Custer and Crockett Read online

  “Suppose ya knows all Texas is talkin’ ’bout you,” Ross said, shaking hands at the foot of the gangplank.

  “And what could they be saying? Not that ghost rider nonsense,” I replied.

  “Nah, no God-fearin’ man believe that,” he said. “Canadian rangers, workin’ for the British. Even saw ya on their ship.”

  “You’ve found us out, Captain. I hope you’ll be discreet and not say anything,” I urged.

  “Ain’t none of my affair,” the man lied.

  Then the gangplank was drawn back and the riverboat edged off the shore, returning to Galveston with a tale to tell.

  ____________

  The Cherokee town had been alerted to our approach, the tribe emerging from their teepees and roughhewn cabins. The land sloped from the low foothills down to the Neches River, the rolling acres filled with spring farms. On a gentle wooded plain up ahead was a log stockade.

  “Jus’ as I said, Gen’ral,” Bouyer boasted, riding lead.

  “The Cherokee are one of the Five Civilized Tribes. We shouldn’t have any trouble,” I said, though we were prepared.

  Tom and I both carried Winchesters in our saddle sheaths. Butler had his .50 Sharps. French had possession of my Remington Rolling Block. Hughes had his .44-40 Henry while Voss and John were armed with Springfield carbines. And everyone had their Colts. Bouyer liked his old buffalo gun. It kicked like a sassy mule but was still a formidable weapon. Slow still had the Colt that Tom had given him at Béjar. Most remarkable of all, Morning Star now owned a pair of Harkom dueling pistols tucked in her wide black leather belt. I never asked where she got them, but assumed she had charmed one of the naval officers aboard HMS Lydia.

  “Hughes, unfurl my guidon. French, raise the Buffalo Flag,” I ordered. “Butler, pull out our instruments.”

  “Instruments, sir?” Butler said.

  “Get to it, Jimmy,” I said, straightening my saddle. “Slow, ride at my side with Morning Star.”

  Butler and Voss jumped to obey, breaking out the trumpet and drum I’d cleverly thought to bring with us. The road before us was dried mud, lined with rail fences. We were causing great interest, hundreds of Cherokee crowding forward. There were many children among the crowd, most dressed in sewn buckskin and checkered cloth.

  Suddenly, I could not help bursting out in song, my high-pitched voice shattering the silence and nearly spooking the horses.

  “Hark! I hear the foe advancing,

  Barbed steeds are proudly prancing,

  Helmets in the sunbeams glancing

  Glitter through the trees!”

  The veterans of the Seventh needed no extra prodding, for “Men of Harlech” had been a popular ballad in the final years of the Civil War, quickly joining in;

  “Men of Harlech, lie ye dreaming?

  See ye not their falchions gleaming,

  While their pennons gaily steaming

  Flutter in the breeze?”

  The mounts began to pick up the pace, bouncing with new energy. My red and blue silk guidon waved in a gentle breeze. Needless to say, our Cherokee audience was astonished.

  “From the rock rebounding,

  Let the war cry sounding

  Summon all at Cambria’s call,

  The haughty foe surrounding.”

  And then came my favorite part;

  “Men of Harlech on to glory!

  See your banner famed in story

  Waves these burning words before ye

  Union scorns to yield!”

  We let out a cheer, slowing our pace to a walk as we reached the settlement. There were many smiling faces awaiting us, though whether it was our reputation preceding us or love of song was difficult to tell.

  “I am General George Custer of the Seventh Cavalry,” I boldly announced. “I am come to speak with the Cherokee people.”

  “I am Di'wali, called Colonel Bowles, leader of the Tsalagiyi Nvdagi. We welcome the brave Seventh Cavalry to our village,” an elderly chief said.

  Colonel Bowles was a tall man, or had been in his youth, with sharp brown eyes and flowing gray hair. I jumped from Traveller to shake hands, finding a firm grip. This gentleman knew the white man’s ways.

  “We have come far to meet your people. May we have sustenance for our horses?” I asked.

  “You are welcome,” Chief Bowles said, waving us through the gate of their enclosure.

