Custer at the Alamo (22 page)

“Tell Dark Cloud this is a simple game. When Soars Aloft gives word, I will raise my weapon. The young Comanche will raise their weapons. I will seek to destroy the pots at each young warrior’s feet. If successful, that warrior will drop his weapons.”

“And once our warriors have weapons in hand, what are they to shoot at? You have no pot,” Soars Aloft asked.

“Your warriors will shoot at me,” I answered, pounding my chest. “But if their pot has been destroyed, they cannot shoot at me. Is this a good game?”

“This is a good game,” Soars Aloft said, pleasantly surprised.

He went to explain the rules to his warriors. I suspected they would be good as their word, but looked over to Señor Seguin for assurance. He nodded. Except for a few scoundrels like Crazy Horse, I’ve found that most Indians keep their promises.

The sun broke briefly through the gray clouds, a blue blaze in a dark sky. I stood before my seven opponents like Wild Bill Hickok in the dime novels. The oldest brave to my left had a hatchet tucked in his belt. The youngest to my right held a bow with a quiver of arrows. That’s all I needed to remember.

“Custer, we would be fair with you,” Soars Aloft said, disturbed by the seven-to-one odds.

“Soars Aloft, let the Great Spirit decide the fairness of it,” I said.

He nodded and stepped back. The chief seemed to understand the dramatic pause as well as I, raising a hand to begin the contest. The people crowded closer, mindful that arrows would be flying but wanting to see. Isabella had pushed to the front, getting an excellent view. She seemed in good spirits, her dark brown eyes dancing with excitement. I smiled and doffed my hat. Soars Aloft dropped his hand.

I whipped the Winchester up, took a slight crouch, and blasted the first pot on the left before the oldest youngster had raised his hatchet. He looked up in shock, for the muskets they had seen could never be fired so quickly. They also knew it took thirty to sixty seconds to reload a musket. The other six lads slowly raised their weapons, amazed that I hadn’t even drawn my pistols. Then I suddenly cocked the Winchester’s lever and fired again, hitting the second pot. Had the targets been elevated or at a longer range, they might have proved more difficult. On the ground, just a few yards away, they looked like giant pumpkins.

The Indian boys began to react as I fired a third and fourth time, moving steadily to the right, each warrior jumping as the shattering shards pelted their legs. The crowd behind me murmured in marvel, for they had never seen such a thing. Some pulled back in fear.

Shots five and six followed in rapid order, the pots bursting. The youngsters looked to their chiefs, saw Soars Aloft frown, and tossed their weapons down in disgust. They were true to the rules of the game, which was good for their sake. My Winchester held fifteen rounds. I could easily have killed all of them, and the three chiefs as well.

Only one opponent remained, the fourteen-year-old at the end of the line. He’d nocked an arrow but hadn’t had time take aim. I pointed the Winchester at his chest. The circle was deadly quiet as I stood ready to fire. Dark Cloud looked concerned for his son, but honor would not let him interfere. The boy lowered his bow, acknowledging defeat. I could not blame him for being scared.

Exploiting the moment, I slowly walked forward, patted the plucky lad on the shoulder, and broke the pot with a stomp of my foot. The village let out a cheer. I raised my hand and twirled my finger. Like a summer thunderstorm, the two pots I had placed on tall the poles suddenly exploded, shards raining down on the three chiefs.

“There,” I said, pointing at Butler and Voss. Both crack shots at a range of fifty yards.

The village elders were impressed. The warriors were amazed, and a little worried. The women did not look afraid. Had the Great Spirit sent a demon into their village, the demon would not look handsome and dashing like me.

I heard a bugle in the distance. Many of the young men were startled, and the oldest boy who had accepted my challenge reached for his hatchet, raising it as if to throw. For a moment, I was afraid I might have to shoot him after all, but Soars Aloft intervened, giving his warriors a stern look.

“You have played a good game, white general,” Soars Aloft said, his translated word betraying Seguin’s relief. “The Comanche would be your friend if it is a good thing.”

