“Yes we did—”
“Seems fitting your men should be the first to welcome those girls back to the bosom of friends and freedom.”
“Bless you, General Custer!” Wenzel sang out.
“Hip, hip, hooray!” the Kansans cheered, slapping backs.
“C’mon, men!” Wenzel strode out. “Let’s welcome those Kansas girls back to freedom!” Suddenly he stopped, wheeling around in the midst of his squad, and saluted. “Thank you from the bottom of our hearts, General!”
In the meadow below stumbled two pitiful figures, clawing their way through bare brush and slushy snow, fighting their way back to freedom.
When Wenzel’s squad had marched half the distance to the captives, the volunteers began to wave. Desperate and delirious in joy, the women—for the men could see now that they were not just girls—waved back.
“Gentlemen, that’s a sight not many will ever witness,” Custer said quietly. “We’re party to one of the signal successes on this frontier.”
“C’mere, you!”
Custer whirled at Lucas’s cry. Brewster had torn free, dashing downhill, four soldiers on his heels. A dozen more leaping strides and it was clear as crystal to any man the civilian had the soldiers beat.
“Sergeant, call your men back!”
At Custer’s order, Lucas skidded to a halt, staring back in disbelief. He called to his detail; the soldiers slowed and ground to a stop. Brewster raced on at full tilt, arms pumping under an inspired head of steam as he burst past the smartly marching column of bewildered Kansas volunteers.
Seconds later he skidded to a snowy halt before the women, flinging his oxbow arms around the taller of the two. Anna Belle fell into this strong embrace, crying for joy, her big tears streaking the dirt caked across her ruddy cheeks.
They both held out an arm to welcome Judith White into their warm embrace of homecoming. All three skipped around and around, giddy and childlike, wrapped arm in arm in the frozen meadow as if it were May Day.
As the volunteers caught up, the air filled with rejoicing and shouts heard back on Custer’s knoll. Whoops, screams, and squeals of happiness climbed into the dusk-gray skies overhead. The first stain of sunset streaked the pewter underbelly of the clouds as some of the Kansas boys tore off their coats and draped them around the women’s shoulders. Wenzel urged his men back to the safety of the soldier’s lines.
Halfway down the slope, Custer met them. Shaking their hands, he found himself unable to utter a single words. All about the girls, soldiers and volunteers jumped and cheered, everyone flinging a hand in to touch the freed captives, welcoming them.
Through it all the women kept their own teary eyes on the ground, out of fear and embarrassment. Their faces sparkled damply with joy. They glanced at one another as if to ask,
With a full heart, Custer stepped back from the crush, taking it all in, still unable to speak. A knot of sentiment clogged his throat as he studied their deplorable condition, realizing both were pregnant and nearly starved.
“Three cheers for General Custer!”
His eyes swam as Moylan pressed before him. Suddenly there were more Seventh Cavalry and Kansas volunteers.
“Hear! Hear! Three cheers!” Wenzel shouted above the din.
That lump in Custer’s throat didn’t dissolve until the Kansas men escorted the women downhill to camp and the sun disappeared behind the trees atop the western hills.
“Huzzah for Custer!” Cooke shouted.
“Huzzah!” the hundreds answered. “Huzzah for George Armstrong Custer!”
CHAPTER 26
In closing, Dear Heart—I wanted to tell you of the deplorable condition of the two girls when they were presented to me. Clothed in some sort of short dress made from flour sacks, the brand of the mills plainly visible. This bears witness that the kidnappers of these young women were the same Indians taking our generous annuities of flour from Fort Lamed or Fort Cobb.
Their entire dress was nearly Indian: both wore leggings and moccasins, their hair tied in braids. As if to propitiate us, the Indians gave the women rude ornaments like those worn by Cheyenne squaws. Wrists wrapped with coils of brass wire. Rings on fingers. Round their necks hung colored beads.
Young Brewster was heard to say: “Sister, do take those hateful things off.”
How to tell you of their joy when they found they weren’t the only white women in the territory! You should have seen their faces when Mrs. McNeil stepped from her cook-tent, wiping her plump hands in her apron, grinning like a cat just eating the canary.
Her arms opened wide as she pressed both girls against her ample bosom. Mrs. McNeil is truly one of a kind, Libbie! Besides baking them the best pies and cornbreads, that old woman allowed those girls to choose something from her personal wardrobe, until she could fashion something better. From a bundle I had given Mrs. McNeil after we had cornered a single lodge of hostiles, she drew calico, thread, and needles—to sew frontier dresses for our new guests. For shoes, I’m sorry they had to wear their crude moccasins and leggings. They feel more comfortable sleeping in my “A” tent next to Mrs. McNeil’s.
It moves me to once again think of Daniel’s poor sister, Anna Belle. Married but a month before she was brutally wrenched from the arms of her wounded husband.
The second captive is Miss Judith White, a year younger than Mrs. Morgan, and taken a month before Anna Belle’s capture.
Every evening round the fire at Mrs. McNeil’s tent, hundreds of young soldiers and volunteers gather to hear their distressing stories. Traded among the Indians. Beaten by jealous Cheyenne harpies. Countless abuses. And an ill-fated attempt to escape.
No eye was found dry when the two described their first meeting in the hostile camp. How great must have been their joy amid such suffering, fear, and outrage. When one owner grew tired of dallying with his captive, he sold her to another, who misused the women in the most unspeakable manner.
From the moment of their first meeting, the two laid plans for escape. So, trusting to Providence one night, they traveled for hours in a northerly direction. They had reached the ruts of a wagon road and were congratulating themselves when a bullet whistled past their heads. To their horror, their late captor rode up in pursuit.
That very next day he separated them by selling one. From that moment the two have been apart, until brought together on the back of a single pony and sent out to freedom.
What victories we win in this war seem so small—they pale in comparison—before this sweet victory of securing freedom for these citizens!
It had not been dark long that first evening of freedom when the Cheyenne sent a delegation to me, demanding the release of their three chiefs. I reminded them I would not free their leaders until the tribe returned to the reservation near Camp Supply.
The delegation left my quarters quite upset, reminding Romero of some curse one of their evil, old wizards of the tribe had laid about my shoulders. One should only fear such poppycock if one believes in poppycock!
Seems I’ve fallen victim to one Medicine Arrow, the culprit who has (they claim) cursed my command with total annihilation. Romero himself became agitated, saying I should take it seriously. I find such primitive beliefs amusing at best.
With our camp grown quiet, a second delegation called for Yellow Hair. Seeing I would not bend my demands, they finally promised that as soon as their ponies were fit to travel, their villages would proceed to Camp Supply, abandoning the warpath forever.
With this happy termination to our struggles here, we set out in the morning for Camp Supply. If I were to
