“They say they’re your friends, General. Can’t figure why the others ran off last night. They say, maybe because they fear you’ll harm ’em.”
“Blathering fools, Romero! They’ll learn not to lie to Yellow Hair. Blackhearted thieves. From what Milner tells me, we’ll be at Fort Cobb by nightfall. When we arrive, we’ll have these lying brigands slapped in irons!”
“Irons? How are these three Kiowa gonna be any good to you in irons?”
“Don’t question me, Romero! Just tell them they’re my
Tom Custer watched his brother stomp off to his tent as the interpreter explained their captivity to the three Kiowa. Lone Wolf began singing his mournful death song. Its high, wailing notes cast an eerie pall over the camp as Custer disappeared beyond his tent flaps, his seething anger rolling over him.
“I fought many battles beside your brother, Tom.”
The younger Custer found Sheridan at his side.
“Can’t remember ever seeing him this angry. Except maybe once.”
“When was that, General?”
“In the Shenandoah. Mosby’s raiders had hanged some of Custer’s soldiers as retaliation against Custer himself. That was the first, and the last time I ever saw him this mad. Until today. Maybe I’d better have a talk with—”
“General, I suggest we all give Autie wide berth for the while. Give him the chance to cool down.”
Sheridan scratched his beard. “Anger’s a cleansing emotion, Lieutenant. If a man can control it, harness it, there’s no telling the power he can exert over others, on events. Your brother carries a weapon he will have to learn to use—before it destroys him.”
Tom Custer heard Sheridan move off, leaving him alone near the fire. At this stage in Autie’s career, Tom alone knew how deep his brother’s anger could run. While the commander’s emotions and friendships and passions rarely ran wide, the power of his heart was nonetheless a very deep river.
And Tom Custer realized there were few things which could affect his heart as had the betrayal of the Kiowa this morning. To put his faith in someone or something, only to have it betrayed, was a wound that pricked his marrow.
That evening as darkness slid headlong down the valley of the Washita, Fort Cobb came in sight.
As Custer had promised, he had the three chiefs clamped in leg irons borrowed from the post guardhouse and placed in a heavily guarded Sibley tent pitched beside his own. Through that evening and into the night one or more of the three wailed incessantly, chanting death songs or murmuring prayers to their spirits. Custer didn’t sleep, troubled by thoughts as black as the inky sky above.
Winter’s chill had long since sucked the sun’s light from the heavens when Custer was summoned to Sheridan’s tent. Surrounding the Irishman’s circular Sibley stood a crude pole fence erected by soldiers. Sheridan waited outside his tent, leaning against the fence. Wearing only his wool tunic, he paid little attention to the plummeting temperature, for it had been one of those warm days filled with sunshine, the type so often found in the Territories during winter.
“Evening, Custer,” Sheridan began as the young officer walked up to the tent. “Appears these Kiowa of yours are endeavoring to play us false, eh?”
“How do you read it, General?”
“Seems they want us to listen to their empty, bunghole promises right up to the time the new grass makes their goddamned ponies strong enough to make war.”
“You’re not confident I can get the tribe to come in? I hold their chiefs!” Custer leaned back against the crude fence opposite Sheridan.
“Don’t trust ’em at all. We’ve given them every opportunity to come in and behave, haven’t we? These red buggers are about the worst I’ve had to deal with. The bastards aren’t scared of us—because they know Hazen’s gonna protect ’em. Feeding, clothing, coddling the vermin!”
Custer grinned.
“You always liked a good scrap, didn’t you, Custer?”
“Pleased to hear you say again how you’re fed up with civilians running the army. Things need changing in Washington City, sir. Our Republic sorely needs a new direction entirely, someone strong at the helm across the next critical decade.”
“Too goddamned long we’ve waited for a leader with a military background, someone who appreciates what it is to open up this great country out here. With Grant in the White House, we’ll see that change you’re wanting.” The look on Custer’s face stopped him. “What is it, Armstrong?”
“You have a lot more faith in Grant than I do, sir. For one thing, the rumpled bugger took more credit for winning the war than he should have. Sherman and Sheridan handed Lincoln Lee’s surrender. Not Grant.”
Sheridan smiled. “The way of politics, Armstrong.”
“Doesn’t change my mind, sir. Grant’s not up to the job. Not just any man can do what’s needed. Ten years from now, the plains should be pacified.”
“The tribes confined to reservations and the land made fruitful, eh?”
“Nothing wrong in that, is there?”
“No wonder you’re the hero to so many of these farmers out here, Custer. You share the same dreams they do.”
Custer gazed at the twinkling dusting of stars overhead. “Not really, sir. Mine aren’t earthly dreams.”
Sheridan slapped Custer on the back. “Should’ve remembered. Long ago recognized that in you. Not about to be held back like mere mortals, are you?”
“You may joke, sir—”
“I’m not joking with you at all, Custer.”
“Then believe me when I say I’m destined for far greater things.”
“Greater than commanding your own goddamned regiment?”
“As colonel?”
Sheridan studied the sunburned face, bright beneath a torch’s glow. “Are you content to climb the ladder one rung at a time?”
Custer grappled with that a moment. “For the time being, sir. I just turned twenty-nine. You’re thirty-seven now, and the next lieutenant general, once Grant’s sworn in as President on the fourth of March. But look at me!”
Custer wheeled, stomped a few steps away. “It’ll be ten years before I become a full colonel and have my own regiment. By then we’ll have the plains pacified and there’ll be no more battlefields on which to earn my promotions. How the blazes will I ever get those general’s stars back on my collar?”
Sheridan scratched at his dark beard, feeling the first of the evening’s chill penetrate his wool tunic. “We could help you climb out a bit, Armstrong.”
“How?”
The general tapped one finger against his thin lips, as he always did when pondering, considering, plotting. “Yes. It just might work.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“By God! We’ll show up for Grant’s inauguration ourselves! Won’t that impress the buzzard!”
Custer tingled. “Yes!”
“And we’ll get Grant’s ear while he’s bubbling with his own juices—the new commander-in-chief!”
“Will Sherman go along?”
“Of course! He thinks the world of you, Custer. Despite that business with leaving your command and shooting those deserters in ’67—Bill realizes your value as much as I.”
“Then you’ll both lobby for a promotion for me in March?”
“Is that too soon for you, Custer?”
“No, sir! Not by a long stretch.”
Sheridan plopped a muddy boot on a fence rail. “All we’d have to do is have a voice inside the Army Appropriations Committee.”
