winter sun. “The next discovery is interesting, General. We captured some meal flour and other bags of provisions, all in burlap stamped ‘Department of the Interior.’”
“So this tribe was at the Medicine Lodge treaty conference last year.”
“I’d bet on it,” Romero replied.
Yates continued. “Nearly all the Cheyenne’s clothing is in our possession. Those who escaped have only what they carried on their backs.”
“That’s the way I planned it. Dawn’s the time to catch ’em napping, don’t you see? Does that conclude your report?”
“Yes, General.”
“Very good. Then go to Myers with my suggestion that he put all this captured materiel on those piles he’s making of the lodges. I suggest he pour some of the Cheyenne gunpowder over the lot of it. Have him see me when he’s ready to set it afire.”
The tall, husky Yates saluted and was gone.
In less than half an hour Custer’s chosen lodge was secured in a wagon for the return trip. Meanwhile, the remaining tepees had been gathered in mountains of buffalo robes and tanned hides, blankets and weapons, clothing and food. Everything was to be destroyed, save for those few ponies the prisoners would ride while leaving behind their winter home along the Washita.
“Yates told me you wanted to see me,” Myers said when he arrived.
Custer saluted the captain. “Torch it all!”
Myers signaled his men. They tossed their flaming brands on each mountain of captured goods. The powder caught and flared. Some exploded, spraying showers of brilliant sparks over the scattering troopers. With the goading of a freshening breeze, the mountains burned like bright funeral pyres. The shivering troopers inched as close as they dared to warm their fronts while their backsides froze in a brutal wind. The troopers turned around and around, reveling in the warmth of the dancing flames. Over the trees and up the slopes of snow-whitened hills climbed a black, oily haze. Dark clouds reeking of destruction and death sent the warriors on the surrounding hillsides to keening in grief or angry fury.
Tom turned to see his brother staring at the hilltops bristling with enemy warriors. Custer’s azure eyes were as merry as ever.
“You know those red bastards are vowing revenge on your Seventh Cavalry, don’t you, Autie?”
“Yes, Tom. Promising someday to reverse the fortunes of war. Cursing us—that come a day they’ll destroy the pony soldiers the way we’ve destroyed Black Kettle’s band.”
“Don’t laugh too hard, General.” Ben Clark stepped up to the Custer brothers. “You ain’t begun to wipe out the Cheyenne nation. Curse the man who can’t see there’s a lot of fight left in those warriors. Pity the man who thinks he’s got ’em whipped.”
A winter sun raced into the western hills faster than a mule with the smell of a home stall strong in its nostrils. Securing the village had burned more time than Custer had planned. His count and destruction of the captured goods had taken far too long. Tom watched his brother grow angrier as winter’s light drained from the day.
“Look around you, Tom. Not one of these men realizes the danger in our march back to Camp Supply. We’re hampered now not only by our own wounded, but we’re dragging along better than fifty prisoners.”
“We’ll get out of this valley without getting jumped. You’ve done it before, Autie. Just have to make a night march of it.”
“Even doing that, I’m troubled we’ll draw attention to our supply train near the Antelope Hills. If we march in that direction, the hostiles might figure where we’re headed. And that could spell a sentence of death for the men guarding the train. The warriors could reach them on fresh ponies faster than we’ll be able to march.”
“Or set up an ambush for the rest of us along the way,” Tom said. “Tough choice. I know how it’s eating at you, Autie. You grip this victory in your hand—something to redeem you before your superiors, to show them the injustice of that court-martial. But that year away from the regiment was really nothing more than an annoyance diverting you from your goal—”
“That’s it, Tom! A stroke of genius!”
“What’d I say?”
“We’ll do the same with the hostiles! And at night, as you suggested. We’ll draw them away from our supply caravan. The way a sage hen draws the weasel from her nest.”
“It can work, Autie!”
“Tom, it’s got to work.” He whirled. “Lieutenant Moylan! Prepare the men to move out in columns of two. I want the regimental band in front, right behind our scouts. Post all guidons. Have them snapping, Lieutenant.”
“A march … now, sir?” the adjutant inquired, glancing at the sun sinking behind the hills.
“Why, Mr. Moylan, we’re going to march on down the Washita and chase the rest of these beggars right out of the country!”
Within a matter of minutes, the Seventh Cavalry had mounted, strapped in, and tuned up. Long after Custer’s “Forward, ho!” had echoed back from the hills, troopers shivered with the falling temperature. Nauseous from the hard, icy knots in their shrunken bellies, some grumbled.
“Hey, Sarge! What the divil is Ol’ Iron Pants trying to do?”
“What’r you griping ’bout, Dooley?”
“Thought we was marching back to Camp Supply. But me got the feeling we’re nosing round for more Injuns!”
“Just shuddup and keep that nose of yours in the wind, soldier!”
“Will you listen to that, Dooley?” Private Miller said. “Custer’s band is playing your song! ‘Ain’t I Glad To Get Out Of The Wilderness’!”
“Didn’t you hear the sarge up there?” Dooley snarled. “Shuddup!”
Miller shut his mouth. But that didn’t stop him from wondering why Custer wanted the regiment to make such a grand and noisy spectacle of their march.
But veterans like Sergeant Mathey knew exactly what Custer had up his sleeve.
* * *
“They cross the river!” Sees Red shouted as he skidded to a stop before his Kiowa chief.
“Coming our way?” Satanta asked.
“They blow their horns in the falling light.”
“The soldiers come to destroy our villages now,” Lone Wolf added sadly.
“It is good the women and old ones have already started on the trail to Hazen’s post, my friend,” Satanta replied.
“Soldiers come. Attack all the villages. I will see that all our people are gone, our campsites bare.” Sees Red wheeled about and was gone.
“This soldier chief attacks at night,” Satanta murmured. “Is he a man? Perhaps this soldier chief has no soul.”
No mistake about it; the warriors watched the pony soldiers cross the river, plunging into the same hills where Godfrey had been turned back by the Arapaho.
“He is coming! The pony soldiers intend to attack all our villages!”
The once bristling hilltops shed themselves of all but a handful of feathered warriors, the rest already gone to warn their villages of the army’s approach. Warriors prepared to fight, protecting their women and children and old ones while the lodges came down and the camps retreated into the wilderness.
As the smoked buffalo hides fell, leaving naked lodge poles behind, the frantic women herded travois ponies, children, and dogs after the old people scurrying into the fading winter twilight.
