Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 (44 page)

“Mac-Neil, yes,” she answered.

There was a long, nervous moment as she fell silent, staring into his eyes. How he wanted to sweep her into his arms, wipe the soot from her cheeks, and kiss her neck. He fought the impulse. His breath came harder and his heart pounded faster.

“Come,” she whispered. “We find a quiet place to talk. Some shade.”

In a little corner of the stockade, tucked beneath a bastion of the compound, they found privacy. Here Custer swept Monaseetah into his arms, hungrily crushing her to him, as if never to let her go.

“I’ve missed you, Yellow Hair,” she sobbed against his chest.

He sensed the delicate tremble of her shoulder blades, like the fluttering wings of a small, helpless bird attempting flight.

“Many times have I wanted to come to you, Monaseetah.”

She pressed two fingertips against his lips. “This first wife of yours—she keeps you happy?”

“She gives me what she can of herself.”

“So many times since that day she was here, I have thought … she is going to have a child for you.”

He smiled down at her. “No. She is not to have my child.” He watched the smile widen on her lips, brightening her whole face. When the tears rolled down her cheeks, he understood.

What relief she must feel that I’m not having a child with
Libbie, to leave Monaseetah like some discarded distraction who filled some otherwise empty hours.

“You are happy she is not carrying my child?” Custer asked.

She could only nod, choking on a sob.

“You believed I would throw you away?”

Monaseetah reached up, clamping her arms around his neck as would a drowning person. Not daring to let go.

He pulled her down beside him against the wall, holding her as if she were a young child seeking shelter in his arms.

“She and I,” he explained, “cannot have children. Long have we tried. It is not to be.”

She gazed up at his sunburned face, his bushy eyebrows burnished red-gold like the summer-burned grasses before the first autumn frost. Already little wrinkles marked the corners of his eyes like heron tracks on the wet sands of a riverbank. She wanted their child to have his eyes.

“Perhaps, because this wife of yours cannot have children, Yellow Hair thinks
he
cannot have children.”

“We have tried for so long.”

“This woman with the pale skin—she is the one who cannot bear a child.”

He looked at her strangely. “How can you be so sure of this?”

Instead of speaking, Monaseetah took his rough hand and guided it to her soft, rounded hip, gliding it across to the mound of her belly. The little life within kicked against its father’s touch.

He yanked his hand away, afraid. Shaking his head. Refusing to believe.

“It is true, Yellow Hair. This is your child. He moves for you now—to show you.”

“This cannot be my child.”

“Your wife cannot bear a child, Yellow Hair—but your loins are strong. Her body is dead inside, shriveled like a dry, brittle flower—hardened against the coming of winter. My body is made to give life to children. Your children, Yellow Hair.”

She took his hand, placed it on her belly. “I am meant to carry your child. My body is dark and fertile, like the soil. Many times you dropped your seed on that fertile ground.”

“Stop it!”

As he said it, he knew she told the truth. The many times he had crawled atop her young body, taking his pleasure there. Now, it was all jumbled inside him: the relief of knowing he could have a child, the fear of having a child of his own, the fear of Libbie finding out. Always the fear …

He looked at her. Afraid most of all of losing Monaseetah.

“I wanted Yellow Hair happy with this news,” she pleaded.

“Happy? Yes, I am happy. You are sure? I am the child’s father?” As he said it, he saw the wounded fawn in her eyes.

“There is no doubt in my heart, Yellow Hair. You have been the only one. No other seed but Yellow Hair’s grows within me.”

He ran his palm over her belly, feeling it tumble in response to his touch. “It moves … so much.”

“More than my first child,” she replied. “It could have no other father. This little one moves as you do.”

“Like his father.”

“Your child will be born in the Moon of Black Calves.
The moon when the buffalo born in spring finally shed their coats of red.”

“Fall?”

“Before
Hoimaha
comes to lay a blanket of white across the prairie with his vengeance upon the land.” She laid her hand atop his. “I am five moons now. This child is halfway to greeting its father, Yellow Hair.”

“It comes so soon.”

