When Custer came face to face with the great Kiowa war chief Satanta, both men led armies itching for battle.
After deciding not to join Medicine Arrow, Satanta fumed at the arrogance of the Yellow Hair in following the Kiowa like a hunting dog trailing wounded, bleeding quarry, knowing full well those pony soldiers on his back trail were capable of destroying his villages at will.
On the other hand, Custer remained bitter, licking his own wounds. More than anything, he had wanted to capitalize on the Washita victory, taking the war into the Kiowa strongholds. No matter what any man might say about him, Custer had learned exactly what the Indian warrior understood best. Sheer might. War itself.
Blood was a common language understood by all peoples.
Custer’s horse pawed at the crusty ground.
“Joe—” His eyes found Milner. “Take Corbin, Clark, and Romero. Maybe the Mexican can help Clark interpret Kiowa for me.”
“What you got in mind, General?” Romero asked.
“Ride to the middle of the clearing and wait there. Appears they brought their head men with them this morning. Go find out when I can parley with Satanta and the others.”
“Lookee there, will you?”
Custer whirled. From the far side of the clearing two warriors left the main body, heading down a short, gentle slope heading from the trees into the bottom of the bowl.
“Time to earn your pay, Joe.”
Milner grinned within his greasy beard. “Looks like the curtain’s going up on this road show at last, General. ’Bout damned time.”
Custer gazed at the two crossing the windswept meadow. “Couldn’t agree more.”
“I think it best you send just two of us out to meet them fellas,” Milner advised sullenly.
“Because they’ve sent two?”
“Right.” Milner nodded. “Make a good show of the soldier chief’s intentions.”
“All right.” Custer sighed. “Joe, looks like you and Romero will be the ones. Go find out when I can meet with the chiefs.”
“They’ll keep us as far away from their village as they can, General,” Romero said. “Won’t be anxious to talk to you with their women and kids around.”
“That’s fine with me.” Custer glanced over his shoulder to check on his troops snaking their way down the river some distance behind his advance party. “We won’t push any farther till our command can support us.”
Better than a mile back, those long, dark columns of Seventh Cavalry and Nineteenth Kansas Volunteers had begun to reach the high ground north of the river. They made an impressive show of it snaking against the white tableland. Every bit as impressive, however, were the warriors backing the two delegates descending into the frosty meadow.
“Better than five hundred warriors, by my count, General,” Clark said.
Back and forth across the hills loped the Kiowa decked out in full war regalia. Their songs of war and profane challenge crackled through the air, which was heavy with the excitement of impending battle. Waving aloft their rifles and lances, bows and shields, even a blind man could tell the young warriors weren’t the least bit interested in suing for peace.
What really concerned Custer were those warriors hanging back among the trees ringing the meadow. With him now were enough men to make a good stand of it should the need suddenly arise: Lieutenant Pepoon’s fifty- man squad of civilians, Osage, and Kaw scouts, every man-jack of them armed and expecting a surprise if not outright treachery from the Kiowa. Captains Myers and Yates waited with Lieutenant Tom Custer. And beside the younger Custer sat reporter DeBenneville Randolph Keim, never straying far from center stage on Custer’s winter campaign.
Custer settled on his McClellan saddle as his scouts reined up before the two warriors. All four moved their arms and hands, conversing in prairie sign.
In less than a minute, the scouts headed back toward Custer’s group at a lope.
“I don’t like the looks of that, General,” Clark said.
“What’s gone wrong, Ben?”
“Maybe nothing at all, General. Just figure they should’ve talked longer.”
“By Jupiter!” Custer growled. “The truce break down? Is that why they’re coming back here at a gallop?” Custer wheeled, feeling the hairs prick along the back of his neck. “Cover ’em, men! Watch the bloody trees. I don’t like the smell of this.”
Behind him rose the familiar clatter of men checking the loads in their weapons, unsnapping the mule-eared holsters, resettling their cold rumps on their colder saddles. Itchy. Itchier still as the two scouts came skidding back beside Custer.
“You won’t believe this, General!” Milner yelled, yanking his mule up in a snowy cascade.
“Don’t try me, Milner! I’m in no mood for your humor.”
“Those two back there seem upset with you,” Romero explained. “They weren’t about to talk with us. Want to see the pony soldier chief himself.”
“Smells like a trap, Autie,” Tom Custer said, inching closer. “Look at ’em. Just laying for you, waiting to get you in their claws.”
Custer glanced at his younger brother. “Does have the foul smell of a trap, doesn’t it, Tom?” Then he looked at Milner and Romero. “Why’re you two grinning like coon hounds on the scent?”
“Them red niggers ain’t planning no ambush, General,” Milner answered.
“With my own eyes I can see two warriors sitting there as bait for me—”
“Them two ain’t no everyday warriors, General,” Milner interrupted. That’s the head boys of the Kiowa nation sitting out there, waiting to talk with you personal. That’s ol’ Satanta and Lone Wolf themselves!”
All eyes in Custer’s group focused on the two horsemen in the center of the snowy bowl. One of the Indian ponies pawed at the frozen ground anxiously. Its rider brought the pony under control.
“Lieutenant Colonel Crosby?”
“Yes?” The older officer, dressed in blue and a buffalo-hide greatcoat, nudged his horse forward beside Custer. Sheridan’s aide-de-camp was, as always, impeccably attired. Regulation army.
“It would please me if you came along with me to meet these warrior chiefs as General Sheridan’s personal emissary.”
J. Schuyler Crosby studied the pair of Indians. “Colonel Custer, believe me—it’d be an honor, sir.”
“Very good. Mr. Keim? Care to go along? Recording first-hand what occurs for your readers back east?”
Bobbing his head eagerly, the young newspaperman tapped heels to his mount, joining Romero. “You’ll never have to ask a question like that twice, General Custer!”
“Fine.” Custer let his eyes touch every one of those who would accompany him into the meadow. “Gentlemen, be aware that our lives might be at forfeit in but a twinkling of an eye. Check your weapons. Have them ready. Understood?”
Custer set off. Caught by surprise with his dramatic departure, Crosby and Keim dashed behind Custer, while Romero and Milner rode the flanks.
At long last he had come face to face with two of the bloodiest warriors on the southern plains.
“General,” Milner whispered as they clattered to a halt, “these boys got a reputation that’s smellier than a Comanche’s breechclout.”
“We’ll pay heed, Mr. Milner,” Custer replied, blue eyes searching the faces before him for signs of treachery or truth.
Satanta bore a hawkish countenance, his eyes shaded by a heavy, knitted brow, his dark face split by a carved beak that gave him the appearance of a predator. Beside him sat Lone Wolf, a little older in years perhaps, but no less frightening in appearance. Both copper faces were surrounded by straight, raven hair falling well past shoulders wrapped in blankets. Their dark glinting eyes gazed past Custer’s shabby, trail-worn appearance, attentive to the small party gathered behind the Seventh’s commander.
Satanta flashed a wide smile that showed most of his teeth as he nudged his pony past Custer, bringing up his right hand … presenting his big bare paw to Sheridan’s uniformed aide. To the Kiowa’s way of thinking, one
