Two in the Field (48 page)

“Why, yes.” He turned slowly to me. “By the Treaty of Laramie, signed in ’68, that is presently the case.”

“So aren’t we breaking the law by trespassing?”

All of them were looking at me. Not only had Custer led a thousand-man force into the Black Hills, he’d allowed his name to be attached to rumors of gold there.

“The Sioux and others have also broken that treaty,” he said in a lecturing tone. “They agreed not to harass settlers along the railroads and rivers, but in the past year alone, over a hundred whites have been killed between the Yellowstone in Montana and the Niobrara down in your Nebraska territory. Yet we’ve continued supplying the tribes’ rations well beyond the four-year period called for by the ’68 treaty. We’ve spent millions doing that.”

I asked if those millions actually went to the tribes.

“That is another issue,” he retorted. “Nobody criticizes the Indian agencies more than I. My point is that our government
has abided by the treaty. Since the Black Hills continued to be a haven for hostiles, however, I was ordered to make a quick reconnaissance mission. Which I did.” He spread his hands flat on the tabletop.

“Gold and other minerals make that territory too valuable not to be developed,” Tom Custer chimed in. “History will decide the matter.” He looked at his older brother. “I believe we’re in a falsely quiet period just now.”

“Is that so, Autie?” said Libbie.

Custer nodded. “Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse won’t agree to selling their sacred
Paha Sapa
, even if all the others do. That was shown last month when they refused to accompany Red Cloud and Spotted Tail to Washington to complain about the agents.” He sighed. “Lord knows, they have plenty to complain about, but I agree with Tom that we’ll have to settle with the hostiles. All tribes will be ordered to their reservations before the year is out, and I have a hunch that those two, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull, will defy us.”

“Have you seen Crazy Horse?” I asked curiously, aware that the famous Oglala chief did not allow himself to be photographed or sketched.

“On the Yellowstone once, through glasses,” he said. “My scouts told me it was Crazy Horse. Unlike the other chiefs he wears but one feather.” He laughed. “He tried to lure me into a trap that day—a predictable Sioux trick—but I was too canny to chase after him.”

“That’s probably a good policy.”

He frowned. “What is?”

“Not chasing him.”

Custer’s electric eyes bored into mine. “The Oglalas were unusually aggressive that day,” he said sharply. “They took us by surprise and nearly overrode our positions. But once we
massed and advanced with all weapons discharging, they broke and fled. They’ll do it every time. It’s a fact, mister.”

It’s a fact you’re gonna die thinking that way
.

After dinner, to our disgust, we had to wait further while they played charades for several hours. Finally everybody but Tom departed. Custer then sent us back to his study while his brother “briefed” him on our situation. A chain of command thing.

“I must advise you not to go,” he said on joining us. “Adding your lives to your son’s won’t benefit anybody.”

“We’re going,” Cait said flatly. “Will you help us?”

“How?” he countered. “If I offer men or provisions, I’ll face a court martial for deliberately countermanding orders.”

“How about volunteers?” I said. “Maybe a few men who missed last year’s expedition and just happen to go out riding with us.”

He snorted in derision.

“An Indian scout or two, then,” I persisted. “They’re not official army, right?”

“Most of them deserted last time,” he said tersely. “They won’t go near the Paha Sapa.”

“Why not?”

He smiled. “Fear of the Great Spirit who speaks there in a voice of thunder.”

“Then you refuse us help?” Cait said, as if she couldn’t believe it.

“I
am
helping,” Custer retorted. “I’m offering professional advice, although as an officer of the United States Cavalry I cannot take action. In your spot, here is what I would do. First of all—” he turned and spoke to me—“I would leave Mrs. Fowler here. Exposure and bad water killed two of my men out there. It’s no place for a white gentlewoman.”

“I’m going to find my son!” she said indignantly.

“Very well.” Custer studied her, the
my
instead of
our
doubtless
registering. “Then it’s crucial that you move swiftly, while things remain peaceful. You have the advantage that our route has been improved on; there’s even an occasional coach out of Bismarck that carries gold seekers close to the Hills.”

“I thought that they’d all been removed,” Cait said.

“Hundreds were, but there’s no way to prevent some from sneaking back. Troopers, too, have deserted to hunt gold.”

I saw a ray of hope. “The army’s still in there?”

“In
again,”
he corrected. “An infantry company and several cavalry troops under Captain Pollock have been detached to the Hills until further notice.”

“Can’t we wire him to find Tim?” said Cait.

“There is no telegraph line anywhere near.” Custer smiled indulgently. “Tomorrow I will indeed send a wire to Omaha. From there it will be relayed to Fort Laramie, then delivered by rider to Pollock. But if the men you seek are well hidden …” He finished with a shrug, then let his eyes travel over Cait. “If you insist on going, wear men’s clothing.”

“For a certainty,” she said in a flat tone.

“You’d do well to buy provisions and digging tools in Bismarck,” he told me, “and offer to outfit six or eight gold seekers to take along to discourage Indians. Make sure somebody has been that way before and can guide you.”

“Any idea where to look for McDermott?”

