"Who were the Cheyenne chiefs who went to Fort Cobb?"
"There was just one. Black Kettle."
Charles took the cigar from his mouth. He rolled it back and forth in his fingers. "And they didn't let him in? Of the whole crowd, Black Kettle's the least likely to harm anybody."
"A Cheyenne's a Cheyenne, that's the way Hazen saw it." Dutch Henry didn't understand why Charles looked troubled. Nor did he care. He slapped his friend's shoulder. "Ay God, Charlie, you missed a fine muss at Beecher's Island. The Solomon Avengers showed plenty of sand and spirit."
"That's what you called yourselves, Solomon Avengers?"
"Yes, sir. We killed a passel of Indians. But there's plenty more waiting. Cheyennes and Arapahoes —"
"The Army should stay away from Black Kettle."
"Hey, I thought you hated the whole bunch."
"Not him," Charles said, uneasy. He saw a vivid image of Willa's blue eyes. Dutch Henry frowned.
"Charlie, I told you, nobody cares which Cheyennes are all right and which aren't. The main idea's to kill 'em. You object to that, maybe you better forget it."
He thought of Boy and Wooden Foot, of their poor slaughtered collie.
"I don't object."
He ordered another drink. The smoke of his cigar drifted up past eyes grown as chill as the autumn sky.
He couldn't understand how a rum-pot like California Joe Milner could win George Custer's favor, but obviously he had, so Charles shook hands with the chief of scouts before he walked out of the adobe building. A snow flurry whirled big flakes around him. The sky was as black as dusk. A caped soldier appeared and handed him something.
"Compliments of the post Grant for President Club, sir." Charles examined the leaflet and its engraving of the candidate with military collar and epaulets showing. "No, thanks." He handed it back.
"Sir, voting is the civic responsibility of every —" "I've got other business," Charles said. The boy in the dark blue cape saw his eyes and didn't argue.
Charles curried and fed Satan and slept in the stables at Fort Dodge overnight. Next morning he reprovisioned and set out for the Seventh Cavalry encampment on the north bank of the Arkansas, about ten miles south of the fort. Flurries continued to whip out of the slate sky and he soon felt frozen again. He kept his spirits up by whistling the little tune that reminded him of home.
Camp Sandy Forsyth had been named for the commander of the Solomon Avengers. Charles saw its lights glimmering through the gloom of an early dusk. The sentry who challenged him said he was lucky not to have been shot at by some Cheyennes who'd lately been sniping at the camp. Charles shrugged and said he'd seen no sign of the Indians. He figured he'd had so much bad luck, he was due for some good.
He bedded in the wagon park with the permission of the noncom on duty. After chewing a little hardtack, he pulled down the earflaps of his muskrat cap, secured them by a thong under his chin, and rolled up in his blankets. He was thirsty; the water in his canteen had frozen. He felt tired, alone, depressed.
What he saw and heard soon after reveille changed that and got his blood up again. Rifle fire with the steady rhythm of practice drew him to the far side of the tent camp. He found a dozen troopers banging away at wood targets. He asked an old three-striper what was going on.
"When we find the hostiles, old Curly wants to be sure we can knock 'em down. These boys are some of the forty he picked out for his corpse day elite. Sharpshooters. Lieutenant Cooke's in command."
Charles continued his walking tour. There was an air of bustle in the encampment, a sure sign of a massive campaign. He counted twenty supply wagons and forty oxen present already. He saw evidence of an experienced military mind at work when he came upon two troops wheeling and maneuvering under the gray sky. All of one troop rode bays, all of the other chestnuts and browns. Custer had adopted the Confederate custom of coloring the horses. Putting all the men of one troop on similar mounts made identification easier in combat, and it had a way of enhancing pride and discipline, too.
Hammers whanged on hot anvils; Charles saw half a dozen farriers working to reshoe large numbers of horses. The Seventh's bandsmen drilled to the strains of "Garry Owen." Their gray mounts reminded him of Sport.
Another half-dozen wagons arrived during the afternoon. Shortly after five o'clock he was able to see Custer in his large A-frame tent.
"Be still, Maida." Custer patted the growling staghound who'd gotten up the moment Charles entered. He'd interrupted the general as he vigorously washed his hands in a basin of water that was still clear when he finished. Custer dried his hands and bounded forward energetically, his smile broad and white beneath his reddish-gold mustache. Blue eyes sparkled above the harsh ridges of his cheekbones. As they shook hands, Charles sniffed oil of cinnamon on Custer's ringlets.
"Mr. Main. Been expecting you. Please, sit right there."
"Yes, sir, General. Thank you." Charles sat on the canvas chair, noticing Eastern newspapers on Custer's crowded field desk. Reading upside down, he noted a headline circled in black ink. It had something to do with Grant's presidential campaign.
Elbows on the desk, Custer scrutinized him. It was hard for Charles to remember that this world-famous soldier was not yet thirty years old.
"We've met before, somewhere," Custer said.
"You're right, General. We were on opposite sides at Brandy Station."
"That's it." Custer laughed. "You gave me one or two hot moments, I recall. What was your unit?"
"Wade Hampton's Legion."
"Fine cavalry officer, Hampton. I've always liked Southerners." Custer opened a file. "You know the general purpose of our expedition, I presume. We're to search out and attack the enemy when they are least prepared, and kill as many of their warriors as practicable. To use the phrase of Senator Ross, we intend to conquer a peace."
Charles nodded. Custer scanned something in the file. "You must have an affinity for the Army. I see you tried to get back in twice, under a different name each time."
"Soldiering is all I know, General. I went to the Point a few years before you did. Class of '57."
"I see that here. I graduated in '61 by the grace of God and the fall of Fort Sumter." He closed the file. "Do you know the Indian Territory?"
"Your man Milner asked that. I was there for over a year, with a couple of trading partners the Cheyennes butchered."
The blue eyes pinned Charles. "So you'd have no hesitation about taking the lives of hostiles?"
"No, none."
Yet he was vaguely troubled by his answer. He decided it was because of the news about Black Kettle being turned away from sanctuary at Fort Cobb. Well, chances were the expedition would miss the tipis of the peace chief. The Indian Territory was vast.
"Griffenstein recommended you for this campaign. You two hunted together."
"Yes, sir. We worked for Buffalo Bill Cody."
"Do you speak Cheyenne?"
"Some."
"I've got a greaser who was raised with the tribe. You can back him up." He wrote a note. "Now let's go back to your experience. How well do you know the Territory?"
"I told Milner the exact truth. I've been over part of it. Any man who claims much more than that is a liar. The whole western part has never been explored in any systematic way. The Salt Fork of the Arkansas, the Canadians — white men have seen pieces of it, that's all."
"Fair enough. I'd rather have candor than lies."
A few cursory questions, and then Custer nodded. "All right, you're on. You take orders from Milner or from me. The first time you don't, you'll be disciplined."
A muscle in Charles's jaw jumped. He knew about Custer's famous discipline. It included such illegal punishments as head-shaving, flogging, imprisonment in a pit in the ground — and then of course there was Custer's order to his subordinates to shoot deserters.