this time. The first shot fired by us will kill those two girls, as surely as I put a gun to their heads myself. I’ve got to think of them above all.”
“You got any ideas to save our hides—yours and mine?”
“Go tell those warriors we want to parley with ’em.”
“Parley?” Romero squeaked like a dry buggy wheel in need of tallow.
“You’ve got to convince them we want a truce—no fighting. It’s the only way we keep the girls alive. If they think we’re about to attack, those two lives will be blood on my hands.”
“Here’s hoping your plan works, General.” Romero tapped heels and zigzagged forward, heading for the snowy bluff. Halfway there he drew up, loping in a tight circle, signing his desire to parley. From the twenty-odd emerged three warriors. As the trio set across the snowy meadow, the others followed.
Starting to sweat, Romero wheeled his horse in a spray of snow. He raced back, sliding to a halt beside Custer, who stood in the stirrups, eyes flicking to the rear.
“Can they see my troops now?” Custer asked.
“From that hill, you damn bet they can.”
“They won’t try anything stupid, will they?”
“Wouldn’t put a thing past a Dog Soldier, General.”
“Then by all means, Romero, tell those warriors to halt where they are.”
Despite Romero’s signs, the three kept coming. Worse yet, the twenty behind them galloped to catch up. The interpreter watched Custer yank his pistol free. With the weapon in the air for the Cheyenne to see, he brought up his empty right hand to show the warriors they had the choice: either heed the warning of the empty hand, or deal with the consequences of the loaded one.
The Cheyenne understood without translation. They finally brought their ponies to a halt.
“Tell one to come forward to talk,” Custer instructed.
After a momentary conference, a tall, imposing figure urged his war pony forward, smiling as if he were on some afternoon lark.
Stalling tense minutes while the soldiers advanced toward the clearing, Custer and Romero parleyed with the solitary warrior called Bad Tooth. From him the interpreter learned much about the enemy. The tribe was indeed Cheyenne, under Chief Medicine Arrow, who was himself in that larger group of riders watching the parley. Their village of three hundred lodges was camped at the mouth of a stream emptying into the Sweetwater. Nearby stood a village of two hundred lodges under Chief Little Robe.
“The soldier chief knows of Little Robe,” Romero explained to Bad Tooth. “He is a good friend to the soldiers. It would please the soldier chief to meet the great Medicine Arrow.”
“Who brings pony soldiers to our village of women and children?” asked Bad Tooth. “The powerful Medicine Arrow will not stoop to talk to soldiers like those who butcher helpless ones or burn the villages of the frail and sickly ones.”
“Black Kettle?”
“He was a weak old man. Medicine Arrow is the mighty leader of the Southern Cheyenne. Not some tired old man waiting to die wearing the white man’s bacon grease on his lips.”
“I’ve heard about all I’m going to take of this one’s surly mouth, Romero,” Custer said. “I’d love to knock the smile off that face. Tell this loudmouthed one he looks upon the Yellow Hair. Tell him I want peace, but only if Medicine Arrow wants peace. Will there be peace, or war? Yellow Hair waits for Medicine Arrow’s answer.”
“Yellow Hair is with you?” Bad Tooth demanded.
“I am
The warrior swallowed, gave the soldier a harsh once-over.
Custer removed the buffalo-fur cap, running his fingers through his long curls. Beneath the midday winter sun, his hair was burnished gold.
“Yellow Hair!
“They’re getting a bit too close, General,” Romero cautioned.
Custer glanced toward the rear. “They’ll have us surrounded before the troops show.”
“Surrounded—” Romero gulped, “or worse.”
Custer raised his pistol, pointing the muzzle at Bad Tooth’s chest while nudging his own stallion forward. “Stay close, Romero. If there’s any gunplay, this big one will be our shield.”
Custer halted beside the astonished warrior staring at the gaping bore pointed at him.
“Ask him if he speaks with one tongue, Romero.”
“I speak with one tongue, Yellow Hair,” Bad Tooth replied.
“Why do your friends creep up on me? Do they want to see your blood?”
The Cheyenne’s anxious eyes flicked over both shoulders, seeing the warriors easing along the sides of the meadow, hoping not to attract the soldier’s attention.
“Tell your friends to stop where they stand, or
Bad Tooth’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared into the muzzle.
“That’s right. You will be first, my faithless friend. I will blow a hole in your heart big enough there will be nothing left of it for your dogs! I do not trust a man who tells me he wants to parley while others sneak up to take my hair.”
“No!” Bad Tooth shook his head, hypnotized by the pistol bore.
“None of you will wear the scalp of Yellow Hair. Many want it. None is brave enough to take it. Today is a good day for you to die.”
With the Cheyenne’s angry, frightened warning, the rest of the warriors withdrew, flinging gritty threats and curses. Then they fell silent as they parted for an old warrior leading a band of some forty others who loped right up before the pony soldier.
“I know this one,” the old warrior sneered, pointing to Romero. “He lived with Cheyenne.”
“Who’s this, Romero?” Custer whispered.
“The old boy himself. Medicine Arrow. Always been a treacherous snake. Years back his name was Rock Forehead. Now among the Cheyenne he’s called Medicine Arrow because he’s keeper of the tribe’s sacred bundle of arrows—big medicine going back before the grandfather of any man now alive.”
“Medicine Arrow,” Custer muttered, assessing his enemy.
“But the red bastard hasn’t changed,” Romero added. “Rock Forehead always was a bloodthirsty scorpion.”
“You!” The old chief whirled on Custer. “You are the Yellow Hair who defeated the sleeping village of Black Kettle?”
“I am.” Custer bowed his head to the whispers and mutterings, murmurs of awe and respect, hearing also the growls and yelps for his scalp.
“You bring many soldiers with you, Yellow Hair?”
Custer considered that question before answering. “I bring enough to show the Cheyenne that my word is strong.”
Medicine Arrow’s eyes darkened. He hadn’t heard the answer he wanted. “With so many horses, there will be little grazing for Cheyenne ponies. How many horses ride with Yellow Hair?”
Custer turned to Romero, whispering, “Cagey old reprobate, this one. Treacherous snake would love to kill us all.”
“How’ll he do that?”
“I think this old bat figures we’re a small expedition. Most likely, word reached him of a small party of soldiers roaming the countryside last month—a scouting party I led from our camp on Medicine Bluff Creek.”
“Could be, General. Suppose he did get wind of a small outfit—Medicine Arrow might figure to wipe us all out quick.”
“You bet your cold backside he would!”
“Want me to give him the bad news?”
“No,” Custer answered. “I’ll break it to him in my own way … in my own time.”
