Chapter 11
Skylar returned to the porch and circulated among the guests. Hawk watched her all the while.
The evening wore on. People ate, drank. Talked over old times, politics—and Indian policy.
Hawk didn’t participate in the conversation.
Even among the soldiers, there could be disagreement.
Add the agency Indians and such conversation could be explosive—if not deadly.
At several points during the evening his guests very nearly quarreled.
Skylar had a knack for stepping in at the right time.
Finally, everyone had gone except for the household, Willow, and Sloan Trelawny. Hawk and his two old friends retired to the downstairs library together, closing the doors on the rest of the world, drinking brandy. It was natural that such close friends should stay with him late that night.
But he was more temperate in his consumption of brandy than he might otherwise have been on such an occasion.
“It’s dying,” Sloan was saying, swirling his brandy in its snifter.
“The way of the plains. When I try to explain that to friends, they don’t understand.
But I know that you do, Hawk. And it doesn’t matter that you grew up among your mother’s people or that you rode with Crazy Horse years ago. You see it as clearly as I do.”
“Maybe the army will eventually give up,” Hawk suggested. “Leave the Sioux their last hunting grounds. There’s enough land—”
“There’s never enough land; you know that,” Sloan said. “But don’t think that the whites aren’t aware that the Indians are cheated,” he added. “There are many who know this is true.” He looked at Hawk. “Scandal is about to erupt like wildfire in Washington. Your friend Custer—”
“My friend?” Hawk queried.
Sloan shrugged with a wry grin. Hawk and Custer had been known to clash upon numerous occasions. They’d been at West Point together. They’d ridden into the Civil War together and from that point on, had often taken decidedly different sides on numerous issues.
“Custer is a popular man,” Sloan reminded him.
“Even if those in the military know that he is an incredible braggart.”
“He’s a war hero—there’s talk he could run for president.
But my point here is that the man has been vociferous in attacks on Indian agents and all the corruption and graft that has occurred out here.
I don’t think that he wants to take on the entire Grant administration, but being Custer, he may well do so.
And still, being a man who says what’s on his mind, he’s let it be known that he thinks the Indians have been cheated as well. ”
“He’s champing at the bit to lead an expedition against the Sioux,” Hawk said heatedly.
“He’s a soldier—he needs a war victory. Just as Crazy Horse is a warrior—who needs to make war,” Sloan said.
“Custer is too eager to campaign. He doesn’t want peace,” Hawk argued.
“If you think that you can blame the national sentiment on Custer, Hawk, you are wrong.”
“I don’t blame the national sentiment on him, just the way he works.
He—” He paused, shaking his head. George Armstrong Custer, “Autie” to friends and family, had enjoyed playing pranks at West Point.
He’d scalped squirrels on occasion to leave upon Hawk’s pillow.
Hawk had swallowed down the jest against his Indian pride, but he had seethed and retaliated by taking Custer where it hurt him in return—making the best shot on a hunting expedition, outriding Custer in a show of military horsemanship.
That his marks were better meant little to Custer.
He just got by in school, though Hawk had to admit he did so brilliantly.
No cadet could receive more than a hundred demerits a term.
Custer could receive ninety-nine demerits almost immediately but then manage never to get the final citation.
He had his good points. To Custer’s credit, despite the fact that war—and death—definitely helped men rise in the military, Custer was never prowar.
He was sorry to fight his Southern brothers.
Yet it was during the war that they first clashed.
They were both young, daring cavalry commanders.
They crossed paths upon occasion. Once, Custer had been so aggravated with Southern Colonel Mosby’s raiders in the Shenandoah Valley that he had ordered a number of the captured raiders hanged.
As Custer had ordered, the deed was done.
Sent to the same stage of fighting, Hawk had been appalled.
It was war, Custer said. The Southerners would gladly hang him.
It had been wrong, Hawk was convinced. Such brave men, fighting for their states and what they believed to be right, shouldn’t have died so.
He realized that he and Custer were fundamentally opposed, even though Custer remained fond of reminding him that he was Sioux—and suggesting he refrain from scalping his Confederate enemies.
Over the years, they’d often had occasion to meet again.
With time, Hawk began to feel that Custer had remained an overgrown boy.
