit the wall, bounced to the floor, and Grayson dived for it. He fumbled at the weapon, got a grasp on it, then swung around, his eyes wild with hatred. Faith cried out, “Don’t Spence—!” But just as the officer turned, Winslow—who had expected exactly this and had come closer—struck Grayson a sledging blow on the cheek.
Involuntarily, Grayson squeezed the trigger, the explosion filled the room, the bullet smashing against the front wall of the kitchen. The force of the blow drove him backward, and Winslow followed at once, grabbing for the gun. He caught it, wrenched it away from Grayson and walked to the door. Opening it, he tossed it outside, then turned and advanced on the officer with his face cold, his eyes glittering.
“I’ll have you shot!” Grayson yelled, fury welling up in him, and then he ran toward Winslow, striking out with a wild right hand. The blow caught Winslow on the chest, forcing him backward a step; but as Grayson lunged at him, he planted his feet and drove a powerful right hand into Grayson’s face. The force snapped the head of the officer backward and dulled his senses. He fell forward, grappling with Winslow, and the two careened around the small kitchen, crashing the table to the floor. They rolled around, punching each other with short, vicious blows. Then Grayson pulled his feet up and drove Winslow away with a powerful kick that caught Winslow in the side.
The pain raked through Winslow and he got up slowly—enough time for Grayson to grab a chair and swing it at him. But he missed his target when Tom stepped back. Instead, the force of his swing threw him off balance. Instantly, Winslow jumped forward and began to drive long, looping blows into Spence’s face and neck.
There was no mercy in Winslow, and he threw into the blows all the hatred that had lain in him for years. He thought of his wife dying, abandoned by this man, and the memory lent strength to his arms. He beat the man’s arms down and drove him against the wall. Grayson’s eyes glazed and he dropped his arms, helpless, unable to defend himself.
“Tom! Stop it!” Faith ran forward and thrust herself between the two men. Winslow shook his head, then stepped back and Grayson slumped to the floor, sprawling there, only half conscious.
Winslow stared down at him, the hatred that had risen in him still raw and raging. But he pulled himself up, turned and walked to the door. He paused to say, “Get the man out of here, Faith,” he said, his voice grating with the hatred that was in him. “He’s ruined everything he’s ever touched. He’ll do the same to you.”
“Tom, he’ll have you shot for this!”
“No, he won’t. If he does, I’ll tell the court how he ran away with my wife and then left her alone to die. I’ll tell them about the other women he’s ruined.” Winslow let his hard eyes fall on Grayson, who was groping his way to his feet. “He won’t expose himself, Faith. It might hurt his chances with some of the other women he’s got on his string.”
Faith stood there, humiliated by the scene, and angry, for she realized that no matter what Tom Winslow said about other women, it was she herself who was partly at the root of the antagonism of the two men. Lifting her chin, she said, “Tom, I’ve told you how it was. He was caught by the storm. What harm is in that?”
Winslow faced her, trying to make her understand. But the black thing that was in him was not something that could be explained, and finally he shook his head stubbornly, saying, “He’s no good, Faith. He ruins everything he touches.” Then he wheeled and left the room, slamming the door forcefully.
Faith turned to face Grayson, who was wiping the blood from his face with a trembling hand. “Is what he said true, Spence—about his wife?”
Grayson blinked at the bluntness of her question. He tried to find some way of putting the thing that would not make him appear so bad in her eyes, but finally he nodded, “Most of it—but it was a long time ago, Faith. We were all very young.” His defense sounded false in his own ears, and he looked at her more closely. “It’s all over, isn’t it, Faith—between you and me?”
“Spence, there was never anything there. We’re too different.”
A sense of loss hit him at her words, yet he knew she was right. He had longed for something he saw in her, but now he realized that it was a dream that could never be. “I’ll be getting back to the fort,” he said.
“Spence, don’t use this against him,” she pleaded.
He gave her a calculating look, but said only, “No, of course not. But just one little warning, Faith. He’s in love with you, but don’t think it will come to anything.”
“Why do you say that?”
He pulled his coat on, slipped into his mittens, then moved toward the door. He turned after opening it, his lips bruised and swollen and a sadness in his eyes.
“Winslow can never bring a woman anything, Faith. Whatever gentleness was in him once, he lost it all years ago. He’ll never change. He can’t change what he’s become.”
Faith watched him ride away, and in the distance she saw the outline of the wagon Winslow was driving. It was only a smudge on the white snow. Then even as she watched, it disappeared.
