Read Online Long Winter Gone: Son of the Plains - Volume 1 by Terry C. Johnston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry C. Johnston
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chief.
Behind him drifted the snorts of horses stomping over the crusty snow as his columns inched up the river. Once a wolf howled in loneliness from the hills. And at his feet the Washita slurred its icy gurgle along its banks. Sounds … but no smell of fire on the wind.
“Sorry, Little Beaver. I don’t smell a thing like smoke.” He went back to the head of the march.
“Joe … you and Ben and Jack move these trackers ahead again. We’ll stay right on your heels. And Joe, be surewe stop for something important next time. No pipe-smoke fire. Understand?”
Milner and the others were mounted and gone without another word.
“Didn’t smell a thing, sir?” Moylan asked.
“No, Myles. What worries me isn’t what I didn’t smell—but what I heard with my own ears. This regiment’s making one helluva racket tramping downstream. I bloody well don’t want to alert that enemy camp to our approach. To steal this close to my quarry only to flush them from the brush like frightened quail—that’s what I fear the most, Mr. Moylan.”
Less than a half hour later, Custer slid from his horse and stomped up to the little knot of Osages hunkered down in a circle on the snow.
“You smell anything now, Joe?”
Before Milner got a chance to open his mouth, Little Beaver stood. “White man’s nose no good. No matter how big it gets.” He pointed at Milner’s face with a childish smirk. Several of the younger Osages snickered.
When Milner waved his arm the Osages rose and stepped back. In the middle of a small area cleared of snow lay the remnants of a tiny fire. A handful of coals still struggled, glowing against the falling temperature hovering close to zero. A gray wisp of smoke circled up from the red snakes, vanishing on the chilly breeze.
“The fire you smelled, Little Beaver?”
He nodded. “This old nose never wrong.”
“Paw-Husk likes to eat too much,” declared a middle-aged Osage who ambled up. “If he ever missed a fire, he might miss out on a meal.”
“Who are you?”
“Hard Rope. Old Paw-Husk rides with you, for his is the best nose. We have the best eyes here too. I have the best ears. All to hunt the Cheyenne.”
“Then tell me—have we found Cheyenne? Was this the fire of some of the hundred warriors returning home?”
“No.” Hard Rope pointed to the snow leading toward the trees at the river’s edge. “No warriors here. Small tracks only. Pony boys.”
“Pony boys?”
“Young’uns watching the herd, General.” Milner stepped beside Custer.
“Boys guard the Cheyenne ponies?”
“Not rightly,” Joe answered. “They watch, warn the village if there’s trouble.”
“Have they gone to alert the camp?” Custer asked.
“Not from the looks of things. Appears they moseyed on back to camp. No rush a’tall.”
“Camp guards?”
“None we’ve run across.”
“Seems you’ve found nothing conclusive in this tiny fire,” Custer said. “Perhaps we’re as far away from an enemy village as we have been all night.”
“Soldier chief can’t smell Indian fire, but fire still here.” Hard Rope pointed off to the southeast. “Soldier chief can’t see Indian village, but village still there. Close. You come with Paw-Husk and Hard Rope. You scout with us. We show you village, Custer.”
“Capital idea!” Custer exclaimed. “I will go with you. Let’s be off!”
From the top of each knoll the trio encountered, Little Beaver made a careful inspection of the winter countrysidebelow. Hard Rope and Custer shivered in the snow back among the oak and hackberry until the old Indian crept up to the tall white man.
The toothless scout announced, “Whole lot Cheyenne now.”
“You see the village?” Custer asked.
“No. See whole lot Cheyenne ponies.” Little Beaver motioned for the others to follow him to the top of the hill. “Look for worms.” He pointed where Custer should look.
Try as he might, Custer couldn’t make out anything. “I’ll take your word
Behind him drifted the snorts of horses stomping over the crusty snow as his columns inched up the river. Once a wolf howled in loneliness from the hills. And at his feet the Washita slurred its icy gurgle along its banks. Sounds … but no smell of fire on the wind.
“Sorry, Little Beaver. I don’t smell a thing like smoke.” He went back to the head of the march.
“Joe … you and Ben and Jack move these trackers ahead again. We’ll stay right on your heels. And Joe, be surewe stop for something important next time. No pipe-smoke fire. Understand?”
Milner and the others were mounted and gone without another word.
“Didn’t smell a thing, sir?” Moylan asked.
“No, Myles. What worries me isn’t what I didn’t smell—but what I heard with my own ears. This regiment’s making one helluva racket tramping downstream. I bloody well don’t want to alert that enemy camp to our approach. To steal this close to my quarry only to flush them from the brush like frightened quail—that’s what I fear the most, Mr. Moylan.”
Less than a half hour later, Custer slid from his horse and stomped up to the little knot of Osages hunkered down in a circle on the snow.
“You smell anything now, Joe?”
Before Milner got a chance to open his mouth, Little Beaver stood. “White man’s nose no good. No matter how big it gets.” He pointed at Milner’s face with a childish smirk. Several of the younger Osages snickered.
When Milner waved his arm the Osages rose and stepped back. In the middle of a small area cleared of snow lay the remnants of a tiny fire. A handful of coals still struggled, glowing against the falling temperature hovering close to zero. A gray wisp of smoke circled up from the red snakes, vanishing on the chilly breeze.
“The fire you smelled, Little Beaver?”
He nodded. “This old nose never wrong.”
“Paw-Husk likes to eat too much,” declared a middle-aged Osage who ambled up. “If he ever missed a fire, he might miss out on a meal.”
“Who are you?”
“Hard Rope. Old Paw-Husk rides with you, for his is the best nose. We have the best eyes here too. I have the best ears. All to hunt the Cheyenne.”
“Then tell me—have we found Cheyenne? Was this the fire of some of the hundred warriors returning home?”
“No.” Hard Rope pointed to the snow leading toward the trees at the river’s edge. “No warriors here. Small tracks only. Pony boys.”
“Pony boys?”
“Young’uns watching the herd, General.” Milner stepped beside Custer.
“Boys guard the Cheyenne ponies?”
“Not rightly,” Joe answered. “They watch, warn the village if there’s trouble.”
“Have they gone to alert the camp?” Custer asked.
“Not from the looks of things. Appears they moseyed on back to camp. No rush a’tall.”
“Camp guards?”
“None we’ve run across.”
“Seems you’ve found nothing conclusive in this tiny fire,” Custer said. “Perhaps we’re as far away from an enemy village as we have been all night.”
“Soldier chief can’t smell Indian fire, but fire still here.” Hard Rope pointed off to the southeast. “Soldier chief can’t see Indian village, but village still there. Close. You come with Paw-Husk and Hard Rope. You scout with us. We show you village, Custer.”
“Capital idea!” Custer exclaimed. “I will go with you. Let’s be off!”
From the top of each knoll the trio encountered, Little Beaver made a careful inspection of the winter countrysidebelow. Hard Rope and Custer shivered in the snow back among the oak and hackberry until the old Indian crept up to the tall white man.
The toothless scout announced, “Whole lot Cheyenne now.”
“You see the village?” Custer asked.
“No. See whole lot Cheyenne ponies.” Little Beaver motioned for the others to follow him to the top of the hill. “Look for worms.” He pointed where Custer should look.
Try as he might, Custer couldn’t make out anything. “I’ll take your word
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