Fireblossom (2 page)

Dan was so tired, he was numb. Still, the dream—a haunting blend of his father's colorful stories and his own, more recent experiences—would not leave him alone.

In it he found himself resting on buffalo robes in a spacious Lakota Sioux tipi. The air was rich with life smells and a sense of deep peace. The Lakota men, finished with the day's work, were relaxing, telling stories and playing with their children. Women puttered around the village, watching over their families or tending to other chores while chatting among themselves. Lethargy stole over Dan, too, like a blanket of peace. His Lakota brethren smiled at him, calling him Fox-With-Blue-Eyes. The differences between them were many, but therein lay the lessons...

Dan's father had taught him much about the native people of the plains, whom he saw as appealingly different from whites. Zachary Matthews had lived among the Lakota Sioux and other tribes during his years as a fur trader with the American Fur Company. After journeying east to Washington, D.C., in 1843, he'd married a schoolteacher named Annie Sunday and one year later Daniel was born.

As time passed, Zach relived the best of his past with his sturdy, blue-eyed son. Spellbound, Dan would listen for hours to tales of villages that covered acres of rough prairie and cottonwood valleys, buffalo herds that blackened the Great Plains and inspired long hunts that proved the stamina of Indian warriors, and a philosophy of life that produced happy, prosperous people who appeared to be free of avarice.

The lessons Dan had learned from Zachary would stand him in good stead through the years. While serving in the Union Army during the Civil War, he was rewarded with a commission for his fearless, intelligent leadership of volunteers—but the cause had been just: Daniel Matthews had killed to end slavery and reunify the nation.

After the war he'd left the army, studying in Europe and then retracing his father's routes in the Dakota Territory. There Dan lived among the Lakota Sioux, who named him Fox, or Fox-With-Blue-Eyes. The experience both exhilarated and disturbed him. As he became painfully aware of the wave of events destroying the Indians' way of life, his confidence in the government he had defended just years before was undermined. After Zachary's death in 1874, Dan gravitated back to Washington to be near Annie Sunday Matthews. Old friends, whose careers had flourished following the Civil War, now urged him to come back to the army: officers of quality were badly needed on the frontier.

Dan had flatly refused any involvement in the Indian Wars until April of 1876, when President Grant invited him to the White House for a drink. Grant was furious with George Armstrong Custer, who had recently come to Washington to testify before Congress about frontier fraud and had said all the wrong things. Although the president didn't even want to send Custer back to take part in the campaign to drive the Sioux out of the territory between the Great Sioux Reservation and the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, the other officers involved felt that Custer was an important asset.

"I need you to keep an eye on that hothead for me," President Grant urged Dan. "If you'll agree, I'll restore your commission. Hadn't you been promoted to Major by the end of the war? What do you say? I know you're fond of the plains and you know that world out there. Also, you're acquainted with Custer, aren't you?"

"I served under him briefly," Dan had replied, weighing each word. "You know better than I, sir, that the Civil War poured glory over the heads of some very young men. In my opinion, Custer was daring but never careful. I wasn't able to take orders from him in good conscience."

The president waved his hand and drained his glass. "Oh, I know all about Custer—and though I too was reckless during that cursed war, that doesn't mean he and I are alike. I did what had to be done to end the bloody business; Custer was caught up in the romance of the charge." Lighting a cigar, he closed his eyes for a moment as if overwhelmed by the past. "Well, it wasn't pleasant, but we had to win, didn't we? Now then, back to the matter at hand. You're a man of principle. All I can tell you is that I have serious concerns about sending Custer back to the Indian Wars; it's a feeling in my gut. I would sleep better if I knew that someone I could trust was there—"

"Mr. President, with all due respect, I sympathize with your concerns, but I must tell you that I am morally opposed to this war against the Indians. If there were some other way I could help—"

"But there is! It's a simple enough matter, Matthews. I'll send you to join the Seventh Cavalry as a special adviser. Wouldn't you like to go West? Wonderful time of year to be outdoors!" Pleased with this new scheme, Grant rubbed his weathered hands together. "What I really want is for you to stick close to Custer. If you can try to see to it that he doesn't do anything crazy, I'll be grateful."

