Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  ”If Agent McLaughlin wishes to know of the Ghost Dancers, he should speak with Kicking Bear,” Crow Foot said.

  “Your father is their leader,” Red Tomahawk said, pointing an accusing finger.

  “My father is not leader of the Ghost Dancers. He only asks questions,” Crow Foot replied.

  I noticed Red Tomahawk was a sergeant, better dressed than most, and more determined than his lieutenant to make the arrest.

  “They must not take Tatanka Iyotake,” a woman shouted, waving a mallet.

  “Bullhead, do not do this,” another Indian pleaded, trying to get in the way.

  “No more talk. I will put you on the horse,” Red Tomahawk said.

  The crowd surged forward, pushing and shoving the Indian policemen. I could not understand everything they were saying, but threats were being made. The Indian policemen shifted into a line, but they didn’t have much space to deploy. A fistfight broke out.

  “Shave Head, drive them back,” Bullhead ordered a subordinate.

  “My husband, come back into the lodge,” Sitting Bull’s wife pleaded.

  Suddenly a rifle shot rang out. Bullhead spun around, holding his side in pain.

  “Catch-the-Bear, do not shoot!” Sitting Bull shouted.

  It was too late. Bullhead drew his pistol and shot Sitting Bull in the chest. The surprised leader staggered backward, falling to the ground in a sitting position. Another bullet hit Bullhead, killing him, and then Shave Head was shot as well. The Indian policemen quickly raised their rifles, firing into the crowd. Crow Foot went to help his father and was shot in the back. Several other men were shot. Even Sitting Bull’s horse was shot. In the confusion, the sergeant stepped forward pointing a small pistol.

  “No, Red Tomahawk, do not shoot my husband!” his distressed wife cried.

  Red Tomahawk snarled, took aim at Sitting Bull’s head, and pulled the trigger.

  The vision seemed over, or so I thought. There was darkness, but no mysterious mist. Crockett and Slow were gone, and I stood alone on a high place. Exalted? No, but I felt a sense of satisfaction. Was I still alive? I couldn’t tell. Then light broke from the east, and I saw a huge crowd on the steps of an ornate marble building. There was a podium at the top of the steps, banners, bunting, a band, and a dozen flags waving in a light breeze. The largest flag bore the image of a buffalo. Another also featured a buffalo, but with a bear added to the upper left quadrant. Other flags bore a similar design, the buffalos joined by an eagle, an owl, a stag, and various noble animals.

  Then there was movement on the steps of the great building. Distinguished men in fine suits, some with gray beards, emerged from the interior to form a line behind the podium. One was my brother, now an elder statesmen, with Morning Star at his side. Next to him stood Juan Almonte, slightly bent and holding a cane. Algernon Smith followed, then Juan Seguin and many I didn’t recognize.

  One younger man I did recognize. Dressed in a long gray frock coat and black tie, he looked like an Eastern banker except for his long black hair and a yellow feather in his headband. Holding his hand was a handsome Spanish woman, and with them were five mixed breed children of various ages. The younger man took his place behind the podium as if preparing to give a speech. It was Slow.

  The band played a song I didn’t know. Thousands stood solemnly with hands over their hearts. And then the band played “Garry Owen”, making many cheer. Slow smiled and shook Tom’s hand, whispering something confidential. I couldn’t hear it, nor could I read his lips, but suddenly I knew. I knew it all.

  The sun was rising in a cloudy red haze when my final vision came to an end. The strange blue smoke coming from the campfire had dissipated. Crockett looked exhausted. I could barely move my legs. Slow looked angry, and confused.

  “The white man cannot be stopped,” he muttered under his breath. “The People will not give up the white man’s temptations. They will even kill their own.”

  Slow jumped to his feet and climbed up the rock facing, standing on top of the cliff in the morning light. I couldn’t tell what lesson he had taken from the vision. I wasn’t sure what lesson I should take.

  “Ain’t done that in awhile,” Crockett said, finally beginning to stir.

  “You’ve done it before?” I asked.

  “Cherokee gots many a trick in thar medicine lodges. Sat down with ’em a time or two, but ne’er quite like that.”