“Being my friend is a good thing,” I said, reaching to shake his hand. “See now, how good a thing it is.”

My timing was flawless. A blue-gray mass emerged from the woods to the west, hooves thundering and company guidons flying. Tom took his men to the left, forming up on Butler’s skirmish line. Smith moved his men to the right. Cooke took position in the center. In the time it takes to steal a pie off a windowsill, the nine men who arrived with Señor Seguin and I had become an army of forty, all carrying strange looking rifles.

“I have given the Comanche the gift of this game. I think you should give me a gift,” I requested, trying to be diplomatic.

“Would you have one of the captives?” Soars Aloft guessed.

“I must have
all
the captives,” I quietly demanded.

“All might be too many,” Dark Cloud said, his face furrowed with frustration.

“I am General George Custer. I must return with all the captives, for that is what my people expect of me.”

“Sometimes people expect too much,” Soars Aloft said, though it seemed more of a comment than an argument.

“That is true, but I still must have all the captives,” I insisted.

“Let us sit and talk. We will smoke a pipe,” Soars Aloft suggested.

“I will be honored to smoke a pipe with Soars Aloft,” I answered.

* * *

Mark Kellogg could be a pain, but on this occasion he proved useful, supporting Seguin’s assessment of the Comanche. They were inveterate thieves. Horses, cattle, people, it made no difference. The years ahead would not be easy for them, for they did not perceive the wrong the way a civilized culture does.

“We will be friends,” Soars Aloft finally said after an hour of bartering, holding out his hands in the gesture of acceptance.

“Yes,” I said, shaking his hand. As was
my
custom.

The teepee was not crowded. Soars Aloft, his two sub-chiefs, and a few women sat on one side of a small fire. Tom, Señor Seguin and I sat on the other.

“We will tell our people. In the spring, we will meet again to speak of a new treaty,” Soars Aloft said.

“I hope we will meet again,” I agreed, for I had started to like the old chief, thieving rascal though he may be. Soars Aloft did not fool me, and I don’t think I fooled him.

The command had moved into the village for lunch where they accepted hot soup and rested under the trees. The men were friendly but watchful, having visited many similar villages over the years. I allowed Sergeant Butler to fire his Sharps at a few ducks, much to the delight of the Indians, but he was careful to conserve ammunition. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf were more guarded, having no special love for enemies of the Cheyenne.

It was late in the day as we prepared to return to Casa Blanca. There had been no rain, though dark clouds threatened.

“You are quite the cavalier,” Isabella said, holding my arm as we walked from the camp. “Do you always rescue damsels in distress with such flamboyance?”

“No. Sometimes lobbing an artillery shell does just as well,” I said, captured by the glint in her exquisite eyes.

The other freed captives trailed behind us, preparing to ride double once we cleared the woods.

“You remind me of someone I loved,” she said.

“A lost love?” I asked, jesting in the accepted style. Isabella grew serious.

“My husband, Joaquin. He was a captain in Santa Anna’s cavalry, and a hero of our revolution against Spain,” she solemnly explained. “But Joaquin spoke against the tactics used by Santa Anna to crush his enemies, believing them harsh. In revenge, the dictator ordered my husband to his death in a pointless skirmish. We had no children, so I left our beautiful hacienda in Mexico City, having no further interests there. I returned home last year. And now the revolutions have followed me.”

I looked again at this beautiful woman, the wife of a cavalry officer, and wondered what my Libbie would do without her beau. We were in debt when I left for the Dakotas, my career wrecked by Washington politicians. The press was no longer interested in Indian fighters. The newspapers wanted to hear about the latest inventions by Thomas Edison and Alexander Graham Bell.
Harper’s Weekly
wrote of Cornelius Vanderbilt’s great wealth and the depravations of Boss Tweed. Americans no longer cared about the soldiers they sent to fight their wars, flocking instead to Wild West shows and boardwalk carnivals.