****
In February, the Seventh received news that General Terry was to have full freedom of action in bringing the Indians to their knees. The General of the Army, Sherman, had dispatched a column under Crook north from Fetterman, with the intent that Crook and Terry would be able to catch the Indians in a nutcracker. But Crazy Horse, fighting in desperate recklessness, gathered his warriors and threw Crook’s column into disorder and drove it away. Terry found his own plans for a winter attack wrecked by a series of blizzards that swept the land.
Custer expected to be in the thick of things as spring approached, but he had the misfortune to annoy Ulysses Grant. Early in March the long, simmering scandal concerning the War Department broke out. A broker in New York came forward with evidence implicating Secretary of War Belknap, or Belknap’s wife, in taking bribes, and the secretary resigned on the eve of the investigation. And it was Custer’s testimony against Belknap, plus his flaunted association with the leading Democrats, that had exasperated the President, whose dream of a third term collapsed because of the Belknap scandal.
Custer, anxious to get to his regiment, took t
he train west to St. Paul and reported to General Terry, where he was given his orders. Custer was to go on to Fort Abraham Lincoln immediately to put his regiment in readiness and to march out to meet the Sioux as soon as possible.
Custer and Libby left from St. Paul by train. When the general arrived at the fort, he threw himself into getting the Seventh into a state of readiness. He drove them hard, and soon three more companies were sent to him, which brought the Seventh to full strength for the first time in many years.
But on the eve of the campaign, a wire from Washington arrived, directing Custer to return to testify against Belknap. Custer was stunned, for his own indiscreet behavior had at last caught up with him.
He begged to be allowed to send his testimony by mail, but this was not acceptable to the committee, so near the end of March he returned.
“Maybe this will teach Custer to keep his mouth shut,” Sergeant Hines said to Winslow.
Sherman attempted to persuade the President to allow Custer to return to his command, but with no success. No one available to General Terry had the rank and ability to take Custer’s place, and Grant’s action stunned Custer, who could not believe that the President would knowingly endanger the campaign out of political retaliation. It was a tragedy for Custer, for he foresaw his regiment marching without him.
Finally Custer traveled to the White House and handed in his card. He waited for hours in the President’s outer office, conscious of his own helplessness as old officer friends paused to say hello.
At five in the afternoon, the secretary announced, “The President will not see you, sir.”
Custer stood up, his face pale. He left the office and that night caught the train west. As he stepped from the train at Chicago to transfer to St. Paul, an aide of General Sheridan’s met him with a telegram that had come from Sherman to Terry:
General: I am at this moment advised that General Custer started last night for St. Paul and Fort Abraham Lincoln. He was not justified in leaving without seeing the President or myself. Please intercept him at Chicago or St. Paul and order him to halt and wait for further orders. Meanwhile, let the expedition from Fort Lincoln proceed without him.
When Custer lifted his face to his wife after reading the telegram, shock had frozen his hawkish features.
“Libby, they’ve broken me!”
Then for the first time in his life, Custer was terrified—he who had feared nothing. In one moment all his audacity and flamboyance fled, leaving him utterly empty. He had flaunted regulations all his life, and now his future lay in the hands of Grant, who had no love for him.
He left for St. Paul and threw himself on General Terry’s mercy. Terry was an able lawyer and a compassionate commander, and he wanted Custer in his command, having great confidence in the man as an Indian fighter.
“You have brought this on yourself, General,” Terry rebuked Custer. “You know how unfitting it is for a soldier to publicly criticize his superiors.”
“Can you do nothing for me, General?” Custer asked humbly.
Terry thought about it, then sat down and composed a letter and handed it to Custer.
I have no desire to question the orders of the President. Whether General Custer shall be permitted to accompany the column or not, I shall go in command of it. I do not know the reasons upon which the orders were given rest, but if these reasons do not forbid it, General Custer’s services would be very valuable with his regiment.
Custer said, “I thank you with all my heart, General Terry!”
The letter was sent to General Sherman, who added his endorsement, then sent it to the White House. There was nothing further Custer could do but wait. He knew that Grant was not a man to forgive his enemies easily, but the answer came a few days later from General Sherman, who wired it to Terry:
The President sends me word that if you want General Custer along, he withdraws his objections. Advise Custer to be prudent, not to take any newspapermen, who always make mischief, and to abstain from personalities in the future.
As Terry read the letter to Custer, the black cloud that had plunged him into despair dissipated. Elated, he left department headquarters, meeting on the street Captain Ludlow, Terry’s chief engineer.
“You look pretty well for a disgraced man,” Ludlow commented.
“Oh, that was nothing, Ludlow!” Custer waved his hand freely, adding, “I’m taking the next train west to join my regiment.”
“You’ll do well on the campaign,” Ludlow nodded. “Terry is an excellent officer. A little cautious for your taste, I suspect.”
“Oh, once we’re in the field I shall cut loose from Terry,” Custer said airily.
