times. And others, he wanted her gone from his life. Her and the constant reminder that she believed he was at fault. That he was the reason she was barren.
“I promise, Libbie.”
Custer gazed out through the narrow slit in the tent flaps, mesmerized by the line of gold and brown prairie melting in a haze against the cornflower blue sky. A land much bigger than any man. Surely bigger than any problem that might threaten to overwhelm him.
Looking at that shimmering horizon where the green and gold of the shortgrass rising from the brown flesh of the prairie to meet the caress of the morning sky just like a woman’s breasts rose to her lover, Custer knew he had fallen in love with another.
CHAPTER 28
“Is this the place the Injins is kep’, Ginnel?”
Custer smiled, bouncing on the seat of the freight wagon he had borrowed for this trip to Fort Hays from the Big Creek camp.
Keeping much of her childlike and beguiling innocence down through their years together since that first autumn of ’64. A freed Virginia slave, she was only seventeen then. His cook ever since. Now housekeeper for Libbie. Custer couldn’t imagine doing without her.
“Yes, Eliza.
As Eliza glanced away, Custer winked at Libbie.
“’Cain’t wait, Ginnel. Able to tell all I know that Eliza see’d a real live blood-tastin’ Cheyenne warrior!”
“Not the warriors you have to keep an eye on,” he whispered mysteriously with another wink at Libbie. “It’s the women-folk who’re the sneakiest of all. Why, you don’t know when they might slip up behind you”—he slapped both reins into one hand—”and poke a knife right atween your ribs!”
With the empty hand he jabbed his imaginary knife at Eliza. Gasping in horror, she clutched a hand to her breast and tumbled back against the sideboard of Lieutenant Bell’s freight wagon he had borrowed for their trip to Fort Hays.
“Autie!” Libbie yelped, giggling. “You’re so cruel to Eliza! Scaring her witless!”
“You scared witless, Eliza?” he asked.
“Me, Ginnel?” She sat straight, flashing teeth yellowed like old ivory set within her ebony cheeks. “No, the Ginnel’s quite the kidder, Miz Libbie,” Eliza said. “Never know when he mean it, and when he don’t. Anythin’ at’all … he might’n be pullin’ my leg.”
“But I’ve never pulled hard enough to pull it off,” Custer added.
“Why, Ginnel—there you go at me again!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” Libbie said with a sigh. “We just don’t know what to expect of him next, do we?”
Custer watched something strange cross Libbie’s face, before she gazed down the road once more. Whatever it was, it had made him cold. Here beneath a bright June sun. Clouds like tiny sailing ships adrift upon the expanse of a blue-domed sea. And her putting this cold knot in his gut.
“There it is,” he announced as they neared the outskirts of the buildings. “Now, Eliza, you best be careful around those squaws. I don’t want to lose my Black-Eyed Pea.”
“Black-Eyed Pea?” Libbie asked.
“The Ginnel called me that back in the war, Miz Libbie. When he was just a freckle-faced soldier boy.”
“Not a boy any longer, Eliza.” He flashed her his grin. “You just watch yourself, ’cause I may hand you over to them Cheyenne squaws myself—let them find out just how good darkie meat can taste slow-broiled!”
Eliza yelped in mock pain as he pinched her cheek. “Oh, Ginnel! You are a one!”
“Thank you, Eliza,” he answered. “At least you’re happy you came to Kansas to see me.”
Libbie tired hard, but couldn’t suppress her giggle behind the gloved fingers she held to her lips. “From the impression I got my first night in camp, Mr. Custer”—and she winked at him wickedly—“I was led to believe you were really happy to see me!”
He felt like a schoolboy propped stiffly on a park bench beside a young schoolgirl named Elizabeth Bacon, who persisted in prodding him to admit that he really did like her best of all.
“You did show me, Autie,” she whispered. “Despite everything that’s troubling us, I still know you’re truly happy to have me with you again.”
Libbie slipped an arm through his. Custer steered the wagon past the post entrance, saluting the guards as he passed.
On the east side of the huge open compound that formed Fort Hays stood a large fenced stockade where several large wall tents squatted in the sun like ugly toads. From the open-air prison rose the sound of children’s laughter. Several brown youngsters, naked save for breechclouts, chased one another in play.
“The Injins over there, Ginnel?”
Custer eased back on the reins. “We don’t dare let them out to roam the fort, I’m afraid. They’d finish off all the dogs we have once they devour every old horse we butcher for them. I’m warning you, ’Liza—keep your eyes open for any old harpy carrying a knife your way!”
“Nawww!” she giggled. “I’m way too old for them Cheyennes to eat, Ginnel. Way too tough, and stringy too!”
This time he laughed aloud.
Something raised the hairs at the back of Libbie’s neck. Downright scared, she stuck to Custer like horse glue once they had left the wagon behind. On the other hand, Eliza seemed more curious than frightened, strolling ahead of the young couple, rambling here and there to see everything and everybody.
The squaws pressed close when the trio had walked past the guards at the gate. Both Libbie and Eliza had huddled behind Custer like buffalo calves in a wolf attack, until he scolded the Indian women, backing them off. One by one the squaws inched up, touching Custer’s cheek lovingly, crooning their songs and murmuring their soft sentiments.
Before Custer could begin the tour, an old woman with skin wrinkled like puckered rawhide stopped squarely in front of him. With cloudy, rheumy eyes she studied Libbie’s face, then cocked her head to assess Eliza.
“These women belong to you, Yellow Hair?”
“They do not belong to me, old one. On my arm is my wife,” Custer grappled to speak with his limited Cheyenne.
“The other? She is your left-hand woman?”
“No. She is helper to my wife.” Custer watched Libbie’s face, knowing she did not understand their talk.
“Like a left-hand woman helps in Cheyenne lodges.”
“No,” he cut her off. “Not my left-hand woman.”
“It is good,” the nearly toothless mouth replied. “Monaseetah remains your second wife.”
“Monaseetah is not my wife. She does not live with me as a woman lives with her husband.”
The old one wagged her head and smiled. “Fool others, Yellow Hair. Monaseetah rode the long winter trail with you, warming your robes each night. As a woman does for her man.”
Custer’s eyes bounced over the gathering crowd of prisoners. “She is special to me, yes. But Monaseetah is not married to me. I am married to this woman.”
Rolling her cracked lips across her old gums, the wrinkled squaw mulled that over like she would chew toothless on a stringy strand of horse haunch. “Yellow Hair likes having two wives. When one offends, he can throw her away—still having a wife for his robes. You use too much wind saying Monaseetah is not your wife. We know she warmed your robes all winter gone. If you do not want her, give her away to some man who will love her.”
“She is not mine to give away.”
“Why not throw this one away?” The old woman pointed a bony finger at Libbie. “She is too skinny! She is not full and rounded like Monaseetah. And she looks mean, Yellow Hair. She must surely have a rock beneath her breast instead of a heart. Yellow Hair, this one is not for you.”