He was ambitious to a fault. He was also honest. His courage could never be questioned, even if his wisdom could.
Again to his credit, he never asked a man in his command to do anything he would not do himself.
But then, most men found it difficult to ride as hard as Custer did or drive themselves so diligently.
Though he fought the Indians with perseverance—and adored his wife, Libby—it was either common knowledge or accepted rumor on the plains that he’d had a Cheyenne child.
The baby, however, had supposedly perished from disease as a toddler.
But then, Custer was a man of many contrasts. Again, though he doted on his wife, it was also common knowledge or accepted rumor that she often vied with his beloved hunting dogs for space upon their bed.
None of these things mattered on the battlefield.
“Custer disturbs me,” Hawk said at last, “because he is far too eager for glory.”
“But he may wind up in political trouble,” Sloan told him.
“You know, he had President Grant’s son arrested on his expedition through the Black Hills.
Arrested him for being drunk. Custer might well have been in the right.
He’s at odds with the administration on other matters.
He may well find himself without a command when the campaigns against the Indians begin in earnest. If someone reasonable spearheads these movements, there will be war and blood, but someone may live to tell about it. ”
“Autie Custer is a hero,” Hawk argued. “People love the boy, whatever his failings. I fear him—and fear for him.”
“But can there be peace?” Willow said, his very tone suggesting it was not possible. “It will do no good for you to speak with either Crazy Horse or Sitting Bull,” Willow told Hawk.
“I know.”
“But you plan on speaking with them anyway?”
Hawk nodded gravely. “I’m riding with Sloan.”
“You’re sure you’re willing to take the time now?” Sloan asked him.
Hawk nodded. “I’m sure. I know that I can speak with them if anyone can.
” He smiled. “It was my vision quest, remember? I’ll bring the word of the eagles to the buffalo.
It wouldn’t be right if I did not because they must hear one another, then weigh their choices.
Sloan, what made you think that I might not go? ”
Sloan lifted his snifter, indicating the floor above. “We’ll have to leave quite soon. Within a week, if at all possible. Were she my new wife, I’m not certain I’d be undertaking any journeys.”
“Ah, yes. My wife,” Hawk murmured. He lifted his snifter toward Sloan. “To my new wife!”
“Here, here,” Willow and Sloan agreed.
Hawk set down his snifter. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me… Sloan, if you’ve leave from the army for the night, both guest bedrooms remain empty.
Take your pick. Willow, good evening. Thank your wife for the time she has given me and for her generosity in lending her husband to a friend in his time of need. ”
“Lily is glad to help. Good night, Hawk,” Willow said.
Sloan echoed him. “If I stay, I’ll be gone early. I’ve still supplies to gather. And you’ve still time to change your mind.”
“I won’t,” Hawk said. “I can’t.”
Hawk left the library behind and quickly climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.
Skylar was asleep. The lights were out, and the fire was low.
He was quite certain she wasn’t feigning her rest because the hour was so very late.
She was in soft blue flannel tonight. Another nightgown that encompassed her from neck to toe.
He shook his head. She didn’t seem to realize yet that no matter how concealing her gown, it would mean nothing against him if his determination was set. But for the moment, he let her rest.
He silently looked through the wardrobe until he found the black silk skirt she had worn for the funeral. He found the pocket, slipped his fingers inside. He found paper. The wire envelope. And in it…
The wire.
Not burned.
But here. In his fingers now. He carefully opened the paper, wondering if it could give him some clue to his wife.
But the words were cryptic.
“Trouble. Have you legal title? Can manage no more than a few weeks. Help fast. Pray you’re well.”
The wire wasn’t signed. There was no indication of who had sent it.
If the sender had been male or female.
He folded the telegram thoughtfully, sliding it back into the pocket of her skirt.
He closed the wardrobe doors and came to stand over his wife once again.
She still slept, the picture of angelic chastity in her modest flannel.
In silence he stripped down, mechanically folding his clothing, leaving it lying on the trunk.
He slid in beside her, keeping to his side of the bed. For tonight, he’d leave her in peace. He stared at the ceiling, closed his eyes. Heard his heartbeat. It was slow, soft.