"Well..."

"Excellent! You know, Custer's been badgering me all week for an interview so that he can wrap up his business in Washington and get back to his regiment." The president chuckled, then fixed the handsome young man with a keen stare. "I want you to be on the train to Chicago with him. You'll go with papers from me... like a thorn I've pushed into his side that he can't remove. Are we in accord?"

A sense of duty and a spirit of adventure had compelled Dan to agree, despite his misgivings. Everything about the forced destruction of the culture of America's Indians repulsed him. But, hoping he could be a positive influence, he'd agreed to serve—and now found himself in the midst of a nightmare, attached to Company C of the Seventh Cavalry.

* * *

The sounds of Keogh's lusty snores mingled with those of other men and with the nighttime rustling of animals in the brush. But as Dan lay there listening, he heard human noises. He sat up and donned his boots, then stepped out of the bivouac to stand in a spill of moonlight.

Major Marcus A. Reno, sent to rouse the officers for a midnight meeting with Custer, paused as he rounded a tent and caught sight of the younger man. The swarthy, unappealing Reno could not suppress a pang of jealousy at the sight of Dan Matthews standing tall and unselfconscious in the starlight, buttoning his shirt with lean fingers. He wore his splendid looks without conceit. His bronzed, hard-muscled physique was that of a seasoned trooper; his chiseled face was accented by a neatly-trimmed beard; his dark hair was cut too short to curl as it preferred to do. Dan's eyes, a clear, unforgettable blue, were honest. He didn't often voice his opinions, but his eyes betrayed him.

"Lieutenant Colonel Custer wants to see the officers in his tent," Reno said as he approached. "You too, I guess."

Dan, scraping a match that flared as he lit a cheroot, merely nodded. Should he be surprised that Custer was rousting the men from their exhausted slumber? On the contrary, he had come to expect that which made the least sense.

Two days after splitting from General Terry's forces, the Seventh Cavalry had headed up Rosebud Creek with instructions to track the Sioux and Cheyenne. The plan called for Custer to rejoin Terry's companies, then entrap the recalcitrant Indians with a pincer movement. However, earlier that morning, Custer's men had come upon the site of a recent Sun Dance, complete with ominous drawings in the sand that had made the Indian scouts highly uneasy. Apparently Sitting Bull, a medicine man who was thought to be leading the renegade Indians, had had a vision as a result of the Sun Dance, a vision that foretold an attack on their village by white soldiers. According to the drawings, all would be killed by the Indian warriors.

Although Custer and his officers had scoffed, the scouts were worried. This was evidence of powerful medicine—left in the wake of a trail that was much fresher than anyone had imagined. The valley was covered with the scratches of trailing lodge poles, and the grass was close-cropped for miles around, indicating the recent presence of a huge pony herd. In the end Custer had sent his Crow scouts ahead to figure out what the new signs meant.

Now, following Reno back toward Custer's bivouac, Dan recalled a conversation he'd had that very afternoon in the sweltering Montana sunshine.

"Do you ever question what you're doing here?" he'd asked a trooper named Jeb Campbell as they'd lingered over an unappetizing, salty lunch.

"What I'm doin' here?" Campbell swigged whiskey from a beaten tin flask and sucked on his broken front tooth. "Well, sir, I'm here to kill Injins. Everybody knows that they'll run if they see us comin', so we hafta be careful."

"Why do we have to kill them?" Dan asked carefully.

Campbell gave him a darting, uncertain look. What soldier talked like this? "We hafta kill 'em 'cause they won't let us whites make progress. They murder our settlers and try to stop the railroad. Christ, everyone knows that the Injins is ignorant scum and pagan savages to boot! Sir – what's yer name?"

"Matthews." Dan paused, realizing that even an adviser should have a title. "I'm Major Matthews, Private Campbell."

"Well, Major, seems to me that the answer is to get rid of all them damned redskins."

"But... did it ever occur to you that they were here first? What gives us the right to push them off land where they have lived for hundreds of years?"

"Whose side you on?" Jeb demanded, narrowing his eyes and sucking agitatedly on his broken tooth. "Fact is, they ain't human like us. We're Christian; God's for us."

