Tales of Western Romance (21 page)

Renegade.
No one dared say the word to
his face, but he knew that’s what they were thinking.

The patrols encountered no Indians, turned up
little sign that there were any hostiles in the area. Scouts
brought word that the Cheyenne had joined up with the Sioux in the
Black Hills.

Later that summer, word came that the
Cheyenne and Sioux had launched a vicious attack against the Crow.
Culhane smiled when he heard that. The Crow wouldn’t be so eager to
steal Cheyenne ponies the next time.

As the summer of sixty-eight wore on, attacks
against white settlers increased. Patrols were increased, and the
Seventh began tightening up, drilling longer and harder in
preparation for the battle that was sure to come.

* * * * *

In September, Phil Sheridan sent for Custer,
and on October 4th, the Boy General arrived at Hays.

Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer
was a man you either loved or hated. Culhane despised him. Back in
sixty-seven, Custer had been court-martialed for a number of
serious offenses, among them insubordination, failure to pursue
Indians who had attacked his command, failure to recover the bodies
of men killed by savages, and deserting his command. He had been
convicted of having deserters shot in the field rather than
bringing them back for trial, and for refusing to give medical
attention to those who were wounded. As punishment, he had been
suspended for a year without pay.

Now he was back in command, eager to ride out
against the Sioux and Cheyenne, eager to regain his lost glory, to
rebuild his tarnished reputation.

Custer and a number of men, Culhane among
them, rode out to join the Seventh, which was camped along a creek
about a half mile south of Fort Dodge.

On the twelfth of November, Custer led eleven
companies of the Seventh, five companies of Infantry, and a wagon
train across the Arkansas and headed South.

A week later, they reached the north Canadian
River and began to build a stockaded supply base which was named
Camp Supply. The camp would be manned by the Infantry while the
Seventh took the field.

Scouts had cut fresh Indian sign the day
before they reached Camp Supply and spirits were high. Custer was
always ready for a fight, Culhane thought disdainfully. Sheridan
rode into Camp Supply on November 21st; two days later, the Seventh
was ready to ride out.

Reveille sounded at four a.m. on the
twenty-third. Culhane swore softly as he rolled out of his bunk. It
was below zero. There was a foot of snow on the ground, and it was
still coming down.

They moved out after a hasty breakfast of
coffee and hardtack, accompanied by the post band, surely the
hardiest bunch of musicians Culhane had ever seen.

With the notes of “The Girl I Left Behind Me”
ringing in their ears, the Seventh rode into the teeth of a
snowstorm. They rode until two o’clock, then stopped on the banks
of Wolf Creek, some fifteen miles from Camp Supply.

Huddling beside a small fire, Culhane quietly
cursed General Sheridan for his decision to mount a winter campaign
against the Indians, and then he cursed Custer simply for the hell
of it, and because he heartily disliked the man.

They marched down Wolf Creek the following
morning. It had stopped snowing, but the temperature was still
below zero. It didn’t phase Custer. He was a determined man, if he
was nothing else, and Culhane knew he’d keep going as long as his
men drew breath.

November 26th, Thanksgiving Day, they reached
the north bank of the Canadian River. Custer dispatched Major
Elliott and three troops on a scouting expedition up the river.

Dinner that night, which was the only meal
they’d had all day, consisted of coffee and hardtack, accompanied
by a lot of grumbling by the men.

Culhane stared into the flames. The scouts
had found a wide trail and there was a lot of excitement as the
troopers realized they were closing in on their quarry.

Culhane shook his head. He had told Major
Harvey he would do his duty, but now he was not so sure. What if
Elk Hunter turned up in his gun sights? How could he kill Winter
Star’s father? How could he kill any of the men he had smoked with,
gambled with, laughed with?

The next day, Custer announced that the wagon
train was to be left behind with Captain McLane Hamilton and eighty
men. The rest of the regiment would take one day’s ration of coffee
and hardtack and one hundred rounds of ammunition, and they would
push on at all possible speed to join Elliott.