His brow knitted as he paused, considering, brooding. He must find some way to return her to the Cheyenne reservation before she grew so large there would be questions.
Besides
, he told himself,
she will be much safer there among her own people.
And he would be safer with her having their child away from white eyes.

“I must find a way to return you to your people,” he told her.

“But I am with my people. And you are here. I will stay.”

“No, it is for the best. This child cannot be born among the white men. I fear for its safety.”

“Someone would harm our child?”

“Perhaps.” Custer sighed. “Among the Cheyenne, children of many colors are adopted all the time. As Romero was when he was a child.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“But it is different among whites. To them, our child would be nothing more than a half-breed.” He did not like the taste of that word on his tongue.

“He would not live well in your world, Yellow Hair?”

“Far better that he grow up Indian, among those who will accept him.”

“Your people would harm our child?” Her eyes filled with fear.

“He might be a curiosity for a time. The half-breed child of Yellow Hair, the great Indian fighter.”

“If the child is a girl?”

“She would be treated poorly. Perhaps used by some man, then discarded.”

“If our child is Yellow Hair’s son …”

“Worse yet. He would not be allowed to be his own man. He would always be threatened by men who thought less of him because of his Indian blood. Especially those who wanted to attack me by attacking my son. He would never be his own person, but instead a spirit without a home.”

There was but one choice. Monaseetah had to leave for the reservation and raised their child among the Cheyenne.

“Monaseetah, it rests with you to see that our child grows strong.”

He clutched her shoulders more tightly than ever before. She winced in pain beneath the iron of his grip.

“What of you, Yellow Hair? Will you come see your child?”

Custer sensed something more painful than fear in her voice. “I will come see my child. Before he grows to be a man.”

“When will I see you next?”

“I will come soon. I must hurry, to plan the return of your people to their reservation. Sooner than I had hoped. I did not want you to go.”

At the gate, she looked for prying eyes before taking Custer’s freckled hand in hers, again pressing his palm against her belly.

“See?” she giggled softly. “The little one kicks for you.”

“This second child, Monaseetah—
will
it be a boy?”

She closed her eyes, as if heeding some mystical voice within her. “Yes, Yellow Hair will have a son.”

“H
EY
, Autie!” Tom Custer stood with several other young officers, waving him over. “You gotta hear this story Yates is telling.”

“Good to have you back from furlough, George,” Custer said to Yates. “How was Monroe?”

“Perfect as ever, General. No better hometown in all this great land.”

“What’s this story you were recounting for the boys?”

“I was telling about California Joe. Soon as you mustered him out, he was determined to have a ride on a train. Bought a ticket east to Leavenworth. Watched him sitting at his window seat like a boy handed some penny candy, eyes big as a schoolhouse clock when that steam whistle blew and they dumped sand under the wheels. He must’ve figured that was about the grandest thing he’d ever done—getting pulled along without mule nor horse.”

“You rode east with him?”

“Not exactly. Bumped onto him in Hays City when I laid over for an hour of switching engines. Found him right in
front of Drum’s Saloon—or maybe it was John Bitter’s place.”

The staccato of pounding hooves drew their attention down company row.

“General Custer!”

Three horsemen galloped up to the group, horses lathered.

The sergeant among them saluted. “Danged happy to catch up with you. Begging pardon, sir.”

The mounts snorted and stamped, prancing sideways, fractious with the closeness of so many men on foot.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“There’s been a disturbance among the prisoners, sir.”

“Prisoners?”

The sergeant nodded, catching his breath. “The three chiefs calling for
Ouchess.
Colonel Miles says they mean you.”

Tom stepped up. “That’s Cheyenne for Creeping Panther.”

“What about the prisoners?” Custer asked.

“Them three bucks you brought from the Sweetwater, sir. Fat Bear, Big Head, and Dull Knife. Been some stabbings. A little shooting too. Colonel Miles sent me to fetch you, sir.”

“Moylan! Someone, bring me a fresh mount. Saddled or not—just bring me a horse!” He asked the sergeant, “Any other casualties?”

“Can tell for sure, sir. Time I left, no one gone in the stockade. Injuns running all about in there. No soldier would be safe to check on them Cheyenne, you see.”