  “What did you see? Or thought you saw?”

  “Back in ’12, saw a big forest. Bigger than the world. An’ anything in it were mine,” Crockett wistfully said. “Didn’t turn out that way.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I’m lucky to be here, George. Lucky to get a second chance. But I already knew that.”

  “I didn’t,” I replied.

  John approached with two cups of hot coffee, giving one to me and the other to Crockett. Autry was making breakfast.

  “I was worried, sir,” John said.

  “No need. Let’s have some food. And I’d like to shave,” I said.

  John heated water to soak my beard, which was a luxury, while Autry made omelets stuffed with goat cheese and peppers. Crockett dunked his head in the creek, returning a few minutes later looking refreshed. I noticed Sergeant Fuentes readying the horses.

  “We should do some huntin’ on the way back,” Crockett said, taking a seat near the campfire.

  “That’s it? Go hunting? No backwoods wisdom about our journey?” I asked.

  “Guessin’ you an’ the boy will figure that out. If ya ain’t already.”

  “You already know, don’t you?” I said.

  “It ain’t for me to say,” Crockett answered.

  Fuentes and I were packing the mule when Slow finally came down from the mountain. He looked older. And grim.

  “I made a mistake,” Slow said.

  “Bigger than the one I made at the Little Big Horn?” I asked, hoping to cheer him up.

  “You lost an army. I lost a nation,” he answered.

  “Maybe you should think on gettin’ it back?” Crockett said, walking up with his freshly cleaned rifle. He wasn’t joking about the hunting trip.

  “I don’t understand,” Slow said.

  “Boy, yer nation ain’t lost. No yet. And George ain’t lost ’is army. You all should think on that,” Crockett advised.

  Crockett didn’t elaborate, getting on his horse and slowly riding out of camp. I sent Fuentes to join him. The country could be dangerous for a lone rider.

  “David speaks strangely,” Slow complained as we mounted our horses.

  “We just traveled backward, and forward, and sideways in time. Don’t you find that a little strange?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied.

  We rode through green valleys, camping near a gorgeous blue lake. John and Fuentes went fishing while I built a fire. John and the sergeant made an interesting pair, for John’s Southern accent was thick and Fuentes only knew the basics of English. They returned with a fat string of trout. Slow made the coffee, which surprised me. Just before sunset, we heard a rustling in the meadow. A herd was approaching the lake, possibly deer or elk. Hopefully not moose.

  “Finally,” Crockett said, reaching for his rifle.

  I found my sporting rifle and followed Crockett to the meadow, Slow just a few paces behind.

  “Quiet, boys, don’t wanna spook ’em,” Crockett warned.

  We stopped at the edge of the trees, and then stared. We were not stalking deer or elk. Or moose. It was a small herd of shaggy beasts not often seen in California.

  “Tatanka,” Slow whispered, pushing Crockett’s rifle aside.

  “Buffalo,” I repeated in awe.

  It could not be a coincidence. As much as I rejected mysticism, or spiritualism, or any of the nonsense charlatans use to fleece common folk, this seemed too great a coincidence to ignore. And, admittedly, I do believe in Custer’s Luck.

  “I understand now,” Slow said. “We have delayed too long alre
ady.”

  “Yes. Let’s get back to headquarters,” I agreed. “We must start for Texas at once.”

  ____________

  “You must seduce the Indians,” Slow answered, entering La Sirena dressed in a gray business suit. His dark brows were bent in thought, the long black hair brushed back.

  “Do what?” Crockett asked.

  Crockett, Santa Anna and I were deep in conference. Plans were being made.

  “If the Indians of this land are to remain free, they must live with the white man, for there will soon be too many to fight,” Slow explained. “I once thought we must reject the white man’s ways to preserve our traditions, but I was wrong. To keep our land, the People must have wealth. Banks. Mines. Ranches. Lawyers. Instead of fighting the government, we must be the government.”

  “It is the only way to guarantee liberty,” Santa Anna agreed. “When the monarchy in Spain no longer served the Mexican people, we established our own laws and institutions.”

  “In’dans kin be stubborn ’bout changin’ ther ways,” Crockett warned.

