everything I’ve told you?”
“I’m off, General!”
“Be gone! Quickly!” Custer’s blue eyes twinkled as he watched Moylan amble away. Then he looked over at his interpreter. “Smile, Romero.”
Romero tried, then snarled, “Don’t feel like smiling.”
“Best we put on airs—so they don’t realize we know they’re playing us false. Stay close to me, now.”
The riders finished their performance and the singers began their serenade. At the same time, Custer watched the first soldiers ease up among the ring of spectators.
“General,” Romero whispered behind his smile, “aren’t you worried about the village leaving? They’ve got the two girls!”
“I’m not worried. Because if things go right, in the next few minutes I’ll have something these faithless Cheyenne value even more highly.”
“What’s that?”
“Hush, Romero. We’re about to play our hand.”
Counting heads quickly, Custer estimated he had enough of his soldiers mingled in with the Cheyenne, something over a hundred troopers. He studied each of the copper faces. Still the Indians showed no suspicions. It irritated him that they must all be laughing at him. Yet his was the trap ready to spring.
“Tom!” he called across the circle, grinning like they were about to play a boyhood prank on someone, “there are four of these fellows I want worse than the others. If any are to escape our noose, the four I point out must not.”
“Count on it, Autie!”
“Men!” Custer announced. “As I stroll through the warriors, I’ll stop briefly in front of the four I don’t want to escape under any circumstances. They’re the ones to sit on if you have to.”
Minutes later Custer stopped alongside Romero, waiting for his right moment. When the serenade ended and the musicians turned to leave, Custer stepped to the center of the circle.
“Romero, tell the chiefs what I’m about to say is of great importance.”
“Warriors of the mighty Cheyenne Nation,” Romero began, waiting until the Indians gave him their attention, “you must pay heed to the words of Yellow Hair.”
“Have them see I’m removing my gun belt,” Custer instructed as he unbuckled the heavy canvas belt, allowing it to dangle from his fingertips. “I want them to see that I throw my weapons on the ground as proof that in what I’m about to do I don’t want to shed any man’s blood—unless they force me to.”
As Romero translated, Custer watched the change come over the copper-colored faces. Through the crowd ran an unsettling murmur when the interpreter mentioned bloodshed.
“Have our guests count the number of armed soldiers here to cut off their escape. Tell them I’m angry with what they tried to pull—coming here under the pretense of a friendly visit while their village escaped. They can see their plan has failed and they’re my prisoners.”
As the words fell from Romero’s lips, the warriors grew agitated. Those seated at the fire leapt to their feet, snatching hidden revolvers from robes and blankets. The young warriors mounted on horseback nocked arrows on bowstrings. One by one, the riders dashed to freedom, galloping from camp.
Strident, angry chatter broke out among the rest of the Cheyenne. Younger voices cried for resistance at any cost. Older ones counseled reason and prudence. Tension boiled like an angry kettle. Pandemonium and threats, bold gestures and snarling defiance threw itself against the blue wall.
In the midst of the storm, Custer kept his eye on one of the four he had selected. A tall, gray-headed chief calmly entreated his brothers to act wisely before any shots were fired in haste. From the folds of his wool blanket he yanked a cocked revolver.
Nearby stood another. A formidable opponent in any battle. With no firearm, the warrior placidly brandished a bow strung with an arrow in one hand, while the other inspected arrow after arrow, testing the sharpness of each barbed head. When he had selected a half-dozen of his best, the warrior gazed about him, as cool as any war- hardened veteran in blue.
“No man shoots unless I give the order!” Custer hollered into the melee, figuring he had two soldiers for every warrior. For his plan to work, the Cheyenne must believe Yellow Hair didn’t want any bloodshed.
“Don’t shoot!” he shouted over the hubbub again.
In the excitement most of the warriors twisted free and fled through the soldier’s lines into the thick timber. Until only four chiefs remained captive, surrounded by a hundred armed troopers.
“Good work, gentlemen! We have the four,” Custer cried.
Tom Custer led the troops in a cheer as Romero had the chiefs sit by the fire.
“Myers, put the camp on full alert!” Custer bellowed. “Yates, take Tom and alert the Kansans. Tell them the village is preparing to flee and that I hold four chiefs as ransom for the two girls!”
“Damn right, Autie!” Tom roared. “’Bout time we show these bastards a taste of their own treachery!”
Another cheer thundered from the throats of soldiers too long on the trail of hostiles they weren’t allowed to fight.
“Go back to your stations, men. Each company has its orders. Consider our camp under attack at any moment.”
Custer waited while Myers detailed a twelve-man guard for the prisoners, then he settled on a cottonwood trunk before the chiefs.
“Romero, tell these prisoners I know what they tried to do, coming here with lies on their tongues!”
The chiefs didn’t need to know a word of English to see that Yellow Hair was as mad as a wet hornet.
“Tell them I know they hold two white girls, captured in the Kansas settlements last fall. I’m here to get those girls back. As soon as I have the girls back, the tribes must return to their reservations and abandon the warpath for good.”
“Yellow Hair!” Medicine Arrow shouted.
Custer shook a finger at the Cheyenne. “And you tell this lying dog that he and his friends can return to their people only when I have the girls and his tribe is on its reservation.”
“Yellow Hair!”
Custer leapt to his feet, ready to lunge at Medicine Arrow, surprising not only Romero with his anger but the chiefs as well. Flecks of spittle clung to his lips like cottonwood down.
“Tell him, Romero! Tell him now, or I might choke the lying bastard myself!”
A change came over the Cheyenne chief as Romero translated. No longer arrogant, he shrank at the sting of the soldier chiefs words.
“Yellow Hair,” Medicine Arrow began, barely whispering, “I am Rock Forehead. Keeper of the Sacred Arrows of my people. Do not hold me here. I am of no worth to you. I am an old man. You bring a curse on yourself by your deceit. You offer us the hospitality of your camp, then take us hostage. One day ago you sat in my lodge. Were you not given freedom to leave?”
The chief creaked to his feet, scuffling forward to warm his hands over the fire. “We could have held you prisoner, but did not. You grow angry with what you think are our falsehoods—but are blinded by your own!”
Custer replied and Romero translated. “You did not give me back my freedom yesterday. My troops surrounded your village, old man. Even more important is that I came to you on an errand of peace. Unlike what you came here to do, to deceive me while your village took flight! Your heart bears the black stain of deceit, Medicine Arrow.”
Custer repeatedly clenched his fists, fighting down his gall. Finally he turned to the chiefs. “As a show of my good intentions to find peace between us, I will allow you four to choose one of your number to return to your people as a messenger.”
“Autie!” Tom Custer loped up to the fire. “Autie, the village is leaving.”
“They’re moving already?”
“Yeah, heading north.”
Custer wheeled on the chiefs, smiling. “There, you see? Your evil plan goes on without you! Your village is moving farther and farther away as we speak. Abandoning you! Decide now who will carry my message to your village.”
Custer stalked away while the chiefs whispered between themselves, angrily gesturing, beating their chests,