They rode all the next day. The weather had
warmed a little and the top crust of the snow grew soft, so that
the horses sank through it up to their knees. They rode until nine
o’clock that night and ate their first meal since morning.

Wrapped in a blanket against the cold,
Culhane chewed on a piece of hardtack, his thoughts bleak.

At ten o’clock, they were on the move again.
They found the Indians camped in a sleepy valley along the Washita
River.

Custer gave his final orders. The regiment
was divided into four squadrons: Major Elliott was ordered to take
three troops, G, H, and M, and circle to the left to get behind the
Indians; Captain Thompson, with Troops B and F, was to make a long
detour to the right and join Elliott. Captain Myers, with Troops E
and I, was to take position to the left of Thompson, while Custer
would take the four remaining troops and approach the village from
where they now stood. The attack would be delivered at dawn. Until
then, no one was to make a sound. Sabers were removed. Conversation
was forbidden.

A number of dogs had followed the soldiers
from camp and about a half hour before the attack, Custer ordered
them all killed because they might bark or howl and alert the
Indian camp to their presence. All, that is, except his own
favorite staghound, Blucher.

Culhane swore under his breath, his hatred
for Custer growing, as he saw the dogs being muzzled and then
strangled.

Squatting on his heels, Culhane watched
Custer. The man was practically foaming at the mouth in his
eagerness to attack. A year of enforced inactivity had him spoiling
for action. He hadn’t taken time to scout the area, nor had he any
idea of how many Indians were in the camp, or if they were friendly
or hostile. He knew only that they were Indians.

With the coming of dawn, the band struck up
“Garry Owen” and Custer’s men attacked, urging their horses down
the snow-covered slope toward the sleeping village.

Riding into the camp, Culhane was appalled to
see women and children shot down, or trampled beneath the iron-shod
hooves of the cavalry horses. Indians, half-dressed or naked,
stumbled from their lodges. Custer rode into view, flanked by one
of the Indian scouts, and his brother, Boston Custer.

The fight inside the village lasted only a
few minutes, but Culhane saw things that made him sick to his
stomach, atrocities committed by soldiers that made him ashamed of
the uniform he wore. He saw several warriors make a stand in a
little depression near the river. All refused to surrender and were
killed. He saw a woman hiding in the underbrush, her leg broken,
shooting at the white men as they rode by.

He saw Black Kettle jump on his pony, grab
his wife, and start across the river. He was shot in the back. His
wife died beside him.

He saw a young boy of perhaps fourteen years
of age firing at Captain Benteen, saw the boy fire three times
while Benteen tried to make the boy understand he wouldn’t be hurt
if he’d only put the gun down. As the boy raised the pistol a
fourth time, Benteen shot him.

Culhane turned away, his stomach heaving as
he watched men and women he had talked with and laughed with
slaughtered before his eyes. He tried to locate Winter Star and her
parents, but he couldn’t find them in the churning sea of
humanity.

The soldiers rode through the village like a
giant blue scythe, cutting down everything in its path. The
warriors fought valiantly, but they were out-numbered and they fell
before the relentless tide of Custer’s cavalry.

And then he saw Winter Star. She was running
toward the river, her arms crossed over her stomach, her eyes
mirroring the horror of what was happening to her people.

Spurring his horse, Culhane raced toward her,
a horrified cry rising in his throat as a trooper rode up beside
him, his rifle leveled in Winter Star’s direction. Without thought,
Culhane drew his sidearm and shot the man out of the saddle, then,
reaching down, he wrapped his arm around Winter Star’s waist and
lifted her into the saddle.

She fought him, her nails raking his cheek,
until he called her name. Disbelief was quickly replaced by joy as
she turned to face him.

Weak with relief, he reined his horse around,
determined to leave the scene of the slaughter. Only then did he
realize that the battle was over and that Custer was standing
beside him, his revolver aimed at his head.

“
Drop your weapon, Sergeant,” Custer
ordered curtly, and when Culhane hesitated, Custer thumbed back the
hammer of his gun. “Drop it.” He nodded as Culhane surrendered his
weapon. “Consider yourself under arrest, Sergeant. I’ll file
charges when we return to the post.”