  “Women like iron pots and knives. And shovels and blankets. Warriors want guns. Metal shoes for their horses. Cloth shirts,” Slow said. “We will take gold from the mountains to build towns.”

  “The Sioux prefer to chase the buffalo,” I said.

  “Without strength, the buffalo will disappear. And the People will lose their land,” Slow answered. “Is this not correct?”

  “I’m afraid it is, but you’re asking a lot,” I said.

  “It will not be easy, but Wakan Tanka has made the new path clear,” Slow said.

  I paused to look out the window toward San Francisco Bay. The harbor was filled with trading ships. The town was bustling with white immigrants, Indians, Californios, Chinese, and freed slaves. It was a new empire, beholding to none. And if fortune was kind, it was an empire that would stretch to the Gulf of Mexico, its liberties safe under the Kellogg Code. Could the Sioux be brought into such a union?

  “Slow, if that’s what you want, I’ll help anyway I can,” I offered.

  “Me, too,” Crockett promised.

  “It is why you are here,” Slow said. “And I must no longer be Slow. I am now a man. My name is Tatanka Yotanka.”

  Custer was a man of many flaws. Where a great chief keeps the People first in his thoughts, Custer saw only himself. Where a great hunter sees a vast horizon filled with bounty, Custer saw only his next kill. And where a great leader inspires followers to a noble cause, Custer would summon those about him as servants. I did not think Custer completely at fault for these failures, for it is the white man’s way to dismiss the Great Spirit’s wisdom. But in one respect, Custer was unequaled. When it came time to fight, none pursued battle with more desire for victory.

  Chapter Nine

  RIDING EAST

  Three days after returning to San Francisco, a new proclamation was issued calling for volunteers. Each would receive six hundred acres of prime land for a year of service and full citizenship for their families. And able-bodied men who did not volunteer might find an unfriendly government when I returned. Turnout was good, for I only had enough horses to mount three hundred troopers. The remainder of the volunteers would stay behind to garrison California, bound by oath to our flag. Within the week, we were ready to march.

  “Gots my boys ready,” Crockett reported.

  “Antonio wants to go, too. Who’s going to govern our country?” I asked.

  It was my last night in the Presidio. Everyone had been busy gathering supplies and readying the equipment. We would take no cannon, and the wagon train would only go as far as Warner Ranch. From there we would move fast on the Custer Road.

  “I’m still president of Texas. It’s my job ta git back thar,” Crockett said, quite correctly.

  “Maybe Slow can govern California?” I said.

  “Bet he could, but ’e’s got ‘is own command,” Crockett said.

  “His own what?”

  “Gathered fifty Indians, an’ ’bout twenty squaws off his own lands. Theys ready ta come with us,” Crockett explained.

  “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” I said.

  Santa Anna entered my office. Rather than the elegant blue and gold uniform he wore during office hours, or the trim business attire that I often envied, he was dressed in frontier leather. He looked a bit silly, for unlike myself or Crockett, Santa Anna simply could not shuck off his air of sophistication so easily.

  “My battalion is formed, General Custer,” Santa Anna said, saluting.

  “No salutes from you, General Santa Anna,” I protested. “If we ride together, it will be as equals. But I would rather you stay and govern this ungovernable city.”

  “There is no need. Señora Richardson will rule the council while we are gone,” he replied.

  “Maria Antonia?” Crockett said.

  “Señora Richardson is the wife of San Francisco’s most prominent merchant. Her father serves as commandant of Sonoma,” Santa Anna said. “She has the respect of the Californios, the Indians, and the Church. As a woman, she will not cause rivalries among the administrators we leave behind. And she does not suffer fools.”

  “It’s a brilliant choice,” I praised.

  “Of course,” Santa Anna agreed. “Inés is preparing dinner for us at the Black Swan. A final banquet before the heroes leave for Tejas.”

  “Tony, I respects ya an’ all, but I gots ta ask. What are you a wantin’ in Texas?” Crockett asked.

  “If the Americans seize Tejas, my people will be oppressed,” Santa Anna said. “If the Buffalo Flag prevails, my people will come and go as they please. They will share in the wealth. They will have a voice. Isn’t this true, George?”