In truth, Custer was intoxicated with his reprieve—yet determined to restore his reputation. He intended nothing less than to rush headlong into battle in order to win a great victory, and was equally determined that the other officers and units would not rob him of his triumph. It would be the Seventh who would sweep the field, and he meant to destroy the Sioux no matter what it took to get the job done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Winslow Makes an Offer
The winter’s ordeal had left Custer raw of nerve and pride. When spring came, he unleashed his animal energy, seized the regiment in his rough hands, and began shaking it into fervid activity. Officers’ call was a repeated summons throughout the day, and the men worked late at their duties. Custer’s sharp eyes were on everything as he whirled out of camp to the fort, the drill field or the rifle range, rushing at times across the prairie to find release for his energy.
The regiment was whole again, all twelve companies collected. Adjoining the cavalry troops were two companies of the Seventeenth Infantry and one of the Sixth Infantry, armed with three Gatling guns. One hundred fifty wagons were assembled in the nearby wagon park. The Ree scouts, Winslow’s chief concern, were increased by Charlie Reynolds and two interpreters—Fred Girard and Isaiah Dorman, a black man.
Under the early May sunshine, the disorganized force continued training—the companies drilling, the horses wheeling and moving with the precision of long training. Men sweated off the fat of winter and refreshed their memories of duties grown vague by disuse. Equipment was overhauled and replaced, guns tested and clothing mended or newly issued.
Slowly the regiment, equipment, and plans were coming together. At night campfires blazed on the earth, yellow dots against the velvet shadowing of the land, and the men sang, or sat still, or wrote last letters home.
New faces appeared with the returning companies: Lieutenants Godfrey and Hare from K; Captain McDougal transferred from E to command B; Lieutenant McIntosh, with the strain of Indian blood in him, Benny Hodgson, a youngster loved by the command for a sunny disposition, Porter, and Captain Myles Keogh, a sharp-eyed, swarthy-skinned man with a pointed black mustache—all from I Company.
With spring came the arrival of General Terry, which alerted the regiment that the campaign was imminent. His presence meant that everything was accelerated even more. Long marches and sudden strains and unexpected shocks would come to the command.
The story of Custer’s near dismissal was common knowledge throughout the camp. Winslow and several others of A Company discussed it one day as Corporal Zeiss related details of Custer’s difficulty in Washington. “So he got himself in hot water, Custer did. Got Grant all stirred up—which was a fool thing to do! He should have known better.”
Winslow agreed. “He’s a hard one, Grant. Far as I know he’s not noted for forgiving his enemies.”
“Not him!” Babe O’Hara spit into the dust, then shook his head. “Way I heard it Grant and Sherman and Sheridan was all disgusted with him. You know how them big ones stick together. Custer stirred up a hornet’s nest when he went against Grant’s brother.”
Zeiss looked worried, his stolid face revealing his fears. “Well, Terry got him out of the mess—but Custer was chastised before the whole country, and he knows it. He’ll take it out on us, I think.”
“Y
ou got that right, Nate,” Hines nodded. “He’ll be thinking of ways to make the ones who spanked him look foolish. And the only way he can do that is to whip the Sioux—come back a hero.”
“And he’ll ride this regiment into the whole Indian nation to do it,” Zeiss said soberly. The others knew he was thinking of his wife and new baby.
“Don’t worry, Nate,” Winslow said. “Terry will hold him down.”
“No, he’ll promise to be good, like he’s always done, and then he’ll cut loose and do what he wants to do—just like he’s always done.”
The men continued to argue as Winslow left to report to Tom Custer. After seeing the captain, Tom walked slowly across the parade ground toward the officers’ quarters. He had been thinking of the campaign a great deal—and the future. Ever since he had nearly died in the blizzard, the awareness of his own mortality had gripped him. He was not afraid of facing his own death; it was leaving Laurie alone that bothered him.
Night after night he had lain awake, searching for an answer, and out of his confusion, an answer had emerged. He was a man who hated indecision, and even though he still entertained doubts, there was a relief in the act of moving forward.
“Why, Tom—” Eileen said, surprised at his sudden appearance at her door. “I thought you’d be gone for a few days.” She looked at him closely, noting the strain on his face. “Come inside. Is something wrong?”
He put his hands behind his back and nodded. “Yes, there is. I guess you know about it, Eileen.” Winslow hesitated, struggling to get the words out. “You’ve been good for Laurie, Eileen,” he said slowly. “She’s needed a woman for a long time.”
“I guess all little girls need a mother. Just as boys need a father.”
That seemed to make things easier for Winslow. He lifted his head, his eyes fixed on her, and nodded. “Sure. If she were a boy, we’d make out fine, but as things are, I’m not able to handle some things.”
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