Finished, he dropped Custer’s hand, next presenting the long pipestem to the heavens and earth, then to the four winds of life. With no warning, the old man placed the mouthpiece against Custer’s lips as he held a coal over the pipe bowl. The soldier chief drew in a mouthful of the fragrant smoke, steeling himself against the waves of nauseau rolling over him. Never had he used tobacco. Even the smell of it on a man’s breath could turn him green.
The shaman pulled the mouthpiece from Custer’s lips, once again placing the soldier chiefs hand over his heart. Muttering another prayer, he raised Custer’s hand aloft, shaking it while the others repeated his prayer.
Over the next quarter-hour the soldier chief smoked alone, emptying the entire bowl. Through it all, the Cheyenne studied him for any sign of weakness. Medicine Arrow himself held the yard-long pipestem while the shaman cradled the bowl. The chief explained why Custer smoked alone.
“Yellow Hair, you stand before the Cheyenne people to speak the truth—or all your soldiers will be killed for your deceit. If your tongue is not straight, if your words do not show what truly rests in your heart, Yellow Hair and all his soldiers will die together, left for the buzzards to pick their bones clean beneath the winds of summers yet to come.”
At Medicine Arrow’s signal, the shaman refilled and lit the huge pipe bowl, starting it on its journey around the lodge. Four times it passed each man. With four prayers, every man smoked. With its last circle, Medicine Arrow held the pipe bowl against Custer’s dusty boots, the long stem pointed heavenward.
“The wise counselors of the Southern Cheyenne have smoked this pipe. Their breath is like their prayers, forever on the winds to touch the heart of the Everywhere Spirit.”
Custer smiled through the speech, wishing he had Romero at his side. From the start of their council, the Cheyenne had refused to use sign language. The soldier chief contented himself with catching a word here and there.
How he ached to ask about the white girls, though he decided not to press the subject for the moment. There would be time when the villages were surrounded. When there was no chance for the Cheyenne to kill their captives. One ill-timed word now, and it would spell a death sentence for those women.
“Our prayers to the Everywhere Winds ask that the soldier chief speak the truth to us,” Medicine Arrow explained. “Evil will follow you all your days, that evil will fall to your sons, and to the sons of your sons, if your tongue does not speak true.”
Custer ran a raw tongue around his foul-tasting mouth.
“You are a most treacherous one, oh Creeping Panther. You slink in the night to surround a winter village of sleeping women and children. Hear me, white man!” Medicine Arrow took a thin willow twig, with it loosening the dead ash in the pipe bowl.
“This deadly curse I lay on you and your sons, and on all the sons of your sons, a curse made powerful many times over from the lips of this council.”
Medicine Arrow turned over the tall red pipe bowl, slowly pouring the ashes onto the soldier chiefs muddy boots.
Custer froze, frightened.
With no way to know for certain, he nodded at each chief. Just as ignorant of white men as Custer was of them,the council believed he understood the seriousness of Medicine Arrow’s curse.
“Hear us, Yellow Hair! Should you ever approach a Cheyenne camp with evil purpose, to destroy as you did the helpless ones of Black Kettle on the Washita, you will one day be killed, your soldiers lying broken like the brittle grasses of winter. Your white bodies left to rot beneath the all-seeing eye of the sun above. Cheyenne spirits will determine your fate. My curse rides your shoulders, till the end of your days.”
Medicine Arrow took the pipe bowl from Custer’s boots, passing it to the medicine man.
Custer dragged a freckled hand across his dry lips, worried. With the shaman putting the pipe away, it appeared the council had drawn to a close—and he hadn’t had the chance to speak.
“Medicine Arrow.” Custer began to move his hands in the ancient language of the prairies. “I thank you for the honor of your lodge.”
He studied the chiefs face, searching for some sign of agreement, some flicker of good intention.
“I come to speak of peace with the Cheyenne. No more can your young men ride north to the settlements of the white farmers to carry off their women and children. No longer can you wander off your reservation for hunting or for raids.”
Lord, did he wish for something to drink, to soothe his scorched throat.
“If the Cheyenne want peace, you must return to the reservation. If you want war, Yellow Hair will bring sorrow to the door of every Cheyenne lodge.”
Custer pointed toward the tent flap. “Do not force me to use the soldiers who surround your village. Do not force me to destroy those you hold most dear—your families, sons, and daughters. Return to the land given you by the Grandfather back east, return before it is too late for either of us to stop the killing.”
For a long time after Custer’s hands fell silent, the Cheyenne elders considered the words of Yellow Hair, ruminating as a buffalo cow would chew and rechew something hard to swallow.
He paused while the murmurs of approval faded.
“Hear me, Yellow Hair—as long as there are Cheyenne women, there will be Cheyenne warriors. You may have enough bullets to kill Cheyenne warriors today, but as long as there are Cheyenne wombs, there will always be Cheyenne sons! The spirit of our people lives with the hills and the sky. Everlasting!”
Custer politely waited as he considered the chiefs words. “You have spoken well, Medicine Arrow. My heart is small … it lies on the ground this day to know we both are warriors driven to fight each other. Never will it be said Yellow Hair questions the courage of the Cheyenne.”
Medicine Arrow nodded, the doubting scowl beginning to soften.
“Hear me, Cheyenne,” Custer continued. “You say that you cannot trust that my tongue is straight. You will know me by my actions. For what I do will stand much longer than what I say.”
“Yellow Hair has spoken well,” Medicine Arrow replied. “We will judge you by your actions. If you deal with our people with one heart, you will live. If you prove to have two hearts … then you and your soldiers will be wiped out to the last man. Our Everywhere Spirit will crush your faithless bodies after driving your minds mad with fear. Hear me! Fear that evil you bring upon yourself, Yellow Hair.”
“Like you, I am searching for an honest tongue—among the Cheyenne,” Custer signed. “I hope to find that tongue among those in this lodge. In the days to come, we will talk of peace, as we blaze a new road for the Cheyenne to travel.”
Medicine Arrow’s dark eyes slewed around the lodge. “We will talk, Yellow Hair—of many things.”
Custer shifted anxiously, knees aching from sitting for so long. “Will Medicine Arrow tell me where I can find the most suitable ground for my soldier camp?”
The old chief studied the shocked faces of those around him before he answered, gesturing for the soldier chief to rise. “Come, I will show you myself where your soldiers can camp. You will have the swift-flowing river, and timber for your fires. Plenty of grass for your horses. Come, Yellow Hair.”
While their leaders conferred in Medicine Arrow’s lodge, both the Cheyenne and the soldiers engaged in an uneasy standoff.
Myers had his officers deploy the troopers around the villages like Joshua encircling Jericho, as a number of mounted warriors dodged in and out of the trees, taunting and shouting at the soldiers. Anxious troopers warily watched the timber. Nervous, but itching for a chance to even the score for Elliott’s men. Back and forth the officers rode, trying to keep a lid on things, knowing one wrong move by either side would blow the cork on a powder keg.
By the time Custer and Medicine Arrow emerged from the lodge into midday winter brightness, a flurry of noise and frantic motion swirled about them. Both leaders realized the situation must be diffused.
“I do not hold these young ones much longer, Yellow Hair,” the Cheyenne chief growled. “I told you what the