  Like many towns on the plains, this village was guarded by a tall wooden tower, and they even had an old Spanish cannon in the courtyard. Indians or not, even the Cherokee were sometimes attacked by roving bands of Comanche.

  The command dismounted and led our horses to a corral were water and hay awaited. As always, the first order of business was making sure the mounts were well cared for, and I left Hughes to oversee the duty. Slow and Morning Star walked with me toward a large meeting house made of wicker and timber, Butler and Voss a few steps behind watching our backs.

  “You have ridden from the Great Sea,” Bowles remarked.

  “You are well informed,” I responded.

  “These are troubled times. Those who have been our enemies now wish to be our friends,” Bowles said.

  “Those who claim to be your friends are still your enemies,” I said.

  “This we have seen before,” Bowles agreed, for the man was no fool. He had led his people across the Mississippi River twenty-seven years before, looking for a home in Arkansas before moving on to Texas.

  We entered the lodge to find a warm fire and a dozen grim chiefs sharing an afternoon meal served by squaws. The walls were hung with spears, hide shields and buffalo skins. Elaborate bead work showed on many of their dress coats. But one of the chiefs was not an Indian.

  “Hell, General, that’s Sam Houston,” Butler whispered, standing at my elbow.

  It sure as hell was.

  When I was growing up, every school boy in America knew the story of Sam Houston. He had been a hero in the War of 1812 fighting with General Andy Jackson before being wounded at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. Elected governor of Tennessee at thirty-four, he resigned under mysterious circumstances just eighteen months later. There were rumors of a marital scandal.

  Houston quit white civilization and went to live with the Cherokee, who gave him the name Big Drunk. After an infamous trial by the House of Representatives in 1832 for caning a congressman, in which he was represented by Francis Scott Key, Sam left for Texas. After the fall of the Alamo and the Runaway Scrape, he won the Battle of San Jacinto and went on to a long career as President of Texas, U.S. Senator, and governor of Texas. When the South seceded in 1861, the old patriot refused to swear an oath to the Confederacy and was removed from office, dying in disgrace two years later.

  My father admired Sam Houston more than any other public figure. When the 2nd Division reached Texas in August of 1865, my father traveled with Tom and I as a civilian forager. We talked about Houston constantly, visited his grave in Huntsville, and heard endless stories from those who knew him. And now here he was, still in his early forties, famous but not yet a national hero. Something told me we wouldn’t be friends.

  “A war council?” I asked.

  “We hope not. The Raven urges us to join with the Texians,” Bowles said.

  “How can he be a raven? Does he speak with the birds?” Slow said.

  “Do you speak with the birds, my young brave?” Bowles asked.

  “Better than a white man,” Slow answered.

  I turned to Butler, asked him to wait outside with Tom and Morning Star, and looked to Chief Bowles. He offered Slow and I seats on the south side of their circle, sitting cross-legged on thick buffalo furs. Houston sat in the corner whittling a small block of wood with a short knife. No introductions were made. A fermented beverage was provided by a toothless old squaw in a red shawl.

  “Allying with the Brazos Convention would be a mistake,” I said once everyone was settled.

  “Why is that, General Custer?” Bowles asked.

&
nbsp; “The white men will take your land,” Slow said. “You are few. They are many.”

  “The Texians want our help. They offer a treaty,” Bowles replied, the other chiefs nodding.

  Houston sat quietly, rotating the block of wood in his hand. It looked like he was carving a whistle.

  A chief leaned over, speaking firmly to Bowles. Had he spoken Crow, Arikara or Cheyenne, I may have known a few words, but I knew nothing of Cherokee. Slow followed their conversion with keen interest.

  “We have asked the Mexican government to confirm our land grant for many years, but our petitions are always denied,” Bowles said, repeating the chief’s remarks. “With the Texians, we will finally have our land.”

  “Within the next few years, these so-called Texians will turn on Cherokee. Your people will be driven north to the Indian Territory,” I said.

  “The Cherokee are strong. Many wish to be our friends,” a chief said from the far end of the circle, a middle-aged warrior with high cheekbones.

