dressed in this bright blue uniform and wool cloak dripping with glittering gold braid and festooned with brass buttons had to be the soldier chief.
The gesture caught Crosby by surprise. Dumbfounded and unsteady under pressure, Crosby shook his head violently, refusing to take Satanta’s hand. He began to stammer, trying ineptly to tell the chief that he was not the soldier chief. A garbled hodgepodge of tongue-tied words dribbled past his lips.
“I’m not—General Custer—why can’t he understand—”
Offended, Satanta angrily jerked his hand back at Crosby’s botched refusal. He gazed at his hand as if told he carried the pox. Then he spit on the ground with a sneer.
Custer realized the danger in embarrassing the Kiowa chief. From the corner of one eye he watched Lone Wolf ease his pony to the left, away from possible gunfire. Away from the impetutous Satanta. In the trees beyond, Kiowa warriors made their first bold forays from the shade, inching closer to their chiefs.
It didn’t take a cook to know someone had just thrown some sand in the soup.
“Me Kiowa!” Satanta roared in a tree-ringing growl, banging his chest with a huge ham hock of a fist he had offered Crosby.
“Romero!” Custer called out. “Tell this fellow he picked the wrong man for a chief—and tell him fast!”
“This scared one is not the chief,” the Mexican explained.
Again the chief glared at the shaken Crosby. “So you say, Indian-talker. Tell Satanta who is leader of the soldiers who trample across Kiowa land. Who among these poorly dressed hairy-faces claims to be the mighty soldier chief?”
“This one,” Romero answered, gesturing. “He who wears a buffalo coat, beside me.”
Satanta gave Custer nothing more than a cursory going over before he glowered at Romero.
“Stupid Indian-talker! You take Satanta for a fool, don’t you? This is no pony soldier chief. Hear me now! Satanta demands you bring me the pony chief who destroyed Black Kettle’s village. He and he only I wish to meet. Not this imposter!”
“I swear you are looking at the pony soldier chief,” Romero persisted. Suddenly he remembered something that might convince Satanta. “This one in the buffalo coat is well known on the plains. From the land of the winter winds south to the land of the Summer Maker. He is known to all great warriors.”
“Who is this?” Satanta demanded, glaring at Romero.
“Yellow Hair!”
Two sets of dark obsidian eyes studied the soldier chief.
“Yellow Hair truly sits before us?” Lone Wolf broke the silence at last, speaking to Romero.
“He does.” Romero nodded.
“The soldier chief who left Black Kettle’s village an ash heap?”
Again Romero nodded.
“I would meet this Yellow Hair,” Satanta remarked. “His heart must surely be brave to ride into this meadow when my warriors have it surrounded.”
Romero turned to Custer. “They understand you’re chief of this outfit. Satanta figures your heart must be pretty brave to be here in this meadow when he’s got his warriors surrounding it.”
Without a word, Custer inched forward, halting his mount nose to nose with Satanta’s smaller pony. “Tell the chiefs I do have a brave heart. If they intend to start something, they better do it now while they have the chance to slaughter us.”
“General,” Romero’s voice rose, “you really want me to tell these chiefs you’re calling their bluff?”
“No. Just tell them I don’t believe they have us surrounded. I have no fear of their treachery, for they’ll soon see my cavalry come up behind us.”
“Yellow Hair says his heart is strong. He is not afraid, for he does not believe you have him surrounded.”
Like quick black birds, four dark eyes darted left and right, finding their warriors circling the meadow.
“Yellow Hair comes from the north, the land your warriors raided. Many soldiers follow Yellow Hair.”
Satanta glowered for a moment, studying the soldier chief. Then surprisingly his countenance completely changed. Flashing a broad smile at Custer, he spoke to Romero. “Does Yellow Hair not enjoy a good joke, Indian- talker?”
“Not when the joke is played on him, Satanta.”
The Kiowa chief stuck out his huge hand once again, this time to Custer, as if all were forgiven. “Satanta greets the great Yellow Hair.”
Custer glanced down at the offered hand, shaking his head. “Romero, you tell this pompous ass I don’t shake hands with any man unless I know him to be a friend.”
Satanta’s massive jaw clenched. For a second time his handshake had been refused. Long ago he had learned the white man put much ceremonial stock in this hand-shaking business. And Satanta loved ceremony. For two soldiers to refuse his hand could only be a great insult.
“Satanta,” Romero translated quickly to fill the electric void, “Yellow Hair would shake your hand only if you are a true friend.”
With an ugly sneer the chief looked over at his companion, Lone Wolf. The old one nodded to Satanta in reluctant agreement.
“Remember, White Bear,” Lone Wolf whispered, “we have a choice. Will it be jackal, or wolf?”
Satanta nodded. “I choose the wolf.”
The young chief directed his eyes back to Custer and his words to Romero. “Why does Yellow Hair come to Kiowa land?”
“Yellow Hair comes to see if the Kiowa’s hearts are true.”
Satanta considered that a moment behind his hard eyes. “Does Yellow Hair come to slaughter more sleeping villages of women and children and old people?”
“No,” Romero answered emphatically. “Yellow Hair is here to talk with the great Kiowa leaders. To learn what’s in your hearts. To let them know what is in his heart.”
“This is good,” Lone Wolf admitted. “What would Yellow Hair say to us?”
“General”—Romero turned to Custer—”what do I tell them you want to talk over with ’em?”
“First, I want the Kiowa to proceed without delay to Fort Cobb. Only there in the shadow of the fort will Sheridan discuss peace with the Kiowa.”
Romero brought his dark eyes to bear on the two warriors. “Yellow Hair brings with him a great war chief to talk with the Kiowa chiefs.
The Mexican watched Satanta’s eyes light up and flick over to the uniformed Crosby.
“No, Satanta,” Romero explained. “This one here is second chief to the great war chief who rides among his soldiers this morning.”
Both chiefs nodded, dutifully impressed. Romero smiled to himself. He didn’t think a little white lie would hurt getting the Kiowa’s attention.
Lone Wolf gestured to Custer. “Yellow Hair and the one who stays back with his warriors must be great war chiefs, to win that long and terrible war between the white men.”
“Both chiefs fought side by side,” Romero explained. “They come now to bring peace to this land. Or they come to bring war to your camps. The Kiowa must decide.”
Satanta glanced at Lone Wolf again, only their eyes talking in cold silence. Finally, the younger one turned to Romero. As he tugged his bright blanket about his shoulders with one hand, Romero saw the other hand held an old cap-and-ball revolver.
“We Kiowa wish peace with the army, Indian-talker,” he declared in a clear, strong voice. “Pony soldier chief Hazen knows us to be at peace. He gives us presents and weapons to hunt the buffalo. We live in peace with our neighbors: the Comanche, Apache, Cheyenne, and Arapaho. Yellow Hair and this war chief Sher-i-dan do not know us. When they are our friends, then at last will they know what is truly in the Kiowa heart.”
“You will go to Fort Cobb and talk with the pony chiefs?”
“We will talk with these two war chiefs you bring here to Indian land,” Satanta replied.
Romero said, “You must go to Fort Cobb
For a long, stony moment, Satanta glared at Romero. His eyes met Custer’s as he answered. “We will go to