He stroked his mustache. “The richest territory for claim-jumping is north of where we explored last year, called Custer City now,” he replied. “That’s good for you because it’s closer and your enemy won’t expect you from the north. Once in the Hills, pare your numbers down so you can move with stealth. There are many small canyons with streams. You’ll need to scout them carefully.”

“We’ll find him,” Cait said.

“With your spirit and some luck,” Custer told her, “you just might do it.”

I could tell he didn’t think we had a prayer.

“In the morning get some orders of rations from our quartermaster.” He handed me a slip of paper. “It’ll help out in the first days, when you need to move fast and don’t have time to hunt.”

Cait thanked him and said, “I’m afraid we have nothing to offer in return.”

She said it sweetly and I couldn’t tell if she intended any irony. In fact Custer hadn’t given us a hell of a lot. But I did have an offering for him. His life.

“May I say something?” I asked at the library door.

“What is that?” He looked expectant, probably anticipating praise.

“If you go after the Sioux next summer, don’t split your command.” My words came faster as his face hardened. “Especially if you find them at the Little Bighorn River—”

“Samuel, what are you—” Cait began.

“Whatever you do, don’t attack them.”

“Why not?”

Well, there it was. How could I answer? Try to tell him that he and all his men would be wiped out?

“Believe me,” I said. “It will be a terrible calamity.”

“What impels you say this, sir?”

“I … uh … I just know.”

He smiled coldly. “I see.”

“I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“No.” He held the door wide for us, his face unfriendly. “I dare say you can’t.”

 TWENTY-FIVE 

All we lacked was a guide.

Linc and I stood beneath a gaudy sign that read
Banjo Bill Kuller’s Argonaut Emporium
on the dust-blown main street of Bismarck, our supplies piled all around: a pup tent for Cait and tarps for everybody else; rubber and wool blankets, spirit lamps and alcohol, matches, flour, lard, coffee, vinegar, baking powder, dried apples, bacon, beans, and cooking pots. Also several new Winchester ’73 repeating rifles with impressive firepower that we hoped would safeguard us against bandits and hostile Sioux.

For our prospector companions we had rubber hip boots, picks, gold pans, saws, hatchets, long-handled shovels, quicksilver, and a powerful magnet for use in cleaning gold. Such things were plentiful in Bismarck, where many establishments competed to equip “Pilgrims” and “Argonauts.” Traffic to the Hills was picking up again since most of the army had pulled out.

We’d recruited half a dozen eager volunteers in the first saloon we visited. They were still boys, really, but eager for riches and adventure, and they seemed reasonably familiar with mounts and guns. What else they knew I had no idea, and didn’t much care. Once we reached the gold area, they’d be on their own. “No stops along the way,” we’d made clear. “Not for sickness. Not for injuries. No stops whatsoever.”

They agreed.

We’d paid a stable for our three mounts—the goldbugs provided their own—and six pack horses. Now we were waiting for them to be delivered. Cait was in a hotel room, presumably
putting on her new jeans and otherwise making herself ready for the rugged 220-mile journey.

The trouble was, we didn’t have a guide. Linc’s night among Custer’s Crow scouts had confirmed that they would not go there with us, in good part because they feared Crazy Horse. In Bismarck we’d found several so-called guides who’d visited the outskirts of the Hills, but none had ventured very far inside.

So there it stood. All we had was the generalized map we’d brought from O’Neill City, on which Linc had noted some information from Custer’s scouts.

“We’ve got to go anyway,” I told him.

“Easy to get lost without a guide.” He looked troubled. “Easy to get ambushed if we don’t know what’s ahead.”

“What choice do we have?” I said. “We’ve got to find Tim.”

Just then a whoop came from a stretch of the riverbank called Pleasure Point, where a collection of huts sported signs such as “My Lady’s Bower” and “Dew Drop Inn.” As the commotion continued we turned to see a ragged figure go sprawling to the street in front of jeering men and grinning whores.

“Panhandle over there!” one of them yelled, and pointed at us.

The figure rose slowly and stood weaving.

“Drunk Indian,” Linc muttered.

He spotted our piles of goods and came lurching our way.

“I don’t believe it,” I said wonderingly.

“What?”

“He’s the one who nursed me to health and left Lily behind.”

It took him a while to reach us. “How,” he said, raising his hand in greeting, then stretching it out to us. “Gib … mahnee.”

“How,”
I said.

He showed no sign of recognizing me.

“Woka,”
I said, and mimed drinking.

He looked at me blankly.

“Why’d you run off and leave your baby?” I rocked an imaginary infant in my arms.

“Let me give it a try.” Linc cut loose with a series of whooshing vowels punctuated by soft grunts. It must have been Lakota because the Indian did a big double take and fixed his bleary eyes on me. Fingering an amulet at his neck, he muttered something.

“What’d he say?”

“Big medicine.”

“What is?”

“I think it’s
you.”

“Me?”

“He says he’ll come back here—” Linc paused while the Indian signed—“before the sun goes to bed.”

“Tell him he’s not getting any money.”

Linc called out something as the Indian moved up the street with the stateliest tread he could manage.

“What’d you say?”

“Asked if he knew of a guide.”

“You asked
him?”

Linc shrugged. “Got a better notion?”