Heaven and Hell (75 page)

.

"Yes, we're here."

"We found them," he called over his shoulder. He heard cheering.

Major Elliott's three troops were resting along the steep sides of a stream. Taking advantage of the natural cover the banks afforded, small cooking fires were blazing on the south side. The column prepared to dismount and rest. The air of festivity reminded him of those first blithe days Whitelaw Reid described.

Captain Harry Venable went riding along the line with the good news: "One hour. Saddles and bits off the horses."

The time seemed to fly. Charles dragged the horse furniture off his It

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piebald, dried him as well as he could, and fed him the oats he was carrying. He fed Dutch Henry's mount too, while his friend heated some coffee. That and hardtack was their sumptuous Thanksgiving feast.

At ten sharp, the advance resumed without trumpet calls. Four abreast, the cavalrymen began to move down the steep bank, through
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the stream and up the other side. The snowfields glittered with a diamond loveliness; a brilliant moon shone.

Little Beaver and another Osage led the column on foot. Because of the noise, the gunshot crackle of the snowcrust, the trackers stayed four hundred yards ahead of the first large group of riders which included the other Osages and the white scouts, all of whom were in single file. Custer rode with this group, surrounded by the noisy dogs.

Charles walked Satan toward what appeared to be a large stump about five feet high. He was startled when the stump moved. Little Beaver had waited for them to catch up.

"Village," he said.

Custer heard. "What's that?" he exclaimed.

"Village near."

"How far?"

"Don't know. But there is a village."

There were aspects of Indian tracking so entangled in mystery and second sight that Charles never tried to understand them. Gray Owl had displayed some of the same intuitions, and whites were foolish to disregard them. Custer didn't.

"Very good, Little Beaver. Back to your place. And quietly, quietly."

In the dark they heard a couple of troopers laughing and joshing.

Custer wheeled out of line, almost trampling a couple of the dogs. Charles saw his blade-nosed profile against the dark moonlit sky. "No talking.

From now on, I'll cut down any man who speaks."

Charles had no doubt he'd do it. His nerves tightened up a notch.

The uneasy feeling worsened. The advance continued, the black snake of horses and riders crawling over the moonlit snow without the wagons or the ambulance; Custer had left them behind with Quartermaster Lieutenant Bell.

They seemed to be in a region of ridges that ran east and west, parallel to one another, with narrow valleys between. Saddles creaked.

The snow crackled. Far away, a wolf howled; another answered. Once Charles looked back and was almost deluded into seeing buffalo sitting upright on the horses. The bulky overcoats of the troopers created the illusion.

Again they came on the two Osages waiting for the main column.

"Smell fire," Little Beaver announced.

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V

Washita 475

Custer controlled Dandy after the horse nearly stepped on Blucher.

"I don't."

"Fire," the Indian insisted.

"Go see. Griffenstein, Main, go with him. Arm yourselves."

Charles peeled off his mittens. He yanked the scarf from his face so he could lick his lips, stiff as wood and lacerated by painful cracks.

He reached over his shoulder and pulled the Spencer from the sling.

With Little Beaver striding between them, the two white men walked their horses across another snowy expanse to some widely spaced trees.

"There's something," Charles exclaimed softly. He pointed to an orange smudge, smaller and dimmer than those spied when they found Elliott. Dutch Henry drew both his revolvers and cocked them. Charles held his Spencer ready.

Black wraiths breathing small clouds of transparent mist into the moonlight, the scouts walked their horses into the trees. Charles smelled

the smoke distinctly. A fire, all but gone out, built in the lee of some thorny shrubs.

Satan smelled something strange and didn't like it. Charles patted the piebald to quiet him. When he stirred the fire with a stick, the embers billowed; the light helped him see the ground roundabout. It was a churned mess of snow and mud. He stepped in a barely hardened pod of manure. The aroma mingled with that of the fire.

"A pony herd tried to graze here most of the day, Henry. I'd stake my life that this fire was built by the boys tending the ponies."

"So we can't be but two, three miles from the village?"

"That's right. But whose village?"

"Does it make any damn difference?"