Culhane nodded. Jaw clenched, he watched as
Winter Star was herded toward the other prisoners.

Culhane felt his stomach churn as he glanced
around the village. Bodies of horses and Indians littered the
ground, their corpses smeared with blood and mud. Troopers looted
the lodges, gathering up buffalo robes, saddles, rifles, revolvers,
spears, shields, quivers, and hatchets. The wounded Indians were
executed. Lieutenant Godfrey was ordered to burn all the lodges and
the rest of the property, including all the food and blankets so
that any Indians who had escaped could not come back and find
shelter. Soon columns of thick black smoke darkened the skies.

Turning away from the blaze, Culhane watched
as Custer allowed his officers and scouts to help themselves to the
Indian ponies. Fifty-three horses were picked for the captive women
and children to ride so they wouldn’t have to walk the sixty miles
back to the base camp.

And then, to Culhane’s horror and disgust,
Custer ordered Lieutenant Godfrey to take four companies and
slaughter the remaining animals. He felt the gorge rise in his
throat as the soldiers shot over eight hundred Indian ponies.

Culhane looked at Winter Star. She was
standing with the other women and children, her face impassive as
she watched the slaughter. He saw tears welling in the eyes of some
of the Indian children, saw the sadness in the faces of the women
as the tribe’s wealth was brutally slaughtered.

Culhane glanced beyond the camp. No doubt
there were surviving warriors hiding out of sight, watching their
village being destroyed, their animals killed.

With the fighting over and the troops about
to pull out, it was determined that Major Elliott and his men had
not yet returned. Earlier, they had ridden after a group of
Indians. One of the men remembered hearing Elliott shout, “Here
goes for a brevet or a coffin!” as he galloped off. He hadn’t been
seen since.

It was suggested that Custer go and look for
Elliott, but large numbers of Indians began to appear in the
distance. One of the Indian captives said they were from another
village located further downstream. There were, the Indian said, at
least two thousand warriors camped some distance away.

Culhane identified the warriors as Cheyenne,
Arapaho, Kiowa Comanche, and even a few Apache. Perhaps the
fighting wasn’t over after all, he mused bleakly, and wondered what
Hard Ass would do now.

Custer, the boy general, decided to retreat.
Under cover of darkness, he marched his troops away from the
battlefield.

Culhane rode between two men who had been
detailed to keep an eye on him. He glanced often at Winter Star,
who was riding some distance behind. Did she hate him now, he
wondered, and cursed the men who had attacked her village, cursed
the fact that he was as much a prisoner as she was.

The next day, Culhane learned from one of his
guards that Custer had sent a message to Sheridan, informing the
General of the Seventh’s casualties: Major Elliott and fourteen men
were missing; one officer and five men had been killed, three
officers and eleven men had been wounded.

However, it was to be noted that the Seventh
had killed a hundred warriors, including Chief Black Kettle. They
had also killed and wounded “some” women and a “few” children. A
few, Culhane mused. There had been over ninety women and children
killed, and only a handful of seasoned warriors.

Culhane shook his head in disgust. How like
George Armstrong Custer, to make his sneak attack on a peaceful
village sound like a great victory! It was reported that Sheridan
had called the affair the most complete and satisfactory battle
ever waged against the Indians.

Culhane swore softly. No doubt his move to
save Winter Star’s life would be made to sound like high treason
against God and country.

He loosed a heavy sigh as Major Harvey’s
words echoed in the back of his mind:
Renegades are still shot
in this man’s Army.

Chapter 12

They rode into Camp Supply on December First.
Custer had his wild Osage guides ride in front of the column, their
plaited scalp locks adorned with feathers and silver ornaments
looted from the Cheyenne. They carried rawhide shields, rifles,
spears, and bows. Bloody scalps dangled from their spears. One of
the braves, known as Trotter, boasted that he carried the scalp of
Chief Black Kettle.

The white scouts followed the Osages, then
came the regimental band. And next, arrayed in fringed buckskins
and riding a prancing black stallion, came Custer.