  “Do you hope to be their voice?” I asked.

  “I already am,” he replied.

  “Antonio, if you want to run against Crockett for president of Texas, that’s your right,” I said. “I might even vote for you. One of you might want to run for president of California someday. As long as I’m still the general, I don’t much care.”

  “What about civilian authority?” Crockett inquired.

  “Ask me again in twenty years,” I answered.

  Soon we had another visitor, a very young man in a blue cavalry uniform and a Colt .45 strapped to his waist.

  “Hello Tatanka Yotanka,” I said, still trying to pronounce it correctly.

  “Tatanka is easier to say,” he suggested.

  “I hear you’ve raised your own army,” I said.

  “My family is in Texas. Morning Star, Walking-In-Grass, Spotted Eagle,” Tatanka explained. “For my people to be free, Texas must be free.”

  “Guess we’ve all got work to do,” I replied.

  We rode at dawn to the sound of the regimental band playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me”. The townspeople cheered, for despite the Buffalo Flag’s stringent laws, the land was at peace. I rode at the head of the column, tipping my hat.

  “Ya did a good job here, General Custer,” Crockett said, riding at my side.

  “It wasn’t so hard,” I replied. “My officers and I maintained martial law in the South after the Rebellion. Suppressed the Ku Klux Klan. We instilled order on a lawless frontier. Those were difficult challenges.”

  “And these ain’t?” he asked.

  “The 1830s are a simpler time, David. Tom, Fresh, even Bouyer, we’ve all remarked on it. People are less bloodthirsty.”

  “Seems we’ve had our share of trouble,” Crockett disagreed.

  “Not like Antietam, or Shiloh. Or Cold Harbor. You’ve never fought a real war. Not like the war we fought. Hell, Meade lost more men at Gettysburg than died in the entire War of 1812.”

  “Let’s hope people never need to know of a Shiloh or Gettysburg,” Crockett said.

  The Camino Real had been a crude merchant road on our arrival, now it was a thoroughfare of ranches, stables, farms and taverns. Fresh horses and mules were provided along our route, in accordance w
ith set contracts. Within a week we were in Los Angeles, and then turned southeast for Warner Ranch. It was there that I said goodbye to Vic.

  “Why do you leave Vic behind? He has never failed you. He will not fail you now,” Tatanka said.

  “My old friend has done his duty,” I said, feeding Vic apples as I hugged his neck. “He has carried me from Fort Lincoln to Crockett’s Fort across forty years. I don’t want to lose him on some Texas battlefield.”

  “He wishes to serve,” Tatanka protested, for he had spent more time riding Vic in the last year than I had.

  “And I wish him to live,” I said.

  “Is Tejas to be your last stand?” Tatanka asked.

  “I still have Custer’s Luck,” I answered.

  Warner Ranch was a small town with a fort now, a key step along the road to Yuma, but it remained informal. The mission had reestablished some of the farm land, vaqueros continued to herd cattle, and prospectors searched the hills for gold. Father Tomás had procured a nice little ranch for me off the main road near the hot springs. Someday I would build a sanitarium where victims of consumption could come for a cure.

  Orders had been issued to clearly mark the trail, but the extent to which the order had been carried out surprised me. Beyond the stakes pounded into the ground every twenty yards were rock cairns, dyed leather markers hanging from trees, and white-washed crosses. Apparently marking the trail had become a sort of game for the travelers, each seeking to make their contributions.

  When we reached the edge of the desert, I ordered all of the horses unsaddled. They would be walked, not ridden, with mules our primary form of transportation. Several vaqueros suggested this was an unnecessary precaution, the long gaps between waterholes now peppered with cisterns, but I wanted to take no chances. We needed healthy mounts for the long march though west Texas.

  The trail from Warner Ranch to Yuma was uneventful. The Indians of southern California tended to be tame, more interested in farming than ambushing strangers. Reports from the commandant of Los Angeles, and Father Tomás of the San Gabriel Mission, gave favorable reports of local conditions. As we approached the Colorado River, a cannon shot announced our arrival.