Custer at the Alamo (21 page)

Chapter Six

“The men are saddling their horses,” Smith reported as I stepped out into the cold afternoon air. I wore the Spanish sword, the two Bulldogs, and carried my hunting rifle. My red scarf was tied carefully around my neck. Smith was dressed in the same buckskins he’d worn at the Little Big Horn.

“How many volunteered?” I asked.

“All of them,” Smith said with a salute.

“There’s no point trying to follow the hostiles with the entire company,” I decided. “Tom will take half the men and search near the river. Bill, you take the other half and explore the bench land to our left. I will accompany Señor Seguin and his
vaqueros
, along with the Indian lads. Send me Butler, Voss, French and Engle.”

The command was quickly mounted, initially moving southeast along the river before splitting up. My group followed the trail of the hunting dogs. Knowing close quarters might become necessary, I traded my Remington for Tom’s Winchester. When we spotted the kidnappers, I would alert the company to our position and the three units would converge.

We pressed our horses for the first hour, turning east along a rushing tributary that fed the San Antonio River. The dogs indicated the Indians had crossed at a ford just below some heavy woods. We stopped while I surveyed the area with my field glasses.

“What do you see, sir?” Sergeant Butler asked.

“A deer trail leads from the creek to a high pasture. Up there, screened by those cottonwoods. I can’t see the village, but there’s a faint gray haze rising above the trees.”

“They must be on the west slope. Among the old grove of walnut trees,” Seguin said, pointing to a forest about a mile away.

“How big is a Comanche village?” I asked, more familiar with the plains Indians farther north.

“Forty warriors. Perhaps two hundred in all, counting the women and children,” he answered. “Sad we could not stop the villains before reaching their stronghold. I hope they will accept ransom.”

“We’ll see who accepts what. Señor Seguin, please send a
vaquero
back to alert the command. Have him take the dogs. We will proceed to the village,” I ordered, not wanting to lose time.

Though surprised, there were no objections. We plunged into the creek, the horses swimming part to way as we struggled to stay dry. Once up on the opposite bank, we dismounted to check our equipment and reload the weapons. Everyone brushed down their horses as best they could.

“Let me go first,” Seguin said. “I know some of these Comanche. It’s my daughter we seek.”

Two of his
vaqueros
rode to his side, both of Seguin’s age. I gathered they had ridden the trail together for thirty years and would not be divided now. Good friends to have, and their loyalty spoke well of Seguin’s character.

“Sergeant Butler, unfurl our colors. Arms at the ready, gentlemen, but no firing unless I give the command,” I said. “Especially you, young warriors. We are here to rescue someone, not to fight.”

“Yes, Yellow Hair,” Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf said.

But they did not seem disappointed, expecting a fight one way or the other. Comanche scalps hanging from their lodge poles would be quite a prize.

We rode casually up from the river through some low-lying flatlands, heading toward the grove of walnut trees while doing nothing to mask our approach. Between my Winchester, Butler’s Sharps, and the three Springfields, I figured us for enough firepower should a retreat prove necessary. Once back across the river, with Tom and Smith coming to our support, there would be little danger except for the stray arrow or lucky musket ball.

A shallow brook ran on our right, a thick wood off to the left as we followed the deer trail. The winter scrub was too sparse to attract game, but we did see some meadowlarks. The woods closed in on the trail, then opened again to a large pasture just below the foothills. On the far side of the pasture, I saw three dozen teepees nestled together at the edge of the trees.

Some of the Comanche boys had been fishing in a pond until we emerged from the woods. Women were cooking a late lunch. In many places, buffalo hides had been stretched on wood frames for curing. The warriors were mounting their horses. They were armed with bows and arrows, a few lances, and one musket. At fifty yards distance, I halted my small force.

“Sergeant Butler, you will form a skirmish line here,” I decided. “Señor Seguin and I will go forward alone.”

“General, I don’t think that’s too smart,” Butler protested.

“Jimmy, no one has ever accused George Armstrong Custer of being smart,” I answered.

I looked to Seguin, wondering if he had the courage. He looked back with a gleam of admiration. We understood each other.

“Into the lion’s den, Señor,” I said, giving Vic a nudge.

Seguin’s horse was also a superior specimen, a white Spanish stallion with brown spots and black leggings. A much finer breed than the mustangs running wild on the plains.

“I hear the Comanche like to steal horses,” I mentioned, having read some interesting articles in
Harper’s Weekly
.

“They are brazen horse thieves,” Seguin said. “It is a game with them. The young men vie with each other for the most daring exploits. Alas, the Comanche steal people, too. Women and children. This is harder to forgive.”

I heard the bitterness in the old gentleman’s voice, but I also sensed he sympathized with the Indians. He suspected what I already knew, that the Comanche culture was doomed. By 1876 they would be pushed onto reservations, poor and without hope. But first there would be bloody days, for the Comanche would not give up their way of life without a fight.

“I think they are a band of Quahadie. I do not know much about them. They usually range north of here,” Seguin said.

“The Comanche drove the Apaches off this land, didn’t they?”

“Yes, many years ago. And they waged war on the Jumano, who were virtually wiped out. The Comanche are the best fighters in the world, especially on horseback.”

“You’ve never seen the Northern Cheyenne, my friend. Or the Seventh Cavalry with a good head of steam,” I said, filled with sudden confidence.

When the warriors saw only two of us coming forward, they fell back into their village and dismounted. A path of curious Indians opened before us. Most were women and children, including some very old grandmothers and grandfathers, which surprised me, for old age in the West is not common. Deer hide seemed the most popular outfit, but I noticed a few fabrics and lots of fur trimmings. Many of the faces glaring up at us were amused, as if delighting in some great joke. I dropped off my buffalo hide blanket, revealing my fringed buckskin jacket and red scarf. The bulldogs in my holsters were cleared for action. The Winchester lay across my lap. I threw the buffalo hide to a pretty young squaw and winked. Her face flushed.