  “The Brazos rebels need your help now. Their army is smaller than the Mexicans. They are low on supply,” I said. “When the Mexicans are defeated, and thousands of Americans come to Texas for free land, it is your land they will take. Just like they took your land before.”

  “Only a fool believes the word of a white man,” Slow added.

  “It is not a white man who brings us these promises, it is our brother,” another chief said, older though perhaps no wiser.

  “I know much of General Houston. All of my people do,” I said. “He is high with honor. A good man and a good friend. But he makes promises he cannot keep.”

  “We have known this man for many years. You are strangers,” the chief argued.

  “The Buffalo Flag is forming a government to the west,” I explained. “The rights of the Tejanos are respected, and many have joined us. The slavery of the black man will be ended. We have had words of peace with the Comanche. If the Cherokee join us, we will be your friends.”

  “If we join the Texians, will you be our enemy?” a chief asked, daring me.

  I looked over to Slow, wondering at his thoughts. The boy’s eyebrows were scrunched, the mouth tight. His hands lay in his lap.

  “You have enough enemies,” Slow said.

  “These are difficult thoughts. What wisdom would Colonneh share?” Bowles asked.

  Houston stood up, standing gravely in the firelight. He was more than tall, his head nearly scraping the hide roof. He held the half-carved whistle in one hand, the pocketknife in the other. He looked like he’d been drinking, having a haggard appearance, and hadn’t shaved in a week. The beaded coat and headband marked him for Cherokee, the wool trousers and brown leather boots speaking of New Orleans.

  “Do not be fooled by these ghost riders,” he said. “They are foreign mercenaries in the pay of the British. Or the French. Maybe even Santa Anna himself. They are sent to sow discord among natural allies. They come with tall tales and a boy mystic, like the carnivals of the east. My friends, my brothers, do not listen to their lies.”

  Needless to say, I was astonished. Almost admirably so, for Sam Houston was a legend for such bold pronouncements, however false they may be, and he spoke with an undeniable authority. The chiefs in the circle were nodding their heads in agreement. Houston was family, we were strangers. I could not fault them, but I refused to pity them.

  “We are going west,” I said, abruptly standing up. “This is not a time for promises. I have come here out of courtesy. I will not tell you to disbelieve Colonneh. He is a great man, and an honest man. But even a great man can be wrong.”

  I bowed my head and left the lodge. Nothing could be gained by further debate, for only a fool would debate Sam Houston.

  “You are right to leave,” Slow said.

  “Wasn’t it you who said we should come here?” I asked.

  “And we have,” Slow answered.

  Tom and Morning Star were standing near a cooking fire, a plump squaw offering hot broth. Sergeant Hughes approached from the corral where our horses were munching hay.

  “What’s the plan, sir?” Hughes asked.

  “Let the horses eat their fill. Purchase what supplies you can. We’ll camp near the river and be on the road in the morning.”

  “Guess the meetin’ didn’t go so well?” Hughes suggested.

  “Bobby, I’m not even sure how this meeting was supposed to go,” I replied.

  Houston emerged from the council lodge, accompanied by Bowles and two other chiefs. Tom and Morning Star came forward, wondering why the meeting had ended so soon.

  “See here, brothers, who this false prophet travels with,” Houston said, pointing at Morning Star and Slow.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tom asked.

  “Are they not Sioux? Blood cousins to the Cheyenne? Nothing but murderous savages. They give a bad name to every decent Indian,” Houston said.

  Knowing what I did of the Sioux, I could not entirely disagree, but I stepped forward to protest. Tom pushed me back, unbuckled his sword belt, and then his gun belt, dropping both to the ground. His lip was curled in a snarl, the scar along his jaw burning red. And then he charged.

  At first glance, this looked like David and Goliath. Houston stood at least 6’4” and was well over two hundred pounds. Tom was 5’8”, barely weighing a hundred and fifty in his boots. The Cherokee expected Houston to swat Tom aside like a fly. Butler and Hughes ran up, but I put out my arm to stop them. This was a personal fight.

