Custer shoved past the old woman abruptly, pulling Libbie with him.
“Yellow Hair!” the old one shrieked. “Throw this skinny white woman away and finish all the seasons of your life with a real woman—Monaseetah!”
Custer shoved through the crowd, Libbie straining at his arm.
“What’s this all about, Autie?” Libbie whispered, peering up at him with frightened, birdlike eyes.
“Nothing,” he answered abruptly. “She just wants to know when her people are going home.”
“Are they going home soon?”
“As soon as possible,” he answered, sweat rolling down his spine.
“Ginnel!”
Custer turned to find Eliza surrounded by children and women. A few of the bravest youngsters licked and rubbed their fingers across Eliza’s cheeks, neck, and hands. She stood paralyzed, afraid to move.
“Just relax,” Custer said.
“But … they lickin’ on me!”
Custer waded into the crowd alone, chattering in Cheyenne, shaming the Indians for their rudeness with his guests. Eliza was shaking by the time he reached her.
“What they wanna skeer ’Liza for? Only talkin’ to the lil’ chirrun, Ginnel!”
“You’re a wonder to ’em. They’ve never seen a Negro before.”
“What they rubbin’ on me for?”
“They were trying to rub the black off.”
“Cain’t rub that off, Ginnel!” She grinned big as Sunday.
“I realize that, but they paint themselves black to celebrate victory in war. They think you’re wearing paint.”
He turned to those who passed close. “Go on, now. It is not paint.”
The women and children began to turn away, staring at their fingertips as if searching for a reason no paint rubbed off the strange woman who had come with Yellow Hair.
When Custer turned, Libbie was nowhere to be found. With his heart in his throat, he caught a glimpse of her, twenty yards away at the center of a small group of women cloaked in their army blankets.
“Libbie!” He scurried over. “You had me worried, there—”
At his voice, the women around Libbie turned. One set of eyes fluttered up to his. Monaseetah’s.
“Bo!” Libbie greeted him. “This young woman’s just given me this beautiful bag.”
“Which one?”
“This one,” Libbie pointed out a middle-aged squaw, “she says the pretty young one wants me to have it.”
He watched Monaseetah scurrying to a tent before he asked the woman, “Do you give the pouch to my wife?”
“It is a gift,” the woman answered in Cheyenne. “To the first wife of Yellow Hair. I give it since Monaseetah herself has nothing to give
“It’s a gift for you, Libbie,” he stammered.
“Everything Monaseetah had is gone now,” the woman explained. “Pony soldiers burned everything she owned,”
“Thank you for the gift,” he stammered.
Monaseetah emerged from the tent, her hair brushed, the dull army blanket traded for her favorite red blanket. She pressed close to the couple, gazing into Custer’s eyes.
“Libbie …” He gulped, sweat trickling down his spine. “This is the young squaw I wrote you about. Monaseetah—The Young Grass that Shoots Up in Spring.”
“The woman who helped guide your last campaign?” Libbie asked, appraising Monaseetah.
“The same.”
“She’s more beautiful than you described in your letter.” Libbie gave her husband a sidelong glance that would have made even an innocent man shudder. “Everything you described—the high color of her cheeks, those pearl-like teeth. But where is her child?”
Custer turned to Monaseetah. “Please bring your child to us.”
Instead of going herself, she had one of the older women bring the child to her. Monaseetah gently drew back the blanket from the infant’s face.
Libbie smiled, cooing. Straightening, she held her arms out, showing Monaseetah her desire to hold the infant. “With that black hair and those dark eyes, make no mistake about it—he’s a little Indian!” she gushed.
Custer watched Monaseetah push through the crowd, headed for the tents.
“His father was a Cheyenne warrior?” Libbie asked.
“Yes. He escaped my noose at the Washita.”
Monaseetah swirled back, holding a small sepia-toned daguerreotype she presented for Custer’s inspection.
“A photographer visited the post several weeks ago,” he explained. “Evidently the fellow became so entranced with Monaseetah that he shot her without a fee.”
Libbie studied him. “Make no mistake, Autie. She is an extremely attractive, highly provocative woman.” Then Libbie appraised the Cheyenne mother. “I’m getting quite tired now. Will you drive us back to Big Creek, where I can nap before supper?”
“Of course. Give the child to its mother, Libbie.”
Monaseetah shook her head and smiled, holding the tintype close to her breast. “Tell her she can keep the child.”
“Keep him?” Custer squeaked.
“Yes, Yellow Hair,” Monaseetah answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to offer. “Your first wife has no child. She can keep my son until I return to my people.”
“But she can’t do that! He’s not her child.”
“Does she not want a child?” Monaseetah inquired. “Some Cheyenne men will take another wife when one can’t give them sons. Is this not the way with your people?”
“No. It is not the wish of Yellow Hair.” He took the child from Libbie’s arms and placed the boy in Monaseetah’s, seeing something wounded cross her dark eyes.
“I am sorry. I want to return to you,” he explained. “To tell you why she cannot keep your baby.”
“Come back, Yellow Hair,” she whispered. “I must talk with you soon.”
“I’ll return.” Custer shoved through the crowd, pulling Libbie to his side, looking over his shoulder at Monaseetah.
“Custer!”
Having swept the two women out of the stockade and across the parade, then into the freight wagon, Custer turned. He saw a big man stepping off the porch in front of headquarters.
“Colonel Miles. A genuine surprise, sir.” He saluted.
Nelson A. Miles, commander of the Fifth Infantry, stepped into the dust and hardened ruts of the parade. “Ladies.” He nodded courteously at the women in the wagon, tipping his hat. “Can I assign you an escort for your trip back to Big Creek?”
“No need for that, Colonel. I appreciate your offer.”
“Truth is—” Miles leaned in close to the near side of the wagon so that he might whisper in private to Custer, “Mary would skin me two ways of Sunday if she found out I hadn’t made a point of offering you an escort for your Elizabeth. Seems my wife’s quite taken with your bride.”
Custer glanced at Libbie. Just beyond, his eyes focused on the prisoner compound. At the stockade wall a young woman held an infant to her breast. A warm breeze tugged at her hair like the tall stalks of buffalo grass beneath a summer sky.
“Please pass my compliments on to your wife,” Custer said, leaping onto the seat beside Libbie.
Miles stepped back from the wagon. His eyes narrowed as he appraised the hero of the Washita. “I will, Armstrong.”
Custer snapped the team into motion, quartering the mules in a wide arc around the parade, pointing them
