gallantly leading their men, desires to express his thanks to the officers and men engaged in the Battle of the Washita, and his special congratulations are tendered to their distinguished commander, Brevet Major-General George A. Custer, for the efficient and gallant services rendered, which have characterized the opening of the campaign against hostile Indians south of the Arkansas.’”
Upon hearing the congratulations of the highest-ranking officer in the whole of the department, lusty cheers rang through the winter-cloaked meadow.
“He goes on!” Custer shouted above the clamor.
“‘For your bravery in the face of hostile fire, for your steadfastness in the face of bitter cold and conditions that deprived you of warmth and food for much of your campaign, I express my eternal gratitude to you, your officers, and your men. What is more, my dear friend Custer, you will have the eternal and benevolent gratitude of those very citizens of the frontier who are bringing the blessings of civilization to this wilderness, order out of chaos. In summary, be assured my superiors, both Generals Grant and Sherman, have been apprised of the efficient and gallant services rendered by the Seventh Cavalry, U.S. Army, under the capable command of the late brevet Major-General of the Army of the Potomac, your most able Lt. Col. George A. Custer.
By command of LIEUTENANT-GENERAL
PHILIP H. SHERIDAN’
“Scouts Milner and Corbin have rejoined our command. Besides some long-overdue letters from Fort Hays, they have some exciting news, gentlemen! They tell me this will be the last night you sleep on the trail. Tomorrow night … we’ll be quartered at Camp Supply!”
That singular bit of news caused cheering that drove masses of blackbirds flapping from off their roosts in the skeletal trees. At the height of the clamor, Custer signaled Moylan and his standard bearer to follow as he whirled his dark stallion about, leading his columns from the snowy meadow.
Mahwissa beamed maternally at Monaseetah. The young Cheyenne princess fluttered her eyes, embarrassed that she had been caught gazing hypnotically at the soldier chief.
“And he will make a fine husband for you. Many fine warrior sons will spring from the fire in his loins, Monaseetah.”
Romero rode behind them, herding the captives like cattle, prodding and swearing at the prisoners in their own Cheyenne tongue, whipping the rumps of the Indian ponies that failed to move quickly enough to suit him.
“My first child comes soon,” Monaseetah whispered. “From that dog of a husband I was made to marry in the shortgrass time.” Monaseetah pouted, her head hung in shame.
“You are heavy with child?” Mahwissa asked, surprised.
“It comes soon.”
“I did not know this when I married you to the soldier chief.”
“I kept it a secret after my father ransomed me back from the bad husband.”
“But you do not show!” The old woman’s eyes narrowed on Monaseetah’s belly, well hidden beneath the folds of her red blanket.
“A curse of the young, Mahwissa.”
“Your young body won’t put on much fat in the way the cow buffalo readies for her calf.”
“For three months now the land sleeps beneath the cold mantle of winter. I hide myself beneath warm robes and blankets.”
“I see, young one.” Mahwissa gazed into the distance.
“He will not be ashamed of me?” Monaseetah pleaded in a little-girl voice ringing with fear and loss. “Will
Mahwissa studied the course of Wolf Creek. “I do not think he will throw you away, little one. However, the white man is a strange animal for me to sort out. It will take many winters perhaps for you to learn about him. But I have seen how this soldier chief studies you with his eyes of blue fire. The yellow-haired one cannot hide his heat for you.”
“I think I want him to want me. Never before have I needed a man.”
“Little one, for two summers now you live in the body of a woman—a body that drives the young men wild with burning for you. Yet until this very moment you were but a little girl. Perhaps you now become a woman in full.”
“Why then does my heart give me such pain in missing him, or when I want him to look at me with those egg-blue eyes that tell me he wants me too? Why is there so much pain if being a woman is to bring me so much pleasure?”
“Ah, young one! Yes, there is real pain, much hurt and anguish to be suffered. I am afraid you will suffer that anguish all too soon in your young life.” She looked away, letting her moist eyes clear.
“There are men you might fall in love with,” Mahwissa continued, “men who will bring you so much more pleasure and happiness than sadness. I pray the soldier chief you give your heart to is not one who will leave a scar upon it.”
“A scar?”
“Yes, little one. On your heart a scar borne of sadness and despair, an empty ache that can never be filled. The more you feed that kind of love, little one … the more empty you become.”
By late that afternoon of the last day of November, breezes from the south blew a warm, welcoming breath at the column’s back. That night the troopers slept in their creekside camp, relishing an end to weeks of flesh- numbing cold.
Little snow remained to chill the wild land with the coming of the next morning’s sun, and what few drifts had escaped the chinooks warm breezes hid themselves in the shadows and shade of gullies and draws. Throughout the day Custer’s troops enjoyed welcome winter sun caressing their backs with warm promise. Spirits climbed; the men knew they drew close to Camp Supply. Yet amid the joy of a triumphant return was found a hardened, joyless handful who remained angry at the fate of Elliott’s men, abandoned in the valley of the Washita by their regimental commander. For now, the grumbling remained subdued. For now …
No man could be as exuberant with this triumph as the commander of the Seventh Cavalry himself. Again and again he considered the approach of his twenty-ninth birthday, barely four days away. What a glorious gift this campaign had proven to be—once and for all healing every last caustic wound done him at the hands of both detractors and superiors alike who had doubted his abilities, both as a commander of men and as an Indian fighter.
How he yearned for Libbie to be with him on his birthday.….
Inside—deep and unsettling—reeled something foreign. It caused him to twist in his saddle and gaze behind him at that long line of bundled troopers snaking around the brow of a hill. Back there, somewhere near the end of the procession, marched the prisoners. He squinted his eyes, unable to catch even a brief glimpse of the captives.
Once only had he lost control. “That awful, drunken scene played out in front of Judge Bacon’s house in Monroe many years ago,” he whispered to himself. “No, perhaps I allowed myself too many liberties with that Lyon woman down in Texas just after the war while Libbie visited Monroe—Mrs. Farnham Lyon. And the next year, that young wife of a fellow officer on Sheridan’s staff, during that stopover in St. Louis, while Libbie and I made our way to the regiment’s first home at Fort Riley. Twice already … would that there be no more.”
Over and over Custer reran through his mind those lines he had penned in his journal a short day and a half after the battle, scratching out words of passion, unable still to escape a haunting vision of those black-cherry eyes and wind-rouged cheeks burnished rose beneath a winter sun as she flicked her quick, inviting smile up at him.
Monaseetah is exceedingly comely … her well-shaped head was crowned with a luxuriant growth of the most beautiful silken tresses, rivaling in color the blackness of the raven and extending when allowed to fall loosely over her shoulders, to below her waist.
Custer reveled in the warm breeze at his neck. “I must keep that journal safe from prying eyes that might by accident or design seek to read between those lines. Surely any man reading my thoughts would discover I care all
