“They have provisions for fifteen days. A kettle and some fire-making gear in that greased pouch there.” Custer stepped up to Iron Shirt. “Tell the old chief I trust him with this mission. On the mule are presents of food, clothing, and blankets. I don’t want Mahwissa returning to her people empty-handed. Tell the Cheyenne I’m sending these gifts because I want peace. I don’t want another village destroyed.”
When Romero concluded, Mahwissa hugged Stingy Woman, then leapt atop the horse she chose to ride, regally peering down on those gathered to watch the departure. She nudged her animal close to Custer.
After she patted the belt that tied an old blanket coat about her waist and finished a short speech, the scout translated.
“She says she’ll do what you ask. You’ll hear from her people very soon. And she wants me to tell you that the soldier chief is sending her on this journey without a weapon. Important to a Cheyenne squaw to have a weapon. A knife’s such a small thing, she says.”
“A knife?”
“What they call a
With the way the old woman stared at his belt, Custer realized Mahwissa wasn’t after just any knife. She had her heart set on his own hunting knife.
Custer slid the sheath off his belt. He refused to let it go as he held it up to her, waiting for Romero to translate his instructions. “Tell her I want the knife back the next time we meet. When she comes back before the moon changes. My favorite knife—I’ll let her use it on this important journey to talk of peace with her people.”
As quickly as Romero finished, Mahwissa yanked the knife from Custer’s hand and jammed it in her belt. Patting the knife, she gazed into the distance, refusing to utter any thanks or even acknowledge the soldier chief.
Iron Shirt raised his wrinkled hand in farewell, then signaled the woman to follow. Jerking on the mule’s rope, the old Apache set off through the cold mist hanging in the trees like frosty cotton. Neither he nor the old woman ever looked back.
* * *
Custer jerked awake—frightened.
He was reassured only when he gazed down at her sleeping face nestled beside him in the gray of army wool. He’d been afraid she wasn’t there. Afraid Libbie had found out and—
It washed back over him. Monaseetah had remained all night, falling asleep while he scratched nib and ink across paper. A letter to Libbie, then one to his half-sister back in Monroe, and finally the official work: reports and catching up on those never-ending journal entries. He recalled the sound of her gentle, childlike snoring as he had slipped beneath the covers a handful of hours ago.
The first night they hadn’t coupled beneath his heavy blankets and robes.
A smile crossed his lips, recalling how she loved licking the sweat off him, tasting it with the delicate tip of her tongue as the beads glistened down his neck, along his shoulder, and across his chest. Tracing the pink tip of her tongue over his heated flesh whenever they lay exhausted in the joy of one another.
“General?”
He’d wait a minute, breathing shallow and slow. Maybe the soldier would go away.
“General? It’s Sergeant Lucas.”
He wasn’t going away. Not this one. Sergeant Gregory Lucas believed it was his duty to awaken Custer when any need arose. Good soldiers never let their commanders sleep in.
“What in tarnal blazes is it, Lucas?”
“The scout Romero is here.”
“What’s he want?”
“He’s here with the old Apache.”
Custer bolted upright in bed.
“Iron Shirt, General,” the interpreter spoke up.
“Very well, Romero. Get both the Indians something to eat. I’ll be out shortly.”
“Both, General? Iron Shirt came back alone.”
Custer kicked his feet out of the blankets. “Where’s the woman?”
“Says she stayed behind at the—”
“Behind!” Custer pulled on his long-handles, yanking dirty stockings over his feet.
“Says she was ordered by the chiefs not to come back.”
“Ordered, was she?” His boots on, Custer rose. His breath fogged the tent as he slipped his arms into the wool tunic, angrily jamming buttons through their holes. He noticed Monaseetah watching him from behind her blankets.
“See that he has some coffee and breakfast. I’ll be right there.”
“Something else he says.”
“Sounds like bad news. Spit it out.”
“Iron Shirt says after the Cheyenne chiefs talked it over, they decided their ponies couldn’t make the trip right now. “
“Don’t they understand I’ll track them down and destroy their villages?”
“Two of ’em wanna come talk with you,” Romero said.
“Only two?”
“Little Robe—a Cheyenne chief. And old Yellow Bear, Arapaho. They told Iron Shirt to tell
“That’s more like it!” Custer cheered, bursting through the tent flaps. “More like Christmas greetings!”
“It is Christmas Day, ain’t it, General?” Lucas said.
“Merry Christmas! Now, be off, Romero—get some breakfast in Iron Shirt’s belly.”
He listened as their steps worried across the old snow before he ducked back in his warm tent.
Christmas Day. Custer felt guilty for not even missing Fort Hays, much less Christmas back home in Monroe with his family. Home: glowing candles and fragrant spruce garlands draped along every wall, wrapping every banister; smells of fresh-baked goods from the kitchen as the door swung open to the huge dining parlor.
Soon enough would come the new year, 1869. What it held for him, Custer dared not ask. All that concerned him at this moment was a young creature of the wilderness who pulled back the covers for him, exposing one breast as firm and round as a ripe melon.
Monaseetah patted the blankets beside her and cocked her head, coy as always. Her eyes invited him back into the garden. Dark, liquid eyes shy behind the long, raven-black lashes. She invited him.
“Why not?” he asked. He swallowed hard, his breathing quickly labored, shallow. His nostrils filling with the heated woman-musk of her. His mate.
As his shadow crawled over her, Custer realized deep in the very being of him that every man deserved at least one Christmas like this.
“Happy New Year, Angel Face!”
Custer toasted his young brother, holding a cup filled with nothing stronger than black coffee.
“A very happy New Year to you, Autie!”
Tom had been toasting one and all with whiskey he had brought from Fort Dodge in small flasks. At twenty- three, the young captain loved revelry. There was a lust for life flowing in his veins that in some way, for some reason, had always seemed diluted in his older brother.
Up and down officers’ row on this night of celebration men danced with one another to tunes pumped out by the regimental band. Bright fires leapt into the inky darkness of the late night as a soft snow drifted down upon Fort Cobb. General Hazen and his staff had come down to pay their respects, celebrating at Sheridan’s quarters.
Here at Custer’s camp his officers had gathered: Myers, Yates, Thompson, Benteen, along with Godfrey, Cooke, and Moylan. Young Tom Custer had dragged along the reporter Keim, with everyone well on his way to seeing in the new year in uproarious style.
Since leaving Camp Supply three weeks ago, Monaseetah had genuinely come to enjoy the company of these white men. Not only because they showed her a consideration she had never known among Cheyenne males, but because these white men knew how to have fun. Their joy was like that of a young Cheyenne warrior celebrating a