A horse was led to him. Custer lunged to the saddle in a fluid motion, pivoting the animal into the company street between rows of tents. With a leap, the horse wheeled and
galloped away, followed by the sergeant, caught by surprise at Custer’s sudden departure.

Clouds of yellow dust burst from the hooves as Custer haunch-slid the animal to a halt on the sun-baked parade near the prisoner stockade. His pale eyes scanned the milling captives for some sign of Monaseetah. Tossing the reins to a nearby trooper, he started to dart away when Miles called out “Custer!”

“Colonel! What in tunket’s going on here?”

“The prisoners—”

“Anyone killed?” Custer stammered, anxious.

“Don’t know for sure.”

“How the devil did it start?”

“Near as we make out, for days now the prisoners have been led to believe there were other Cheyenne in the area who’ve come up to rescue them from the stockade.”

“Why, there’s not a bloody Cheyenne within a hundred miles of here!”

“We know that! But the goddamned prisoners didn’t.” Miles ground his teeth a moment, watching Custer seethe. “Seems one of our Indian scouts thought he’d have some fun with the captives, so he started the rumor.”

“Did the prisoners attempt to break out?”

Miles shook his head. “When I learned of the goddamned rumor, I thought I should put the chiefs in the guardhouse, until things simmered down a bit.”

Custer glanced over to the raw-boarded building. “You got them locked up?”

“We didn’t get that far.”

“What the blazes you mean?”

“My sergeant who was escorting the chiefs never learned
a word of Cheyenne, so he couldn’t explain things to the chiefs.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Goddammit, Custer! The chiefs thought we were taking them out to a hanging!”

Custer shook his head. “So they decided to die like warriors rather than at the end of a rope. What happened?”

“All hell broke loose. Squaws came up, surrounding the sergeant’s men and the chiefs. One of the soldiers put a bayonet against Dull Knife’s ribs, to prod him to the gate. But the old chief just stood there like a stone. They all watched as that bayonet pushed through the blanket into his ribs. As soon as the squaws saw blood on the old man’s blanket, the knives came out.”

“Where’d they get weapons?”

“Hell if I know. We didn’t search a damned one after they were brought north from Camp Supply. Could be they were mess knives sharpened on stones.”

“Any of our men dead?”

“Not yet. One sergeant gutted pretty bad. Lippincott tells me he may not see the morning.”

“Any others?”

“The lieutenant—officer of the day. He heard the commotion and came running. Got a knife in his neck for his trouble. Blood gushing over his tunic. All hell broke out. The troops fired across the compound.”

“Dear God!”

“In all the excitement, I’m glad no more than the one was killed.”

“Killed? Who?” Custer grabbed Miles’s tunic.

“A chief. Big Head, we believe. A bullet through the heart.”

“But you don’t know if anyone else in there is bleeding or dead.”

“No, that’s why I sent for you. Way they’re worked up, you’re the only one can go in there now.”

“What about Fat Bear?”

“Knocked out cold—a rifle butt to the jaw.”

Custer dashed to the stockade gate. “Open up!” he called to the guards.

“But General. I ain’t got orders—”

“Open those gates or I’ll open up the side of your head!” He shoved aside the sergeant’s rifle. “The rest of you brave soldiers … What can those Cheyenne in there do to you boys out here—penned up as they are, like cattle for the slaughter?”

The gate opened slightly at the sergeant’s urging. Custer dove through, hearing the clunk of wood on wood as the gate clattered shut behind him.

“Custer!”

He turned, finding Miles at the wall. “For God’s sake, come out until things simmer down.”

“Things won’t simmer down on their own.”

“Watch out, Custer!”

Custer whirled at Miles’s warning. Cheyenne squaws crept toward him from all sides like sheep, their eyes wary, watchful of the soldiers at the stockade walls. Fear and panic glistened in every eye. Like the eyes of trapped animals.

Two dozen ringed him, jabbering excitedly. He waved them quiet. “Monaseetah?”

“She comes, Yellow Hair,” said one old woman, her earlobes tattered from earrings pulled out across the years.