The question threw him. The uneasiness returned. Little Beaver began a shuffling dance step, mumbling and chanting under his breath.

He sensed engagement soon.

"I'll give the general the good news," Dutch Henry said, turning his horse's head.

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Custer sent the two scouts forward again, walking. Charles's mouth felt like a dry gully. His pulsebeat leaped in his throat so hard it almost hurt. Where the trees thinned out, the moon shone on a strip of snowy

ground with a sharply defined irregular edge.

"Careful. That looks like a drop-off," Dutch Henry warned. Belly down, they crept to the edge. A slope sheered away; difficult for horses, though not impossible.

They were gazing out on a shallow river valley. "Got to be the Washita," Dutch Henry said. The river ran right below, silver in the 476 HEAVEN AND HELL

moonlight, chuckling at them. Its course was roughly east and west.

About two miles east, to their left, the river looped to the north and disappeared behind a spur of the hills.

Beyond some open ground on the river's far side, a dark mass suggested more heavy timber. Little else could be seen despite the brilliant moon and incredible display of stars in the heavens. Charles sniffed.

He and Dutch Henry both smelled the smoke from across the river.

Over in the timber, a dog barked. Charles's hair almost stood on end. A few seconds later he heard the wail of a baby.

"Can't see the lodges from up here," Dutch Henry said. "Maybe if I get lower, I can count 'em against the sky."

He scrambled down the slope, leaving Charles with the thickening smell of smoke in his nostrils. A tinkling bell suddenly showed him the pony herd, a darker mass of shadow that flowed away behind the timber.

Shortly, Griffenstein came scrambling up again. "We got 'em,"

he whispered. "The tipis are back in those cottonwoods. Right around fifty of 'em. Let's go."

While they stole away Charles thought, Fifty. But whose are they?

Custer tilted the face of his pocket watch toward the moon. "About three and a half hours till dawn. We'll go in then. Main, gather the officers on the double."

They were together within minutes. Quickly, Custer revealed that they'd tracked the war party to its base, which the column would attack at first light. Charles could hear the excitement that generated. Venable even forgot about giving him intimidating stares.

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With unconcealed enthusiasm, Custer improvised his plan on the spot. He split his seven hundred effectives into four detachments, three to support the main one, which would lead the attack from the bluff where Charles and Griffenstein had observed the village. One of the detachments would completely encircle the village if possible, and all would advance at the sound of band music. Elliott's and Thompson's detachments were to start toward their positions immediately.

"The men remaining here may dismount until it's time to move forward. They may not speak above a whisper. There is to be no other noise. They may not walk around, and even if they're freezing to death, they're not to stamp their feet. No matches are to be lit for pipes or cigars. Any man who disobeys will answer to me personally. Venable, do me a favor. Take Maida and Blucher to the rear and give them to Sergeant Major Kennedy to hold until we advance."

Venable didn't like this odd, menial duty, but he didn't argue. He whistled softly. The staghounds, well trained, leaped to follow him Washita 477

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Custer's fringed gauntlet swept over the other dogs hanging around near the officers. "Main, you and Griffenstein kill these strays."

Charles felt as though a picket pin had been hammered into his head. "What, sir?"

"You heard me. We want surprise on our side. These dogs could give us away. Get rid of them, and right now."

Charles stared and Custer gave it right back, his eyes like black skull-sockets in the gloom. Dutch Henry laid a mitten on Charles's shoulder, either to soothe him "or restrain him. Captain Hamilton got things going, ordering a couple of lieutenants: "Bring up some ropes.

We'll muzzle them before we do it."

Charles jumped at Old Bob, intending to pick him up and run him to the rear. Custer snapped, "No. I said every one of them."

"I won't do it."

Custer gave him a long look. "Turning tender-hearted, are we?

Get over it.before we attack the village." He stalked off, his tiny gold spurs winking in the moonlight.

"Get away from here. Don't watch," Dutch Henry whispered.

