“Can’t wait to see it, General. This old boy’s done his share of evil—and then some. Some claim he’s an evil wizard. Can perform magic—even tell the future. Heard tales of some he’s cursed in years gone by, ones died in strange mysterious ways. Be a pleasure to watch you take the starch outta him.”
Custer studied Medicine Arrow. “Let’s see if he can predict the future when he sees how many soldiers ride with me.”
“You white men talk too much!” Medicine Arrow grunted as he signed angrily. “Yellow Hair mixes courage with foolishness, coming to see the Cheyenne with only this Mexican dog at his side. A dangerous mistake for the man who destroyed a weak village on the Washita.”
“Medicine Arrow!” Custer shouted, surprising all with his precise Cheyenne. “You anger me with such bold talk. I come to you in peace—but you growl like a dog snapping for a fight! If that is what you want”—and he glanced over his shoulder—”then behold—war is what Medicine Arrow will get!”
Custer flung his arm at the advancing columns heaving into view at the far edge of the meadow. “Romero, tell this old bag of wind how many soldiers march with Yellow Hair. Tell him!”
Romero grinned. “Happy to, General.” It was his turn to sneer at Medicine Arrow. “You have no more than a hundred warriors in this meadow. Yellow Hair has many times more. He can crush you like a wolf spider.”
“It will take many soldiers to crush our warriors.”
“Old man!” Romero barked. “See how many march against you!”
Medicine Arrow studied the blue shapes bursting from the timber at the far side of the meadow. He whirled on Romero. “You turn against your people, dark one, bringing soldiers down on us to kill children and the old ones.”
“Old man, your warriors have done evil. Yellow Hair comes to fight only if you want war. It is your choice. Yellow Hair demands your warriors stop their raids, and demands your villages return to the reservations.”
“We can find no buffalo to hunt on this reservation.”
“You must return,” Romero repeated. “If you do not do what Yellow Hair tells you, you will suffer as Black Kettle’s village suffered.”
“Is this the word of Yellow Hair?”
Romero turned to Custer. “General, the old one wants to know if I speak for you when I say we will attack if need be.”
Custer glared at the chief, then nodded. No word spoken.
Medicine Arrow’s eyes flicked to Romero. “Ask Yellow Hair if he intends to wipe our villages from the breast of our Mother of All Things as he did to Black Kettle.”
After a moment, Custer thoughtfully replied, “I will not destroy your villages—unless you want war. The choice is up to you. You must make that choice now.”
The old chief fumed a moment, listening to the angry vows of his young warriors, gazing at the swelling strength of the soldier columns led into the snowy meadow.
“I want Yellow Hair to show me you want peace with the Cheyenne. So many soldiers come, they will frighten our women and children. My people will wail when they hear it is Yellow Hair come to surround their village. It is for Yellow Hair alone to assure my people that what happened to Black Kettle will not happen to them. We must hurry, Yellow Hair—before my people run to the hills and Medicine Arrow has no one to lead back to the reservation with him.”
When the translation was completed, Custer whispered to Romero, “Why, that sly old fox. He wants me to come with him to his village—alone.”
“Be quick, Yellow Hair.” The chief motioned with an arm. “Come to my village with me now. Show my people you talk straight. They will know you mean them no harm if you ride into my village at my side.”
“Why alone?”
“Haven’t a clue. Can’t be a good reason, whatever it is. Always been a treacherous snake.” Romero sighed, eyeing the old chief. “Years back, his name was Rock Forehead. Now he’s called Medicine Arrow because he’s keeper of the Cheyenne’s sacred bundle of arrows—a sacred object going back before the grandfather of any man now alive. But, he hasn’t changed. Rock Forehead always was a bloodthirsty bastard.”
Custer turned at the sound of hooves beating the winter-hardened earth, watching Moylan gallop up. “Well, I’d best find out what this sly fox is up to.” He called to his adjutant. “Mr. Moylan! What the Hades took you so long?”
“It’s one thing for you to get the columns moving.” Moylan sounded breathless. “It’s quite another for me to do it.”
“Lieutenant, this here’s the great Cheyenne chief, Medicine Arrow. And he wants us to have a talk with him.” Custer turned to Romero. “You head back. Find Myers. Have him assume command of the troops in my absence.”
“You’re riding into that village alone, General?” Romero asked.
“Not alone, Romero.” And Custer smiled. “I’m taking Mr. Moylan with me.”
“M-me … with you?” Moylan squeaked.
“That’s right. We’re accepting this cutthroat’s invitation to dine in his lodge.”
“Tonight, General?”
“No, Lieutenant. Right now.”
Moylan glanced back at the swelling columns of blue. “Shouldn’t we wait until the troops come up and they can go to the hostile camp with us? Hard Rope says there’s bound to be more warriors than you can count.”
“Mr. Moylan, the Seventh Cavalry will never be intimidated by a large force of warriors. Mere numbers are meaningless. To your grave I want you to remember it takes only one Indian to kill a soldier who’s lost his courage.”
“Yessir.”
“Romero, give my message to Myers, and stay with him.”
Custer watched the interpreter wheel and gallop off into the sparkling, frosty light of midday. He turned to the Cheyenne chief.
“Medicine Arrow, we will go with you to your lodge now—to talk of peace, or war … between our peoples.”
CHAPTER 23
LIEUTENANT Myles Moylan watched Medicine Arrow wheel his pony about, parting the warriors in a V like a beaver’s nose breaking the glassy surface of a high-country pond. Moylan gulped, not sure what he was following Custer into.
An eleven-year veteran from Massachusetts, Moylan had first served with the Second Dragoons where he had risen to rank of sergeant by 1863. Later that year when he had been transferred to the Fifth Cavalry and been given a commission, the young Yankee was dismissed from the service for some unnamed and impetuous act. Under a false name, Moylan turned around and reenlisted in the Fourth Massachusetts Cavalry, where he fought out the rest of the war, earning a brevet major for heroism. When the Seventh Cavalry was formed in 1866, Moylan was appointed its first sergeant major. Custer soon took a liking to the scrappy Irishman and commissioned Moylan as first lieutenant. While the rest of the officers did not appreciate Moylan’s “left-hand” promotion. Custer himself took young Myles under his wing, where with Tom Custer and Billy Cooke he became part of Custer’s first inner circle.
As the warriors parted for Medicine Arrow, Moylan recognized the old Cheyenne woman, the one called Mahwissa. Wrapped in a leaf-green blanket atop her gray pony, Mahwissa intently watched the parley in the meadow.
Custer halted at her side, a forced smile on his lips. “You have fared well with your people.”
“You have learned some Cheyenne talk,” she replied.
“I have a good teacher.”
“How is Monaseetah?” she asked.
“She is well. Monaseetah rides with us.” Custer threw a thumb to indicate the advancing cavalry and