  “Stay back,” Houston demanded.

  Tom closed fast and smacked the tall man in the mouth with a round-house right. The next punch almost bloodied his nose.

  Houston was not slow to respond, bracing his feet while blocking a punch and throwing a powerful left hook at Tom’s head. Tom ducked the haymaker, but was struck on the chin by a strong right, knocking him down.

  Cherokee began to crowd around, wondering if the fight was over. They didn’t know Tom Custer.

  In an instant Tom was up again, pushing Houston back against the council lodge with his left hand pressed on the tall man’s chest. Then Tom hammered a hard right into Houston’s kidney. Houston pretended a dismissing smile, but grunted on the second blow. His eyes bulged on the third, and suddenly desperate, Houston grabbed Tom by the forelock and tried to pound his head into a pylon. Tom was dragged forward but came in with a knee flying high, kicking Houston full in the gut.

  Several spectators murmured with satisfaction, all of them enjoying the fight. Bowles and his chiefs stood aside, not interfering. Two youngsters squeezed in front of me so they could see better.

  Houston shoved Tom back and swung, but Tommy ducked, closing in again with another kidney blow. Houston came down with his elbows on Tom’s head, but Tom slid aside, countering with an overhand right that smacked Houston in the eye. Houston delivered a punch to the face. Tom gave two back.

  “Damn you cussed son of a bitch,” Houston grunted.

  Tom paused, straightened up, and then suddenly threw a left jab at Houston’s nose, this time splattering blood. Houston grabbed Tom by the jacket with both hands, lifted him off the ground, and threw him a good ten feet into the cooking fire, scattering coal and ashes.

  As people jumped out of the way, I saw Tom jump up and shake off the soot, kicking burning embers back into the fire. Then he turned toward Houston, who was now armed with a long steel hunting knife.

  “Thomas!” Slow shouted, running to his side.

  Slow reached under his jacket and pulled out a Bowie knife. It was the same knife he’d taken from Bowie’s room the night he died. Tom drew the blade from the decorated leather sheath, holding the famous weapon up for all to see. Houston’s eyes went wide, for he instantly recognized it.

  “General, shouldn’t we do something?” Butler asked.

  “Cover me,” I whispered, walking out between the combatants.

  “Stay out of this, Autie,” Tom warned.

  “Ain’t none of your aff
air,” Houston agreed.

  “It’s my fault this has gone so far. Let the blame be mine,” I said, standing closer to Houston than Tom.

  The big man had blood running from his nose and lip, not that it bothered him any. Tom had a nice bruise on the forehead. I took out a handkerchief, poured a bit of water from my canteen, and dabbed Houston’s wounded eye.

  “Sir, I beg you to reconsider,” I quietly said. “My brother spent four years fighting the most vicious war in our country’s history. Spent ten years on the plains fighting Indians. He’s spilled blood in every saloon from Boston to Béjar. Forgive me, General, but you’re just a lawyer. He will gut you like a fish.”

  “It’s a matter of honor,” Houston said between labored breaths.

  “Then you shouldn’t have insulted his wife,” I replied.

  “His wife?”

  Houston looked over at Morning Star, fear in her expression. But not for herself.

  “I had an Indian wife once,” Houston said.

  “I know.”

  Houston put the knife back in his belt and straightened to full height.

  “Sir, my words were poorly chosen. I apologize,” he announced in a clear voice.

  And then the savior of Texas ducked back into the lodge followed by the two lesser chiefs. Bowles stood at the entrance watching, the black eyes studying our small but determined group. Then he went back inside, too.

  “Proud of yourself?” I asked Tom.

  “Damn right, Autie,” the rascal said. “I just licked the tar out of old Sam Houston.”

  ____________

  San Antonio was busy, as expected. Spring planting had started with confidence that the Seventh Cavalry would keep the peace. Young Henry Harrington and Green Jameson had enhanced the presidio with several strong gun emplacements. Smith had returned with his detachment in good order, while Keogh reported success in Gonzales. In truth, I had come to believe our position stronger than anticipated.