The lieutenants rushed up with ropes. The men surrounded the
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dogs, ten in all, and after some struggle and a couple of chases to catch runaways, got them all muzzled and leashed. Charles, meantime, walked into the woods and leaned his forearm against a tree trunk, his face turned toward the village. He heard sword steel scrape and clink as sabers were drawn. Then a frantic yelping, though the muzzles controlled its volume. The yelping continued for a while, and so did the sound of frantic claws tearing the crusted snow. Charles didn't know who cut the throat of Old Bob, but he saw the limp yellow body in the redolent heap with all the others. He walked past it quickly. The air was nearly cold enough to freeze the bitter tears in his eyes.

The flanking detachment began to move out in order to get in position by daylight. Those in the main column had a chance for a little more rest. The moonlit snow resembled a strange park of military statues.

Motionless soldiers stood, sat, or lay by their horses. Every man held a rein. A few wrapped their caped coats around their heads and tried to sleep. Most were too tense.

Some of the officers huddled together, looking stout in their heavy overcoats. They whispered with suppressed excitement. Jack Corbin's Pony began to stamp and whinny. Corbin couldn't control him. Charles stepped over and pinched the pony's nostrils shut and held them until the pony quieted down. Another Cheyenne trick Jackson had taught him.

Corbin whispered his thanks.

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Charles crouched beside Satan, passing the rein from hand to hand.

Something in him felt wrong, dangerously explosive. California Joe replenished his liquid courage from his seemingly limitless supply of demijohns. He passed the jug to Dutch Henry, who watched for officers, then drank swiftly. Milner offered the jug to Charles. Charles shook his head.

"You don't seem exactly raring to go," California Joe remarked.

"Should be a right lively scrap. 'F we hang onto our edge and surprise

'em, we shouldn't have much trouble, either. I thought that's what you wanted. I thought that's why you signed on. Cheyenne Charlie, just bustin' to kill him some--"

"Shut up," Charles said. "Just leave me alone or I'll ram that jug down your throat."

He stood up, walked away. '"S got into him?" California Joe asked.

Dutch Henry could only shrug.

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As the moon descended behind the timber, a thick ground fog began to boil up and spread, creating an eerie effect. Custer kept opening his pocket watch and snapping it shut. Finally, it was time. He tucked the watch away and pushed down the ivory-handled butts of his Webley Bulldog pistols to snug them in the holsters. He issued his last orders. Haversacks to be dropped. Overcoats and sabers to be left behind.

No firing until he gave the signal.

Feeling heavy, filthy, tired, Charles swung his right leg over Satan.

Custer saw that the column was formed, summoned his trumpeter up beside him, and started to walk Dandy forward through the trees.

The ground fog stirred and eddied around the animal's knees.

Suddenly a great gasp went up from the men. Charles turned to the east, where Dutch Henry pointed. There above the trees glimmered a golden spot of light.

"Morning star," someone said.

The planet was more like a military rocket, blazing as it ascended slowly and majestically while they watched. Custer's face seemed to pick up a little of that awesome golden light.

"By God," he said in a reverent tone. "By God. This expedition is blessed. That's the sign."

They advanced to the irregular bluff above the river. The muffled thudding of so many shod horses sounded thunderous to Charles. Surely there would be some response from the sleeping village. There was; a dog barked. Within seconds, half a dozen more joined in.

Custer held up his right hand and started down the slope. Dandy Washita • 479

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slipped and skidded, but reached the river without mishap. Others began to descend, the scouts to the right of the trumpeter, who was leading the bandsmen down.

Charles had his gypsy robe tucked up and his Army Colt ready in his belt. He held the Spencer across his knees with one hand. Slowly, with creakings and jinglings and occasional muffled expletives, the force descended to the Washita. Down at the level of the river, where the water turned the air noticeably colder, Charles had a new perspective on the cottonwoods on the other side. Through them, amid them, against the faintly paled sky, he now saw the crossed poles of many tipis.

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Whose?

"Trumpeter—" Custer began.

In the dark woods, someone fired a warning shot. Custer said something wrathful. Then several things happened at once. There was a noise on the open ground across the river; whinnying, as of many ponies suddenly disturbed. They'd probably smelled the white men's horses.