Long Winter Gone

even if they cannot.”

“How can we do that?”

“We’re sending a final ultimatum to the Indians this morning. That’s where Satanta’s son comes in.”

“I don’t think Tsalante will let you down.”

“If the boy fails, Custer, it won’t be me he’s letting down. He’ll be killing his own father.”

Custer watched Satanta’s hooded eyes searching their faces for some clue. He could tell the Kiowa chief realized this wasn’t your everyday parley.

Sheridan signaled the interpreter, patting the buffalo robe beside him. “Romero. Sit so we can talk with the chiefs.”

Romero took a deep breath, his eyes briefly touching Custer’s. The scout had never liked Sheridan; he’d always been more than a little afraid of the banty Irishman to boot.

“First, I want you to explain who I am.”

“General, make no mistake. They know who you are.”

Sheridan seemed genuinely surprised. “How’s that?”

“General Custer here, he’s told ’em you’re a great war chief who won the war between the white men back east.”

“Sheridan glanced up at Custer. “You told them of me, Custer?”

“Yessir. Explained about the mighty chief who rode with me.

“I see …” Sheridan stroked his black beard. “Quite! Well, let’s get on with matters at hand. Romero, begin by telling them I’m very angry that Licking Bear didn’t return from their villages. I’m even angrier that their people haven’t come in to Fort Cobb yet.”

While the Kiowa listened to Romero’s words, their dark eyes were glued on the general.

When the chiefs had spoken, Romero translated. “They say they’re sorry Licking Bear didn’t come back. You have them in your leg irons, so they can’t go to their villages, can’t tell their people to come in. They say if they were with their people now, the villages would be moving to Fort Cobb as you ordered.”

“They want me to believe that? Muleshit!”

Crosby laughed nervously. Sheridan waved a hand, shutting Crosby up.

“Tell them that I’m sending Satanta’s son with word from them and War Chief Sheridan that if the villages don’t come in to Fort Cobb immediately their chiefs will hang.”

Romero swallowed hard. The looked carved across his dark features said more than words could, causing a stir among the three Kiowa.

“You want me to tell ’em you’re going to hang ’em?”

“No, Romero. You tell the young man here that the villages must come in so their chiefs will be spared that hanging.”

The Mexican translated. One by one, three pairs of black eyes widened. Tsalante clutched his father’s arm. Satanta reassured the young man calmly.

The younger chief nodded, ready to speak. “We understand we are in the power of the great war chief and Yellow Hair. Maybe you, Indian-talker, can tell these soldier chiefs that we can send my son to our people with our words—but that does not assure that our village will come in to Hazen’s post. There must be a council with many men from each village. Together they will decide what to do. The hunting is very poor around Hazen’s fort. Already our people are thin from a bad winter of hunting. Our ponies are weak. It would be a hard journey on most of my people. Not just the small and old ones.”

Lone Wolf raised his two shackled hands, imploring. “The soldier chiefs must understand we are not the only men to decide matters such as this for our people. We are not like the white man who has a Grandfather making all the rules for his people. With the Kiowa, each man gets one voice in what is decided among our people. That will take time. Tell these soldier chiefs they must give our villages time to decide what they will do. Enough time to tear down the lodges and load our travois. These soldiers do not give our skinny, winter-poor ponies enough time to stumble in here to Hazen’s post.”

As Romero translated, Sheridan’s face hardened.

“No!” he barked. “I didn’t come here to bargain. Tell them I’ve already give their people plenty of time. Explain to this Satanta’s son that the Kiowa have until sunrise tomorrow to come in. I’ll hang the chiefs from that big oak right outside this tent if they don’t show by then.”

With Sheridan’s threat put into Kiowa, Tsalante leapt to his feet, trembling. Crosby immediately jumped in front of Sheridan, his hand upon his service revolver, Custer’s ironlike grip atop Crosby’s gun hand in the next heartbeat.

“Leave the pistol in the holster!” Custer commanded.

“Unhand me, Custer! I’ll have you on report—”

“Gentlemen!” Sheridan leapt to his feet, struggling to separate the two before matters disintegrated into a brawl. “There’s no need of argument. And no need of reports—understood, Crosby?”

Crosby relented. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m certain Colonel Custer will apologize for his actions. Am I right … Custer?”

“I won’t apologize, General. Tsalante’s unarmed.” He glared at Sheridan’s aide. “He poses no threat to any of us, even to someone as nervous as Crosby.”

“Damn you! He’s a filthy heathen savage!” Crosby roared.

“Colonel Crosby,” Sheridan soothed. “Wait outside for me.”

Crosby turned to go, then stopped. He glared at Custer before he tore aside the tent flap, stomping into the morning cold.

“General,” Custer said, “I think the young man’s got something to say.”

“He sure as hell does!” Romero was clearly agitated. “Tsalante says you aren’t giving him enough time to ride to the villages and get your message spread among his people. They’ve got to call for a council.”

“Dammit! I’ve heard all that prattle before, Romero!”

“Please listen, General,” Custer said. “They may have a point. We must treat them fairly, or what right do we have to ask fairness in their treatment of the white captives?”

“You talk to me of fairness, Custer? I saw a goddamned good example of the Kiowa’s fairness back on the Washita. You remember how fairly these butchers treated that pitiful Mrs. Blinn and her little boy?”

“General—”

“Don’t assume you know more than me about dealing with these Indians, Custer!” Sheridan steamed. “You deal with the savages in fairness and what the hell does it get you? Lies … broken promises … one hand taking our food and blankets and handouts—while the other hand burns and kidnaps, murders and scalps!”

“Enough said, Custer. I believe we have spoken about orders. You and I, in private. Haven’t we?”

That brought Custer up short, as surely as if someone had kicked him in the groin with a blunt-toed, standard-issue cavalry boot.

“I want your complete backing in this policy,” Sheridan continued. “If the Kiowa are serious about doing as we say, if they want their two chiefs alive, they’ll be here at Fort Cobb by sunrise tomorrow.”

Sheridan turned to the interpreter. “Tell this warrior he’s free to go now. Take my message to this people.”

“Tsalante, go now,” Satanta pleaded, gripping his son’s arm. “Take word of this trouble to our people. Quickly, young one!”

“I will get my pony and bring it here before I ride the long trail back to our villages.”

Custer watched the youth dart through the tent flaps. Outside he listened to Crosby explain in an arrogant voice that the Indian was allowed to fetch his mount.

Moments later they heard Tsalante galloping up outside. The pony snorted as its rider wrenched to a halt. Quick moccasined feet ran to the tent. As his son burst through the flaps Satanta rose, struggling with the heavy leg irons. He took his son in a warm embrace. They murmured some hurried words between them in that way only a father and son can, before the youth reached out to touch Lone Wolfs hand.

“Hoodle-tay!” the old chief whispered hoarsely, struggling to maintain his stony composure. “Make haste!”

As quickly as he had come, the young warrior whirled about, vaulting to the back of his spotted pony, where