“Have you travelled somewhere else, General Custer?” Isabella teasingly asked, noticing I had become distracted.

“A great distance, but I’m returned now.”

“Very good. A woman does not like to be ignored.”

“Rest assured, señorita, I could never ignore you.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

It must be admitted that having such a beautiful woman nearby was confusing. Though I could not imagine marrying outside my race, or faith, there could be no doubt about Isabella’s attractions. She was charming, intelligent, and wealthy. And I was now a bachelor, whether I felt like one or not.

The hostiles, or rather, our new friends, followed us from the camp until we reached the tree line, waving and shouting. I noticed a few of the privates wearing beaded Indian jackets and long-legged moccasins. I don’t know what they traded for these comforts and didn’t ask, provided they were still carrying their Springfields and Colts.

Once we were through the woods and ready to ford the creek, we mounted the horses and let out our breaths. Though successful this time, no one believed that every encounter with the Comanche would end as well.

“You know that is only one band. One of dozens. They have no central authority,” Seguin said.

“Word will spread of our meeting. The other bands will want to know more about the Seventh Cavalry before starting trouble,” I said, for that’s usually how things work.

“War is their way of life,” Kellogg said.

“Mine, too,” I replied, spurring Vic to the front of the column.

Two of Seguin’s
vaqueros
were leading the ride back to Casa Blanca. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf were riding flank. Tom and Morning Star rode just behind Butler and Cooke. The men waved as I passed, their spirits high.

“Don’t know how you did it, Autie. And without firing a shot,” Tom said.

“Fired nine shots,” I corrected.

“Yeah, and where did you learn that trick? Buffalo Bill?” Tom asked.

“It could have been Wild Bill Hickok,” I answered.

“Or P.T. Barnum?” Tom said.

“Yes, I suppose P.T. Barnum,” I agreed, grinning.

“Are these medicine chiefs you speak of?” Morning Star asked.

Tom and I laughed.

“No, my flower,” Tom said. “Hickok is a lawman turned actor. He goes before an audience to do tricks with guns. Buffalo Bill was an army scout who has started a traveling rodeo for Easterners. And P.T. Barnum is the world’s greatest showman, regularly pulling the wool over people’s eyes and calling them suckers.”

“They sound frivolous. How can they compare with what General Custer has done?” Morning Star said, shocked by our lack of reverence.

“My cousin speaks truly, Yellow Hair,” Gray Wolf said. “Tell us where to find this Barnum. His scalp will hang from your lodge pole.”

“I am sorry you and Spotted Eagle did not get to fight your enemies,” I apologized, for they were eager young men.

“You will find us more enemies,” Gray Wolf said.

“Did Slow tell you that?” I asked.

“He did not need to,” Gray Wolf answered, waving his new feathered lance and giving a hardy cheer. The men behind us cheered, too.

Their good morale pleased me, but I wondered what they could be cheering for. We were still on a mysterious journey.

“Casa Blanca, then on to Cibolo Creek. Then what?” Tom asked, reading my thoughts.

“We can’t go back East,” I said. “Andy Jackson would lock us away as imbeciles, swindlers, or maybe Frenchmen. I don’t see how we can stay here, either. I was thinking of California. I happen to know a nice little creek next to Sutter’s Mill that might be nice.”

“You’re not the only one who’s had that thought,” Tom mentioned. “But not everyone agrees. At some point, the men will want to break off. Go their own way.”

“Not going to worry about that today, Tom,” I said, giving Vic a kick.

Gray Wolf and I caught up to Spotted Eagle, racing him along the flat river road. I let out a whoop and waved my hat, urging them on. The lads laughed, struggling to keep up.

“Your brother is like a child sometimes,” Morning Star told Tom.

“Autie was known as the Boy General during our Civil War. He wasn’t much older than Gray Wolf, yet he achieved great glory and fame. And now eleven years have passed, and he’s no longer a boy.”