"But the Laramie Treaty promised the Indians they could continue to live and hunt here. Is it right for our government to make promises and then change the rules?" His blue eyes had grown darker as he spoke.

"Why pretend, Major?" Jeb Campbell hissed. "This is really about the Black Hills. Ever since gold was found there in '74, we knew we'd hafta get the Hills back from them heathens. They think the Black Hills is sacred, and they only go up there to cut
lodge poles!
There's gold and they don't even
care!
" He laughed harshly. "We ain't fools like them!"

Now, in the moonlight, Dan watched other officers appear, rubbing their eyes and buttoning trousers. One by one, they crowded into the Custer's bivouac where he was sitting at a folding table. The light from a guttering candle played over his sunburned features, drooping mustache, and scarlet cravat. Although known for his long "yellow hair," Custer now wore his locks cut short, slicked down with cinnamon oil.

He gave Dan the most cursory of glances. It galled Custer to be polite to this "adviser" in order to mend fences with President Grant.

"I've had to make a decision," he announced to the assembled officers. "The scouts tell me that General Terry's intelligence was in error; the Indians are not on the Rosebud. Their trail goes west just ahead of us, then climbs the divide between the Rosebud and the Little Bighorn rivers. This fresh trail indicates that the Indians are on the lower Little Bighorn."

"We await your decision, sir," Lt. William Cooke said.

"We're going to march, of course," he replied in cavalier tones. "Now. Tonight. We'll march through the night across the divide, rest tomorrow and establish the location of the hostiles' camp—and then surprise them with a dawn attack the morning of the twenty-sixth." He drew his brows together grimly.

"Sir, the men are extremely tired after the past two days," Dan suggested quietly. "Perhaps it would be better to let them sleep for a few hours—"

Custer's eyes blazed. "No. We're going
immediately!"
He jumped to his feet, emanating a manic energy. Looking around at his stunned officers, Custer added, "The element of surprise is crucial. No man must stray from his column or raise his voice. Trumpet calls are forbidden." He set his chin jauntily. "Now then, I'm counting on all of you. Rouse the troops and tell them that the adventure is about to commence in earnest!"

* * *

The Seventh Cavalry groped its way through the night, marching clumsily up the harsh, rocky valley of a small stream. It was slow going, but Custer managed to coax six more miles out of his men before allowing them to make camp again, short of the summit. While they rested and made coffee, the Indian scouts rode on ahead to locate the enemy.

Some of the men dozed on haversack pillows, but Dan's growing sense of unease would not grant him peace. After pouring himself a cup of terrible coffee, he went to stand beside George Armstrong Custer.

"Matthews," Custer muttered in greeting, staring out into the magenta sunrise that stained the eastern sky.

Dan tried to read his face which was partially obscured by a wide-brimmed white hat. "General," he murmured, using Custer's Civil War rank as a sign of courtesy, "why not let it go?"

His head seemed to snap back. "What are you talking about?" he inquired coldly.

"The battle you mean to fight. These Indians have done nothing to warrant this treatment—"

"President Grant issued the order for them to get off this territory and back to their reservation. You know that. When they did not respond to the deadline of January thirty-first, they were certified as hostile. If the president had changed his mind, he would have told me when I was in Washington." Custer spoke with icy finality.

Sensing that Custer was about to walk away, Dan said, "The Laramie Treaty promised the Black Hills to the Indians and gave them hunting rights in these lands. Does our word mean nothing?"

"Perhaps that's a question for your friend, the president!" Custer shot back in acid tones. "Has he
advised
you to stop the army's actions? No? I thought not. I know my job; do you? I am here to follow orders." Satisfied with his handling of this annoying argument, Custer turned away.

Dan had known it was useless, but he'd had to make the effort. The Crow scouts were riding back into camp now, and he took a few steps backward, watching the scene unfold.

The scouts had gone up to Crow's Nest, which overlooked the Little Bighorn River fifteen miles away. Bluffs had obscured their view, but what they
could
see was a valley hazy with the smoke from campfires and, on the flats beyond the river's west bank, a moving smudge that denoted a huge pony herd. All signs pointed to far more Indians than any of them had supposed, but Custer shrugged off the scouts' warnings.