We reached a large bonfire pit, embers still smoking, but some of the tree branches were only charred, dampened by last night’s rain. Three chiefs, garbed in traditional rawhide coats, stood to one side of the fire pit. Twenty feet behind them, I saw Isabella and four other young women. Two were white and two Tejano. Isabella straightened up when she saw us, squaring her shoulders and looking proud. The other captives were terrified, thinking their would-be saviors a pair of fools.

Seguin dismounted and began to make introductions in Spanish, motioning to his daughter. The chiefs nodded without betraying their thoughts. Good poker faces.

“Señor, I need you to translate for me. Who is in charge?” I suddenly insisted.

“Soars Aloft is the senior chief, but he cannot speak for the others. Chiefs have no such authority among the Comanche, only influential opinions,” he explained.

The plains Indians were not much different. Among the Sioux and Cheyenne, a warrior generally did as he pleased. They would listen to the chiefs, and follow a strong leader, but they would not be bound by another man’s will. In this I envied them.

I looked around the village, studying the mass of people watching for my reaction. My love of the theatre served me well, for I took a dramatic pause that made them hold their breath. Seguin then translated what I said, his pace rapid as he sought to keep up.

“Honored leaders, I am General George Custer of the Seventh Cavalry. I have fought many battles. I was leader of the Wolverines in the Great War of the North against the South.”

To emphasize my point, I let out a wolf howl that caused everyone to jump back. Even the chiefs. Vic stirred at the sudden movement, but I held him in check.

“Now I am commander of a regiment raised by the spirits,” I continued. “A regiment returned from beyond the setting sun with secrets of days that have not yet happened. You are brave. Masters of your world. But a new world comes. A world that is not friendly to the Comanche. I would speak to you of this new world.”

The chiefs did not react, at first. Each appeared dumbfounded. Then Soars Aloft stepped forward.

“We have seen the white men who fight among their own. And the Mexicans, who also fight each other,” Soars Aloft said, letting Seguin translate. I noticed that Soars Aloft’s Spanish was excellently spoken. “Now the Mexicans and white men are fighting. Each seeks to claim the land, but this is our land. Comanche land. We take what we need, as we have always done.”

“One day the white men will rule all the lands north of the Rio Grande, and the Mexicans will rule all to the south,” I replied, pointing in both directions. “On that day, the white men and the Mexicans will remember the Comanche who stole their women and children. That will be a bad day for the Comanche.”

“I am not afraid of the white man. Or the Mexican,” Soars Aloft said, brows bent.

“A chief who leads such brave warriors could never be afraid, but a wise chief is cautious. May I show your people a reason to be cautious?”

The village was quiet except for a dog barking in the background. Soars Aloft gave me a careful inspection. I leaned forward in my saddle, returning the gaze, and giving Vic a scratch behind the ears. This was not my first negotiation with an Indian tribe, and I knew that a degree of mutual respect was needed. I would not embarrass Soars Aloft before his people, nor would I show weakness. The chief was puzzled by my confidence, sitting calmly amidst so many enemies.

“If you have such magic, let it be shown,” one of the lesser chiefs finally said, growing impatient. He held a steel knife in his hand, probably stolen from a dead settler.

“Our people will be insulted if you disappoint them,” the third chief warned.

“Expect there to be a price,” Soars Aloft added.

“I have not ridden so far on a cold day to insult the Comanche,” I replied, looking back toward the edge of the village.

There was a spot I had scouted on the ride in, a barren patch of dirt not far from the pond, but first I gazed about as if contemplating my options.

“I agree there should be a price. A price my new friends the Comanche will need to pay, if you have the courage,” I said.

“We have the courage, white man,” Soars Aloft replied.

My challenge did not sit well with many, especially the young men, who sensed a lack of respect. I wanted them stirred up. Anxious. But I needed to strike a balance between their curiosity and desire to take my hair.

“We need to gather nine pots,” I requested.

“Few women will give up their pots,” Soars Aloft objected.

“They can be old pots that no one wants.”

“We have some old pots,” Soars Aloft agreed.

I rode Vic back to the clearing, eagerly followed by the entire village. After dismounting, I handed the reins to a smart-looking teenager and took off my riding gloves. Four women ran up carrying old clay cooking pots, the decorations nearly worn off except for one, which had a large crack in it.

Several poles ringed the edge of the village, each about eight feet tall. I assumed they were used for drying meat. I set one pot high up on a pole to my left. Fifty yards away, Butler and my intrepid army were in the meadow watching our every move. I motioned to the pot and twirled my finger, then moved right and placed a pot on another pole ten paces away.

“Seven volunteers, please. Seven brave young men willing to face death,” I announced.

As I spoke, the remaining seven pots were placed on the ground in a semi-circle next to the pond, each two yards apart. I backed up about ten yards while seven young Comanche walked to the line of pots. They ranged in age from fourteen to eighteen. A good selection. I placed the oldest challenger at the far left end of the line, moving chronologically to the youngest at the far right. I looked toward Butler and raised my Winchester, letting him know all was well.

“We will only play this game if everyone agrees,” I said.

“What is this game?” the third chief asked, his weather-beaten face crinkling when looking at the youngest volunteer.

“Your name, honored sir?” I asked.

“His name is Dark Cloud,” Seguin translated after a brief discussion. “The youngster is his son, Buffalo Hoof.”