Free Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 by Terry C. Johnston Page A

beneath a winter-bright quarter-moon. “I’m counting on that, Joe. I must have all the exits sealed—if you catch my drift, gentlemen.”
    “General Custer?” A swarthy scout named Romero rose on creaky knees. “Some of your Osages think your soldiers will be outnumbered by that village.”
    “That so?” Custer turned it over in his mind like a man would inspect something in his hand. He figured this Romero ought to know. Born of Mexican parents. Kidnapped by Indians, growing up a Cheyenne. “What else my Osage got to say?”
    “They’re scared.”
    “Scared of those warriors in the village?”
    “Not scared of Cheyenne. Afraid of your cavalry … and you.”
    “Afraid of us!” Custer exploded. “Insane! Why in heaven’s name should they be afraid of us?”
    “Way they see it, the Cheyenne in there will give you a real fight of it. So when things turn out a draw, they figure you’ll parley with the Cheyenne to save your men. And to save your men, you’ll hand the Osage over to their old enemies, them Cheyenne.”
    “That’s the most preposterous—”
    “There’s more. These Osages aren’t all that impressed by what you soldiers done so far out here in Indian country. These trackers got their doubts, you making good your attack on that village.”
    Custer glared at Romero. “Seems we’re just going to have to educate these Osages on how the Seventh Cavalry fights Indians. Won’t we, gentlemen?”
    A murmuring of assent arose among the officers before Custer continued. “By General Sheridan’s orders we’ll level the village and kill or hang every man of fighting age. I wasn’t sent here to show these hostiles any mercy at all. So tell your Osages that Custer won’t stop until Sheridan’s orders are carried out—”
    “General?”
    Custer’s eyes snapped to Jack Corbin, youngest of the scouts, who had earned the respect of many frontiersmen on the southern plains. “What is it?” Custer barked.
    “Don’t know what the others think,” Corbin began, toeing the snow as nervously as a schoolboy stammering before a pigtailed, freckle-faced girl. “But I don’t see a way there can be a big war party down in that village. That camp’s just too damned small.”
    “Not a war camp?” Custer’s voice rose an octave. “Why in Hades did these Osage trackers follow Indian ponies here? You remember those ponies, don’t you, Jack? Better than a hundred or more—you all told me that!”
    Corbin shook his head in exasperation. “Something just don’t fit right, General.”
    “Better than fifty lodges, I’m told!” Custer roared.
    Corbin’s pleading eyes darted to Milner, then implored Ben Clark. Joe looked away, studying his dirty fingernails.
    Clark eventually stepped up to Custer. “Might be Jack’s put a finger on something.”
    “Which is?” Custer growled, glowering at Clark with eyes that could frost a man’s mustache.
    “Doesn’t read right. That village ain’t got fifty warriors in it—much less a hundred fifty.”
    “What are you saying?” As it did every time he got excited, Custer’s voice was on the verge of stammering like a buggy spring hammering over a washboard road.
    “I figure what we’ve bumped into ain’t a hostile camp, General.”
    “You agree that’s not a hostile camp, Corbin?”
    “General, I don’t figure we’ll find but a handful of seasoned warriors down there.”
    “So where did all the rest of them just off and disappear to?” Custer hissed.
    “I suppose it’s my job to find out where the warriors disappeared,” Corbin answered sheepishly.
    “Well, now.” Custer hammered his fist into the open palm of his left hand. “That’s just what I intend to do, gentlemen. We’re finally in agreement! About time you found out where they went—the ones that you and the Osage trackers followed into that village down there.”
    “We figured better than a hundred warriors,” Clark said.
    “Those odds will make for a pretty fair fight of it.