“Indeed.”
“Has something happened?” he asked her politely.
Her lashes swept her cheeks. She lifted her chin, shaking her head. “No. Nothing. Why?”
“I thought I saw Henry give you something.”
“Oh…that. It was a wire, but it must have been a mistake. There was nothing on it.”
“How curious. May I see it?”
“I burned it. It was blank, so I tossed it into the fire. I…I think I need to make sure that the punch bowl is filled for the ladies.”
She moved past him quickly as if she were afraid that he would stop her.
But he didn’t lay a hand on her. He watched her as she left, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
His time would come.
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’speople 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.
