The Bride Wore Feathers (7 page)

"You said
he,"
Custer prodded, his clear blue eyes suspicious and calculating. "Did this Indian have a name? Did he mention the name of his tribe? Was it Crow or Mandan?"

"His name was Redfoot, and he said the name of his tribe meant Sioux to the English."

"English? He spoke to you in our language?"

Dominique nodded.

Custer hesitated, then shrugged. "Not so very unusual, I guess. Some tribes, the Sioux in particular, like to have at least one warrior among them who can understand a few words of English." His elaborate mustache twitched as his gentle questioning became more of an interrogation. "In any case, I'm sure you weren't in the company of a Sioux. This Indian's grasp of the language must have been poor, and you may have misunderstood the name of his tribe. Was he alone, or were there others with him?"

"But I'm sure he said Sioux," she insisted, her eyes wide and alert. Dominique pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples and tried to remember the other details. "I think I peeked outside once and saw more tipis, but I can't be sure if they were real or if I dreamed them up."

Custer's brow rose even higher. He pulled his hat off and lowered his voice to a more fatherly, gentle tone. "Think back, Nikki. I know you must have been very frightened, but try to remember. I need to know every last detail of your captivity in order to bring those savages to justice."

"Oh, Uncle Armstrong," she said, her voice close to a whimper. "It's not that I was so frightened—I was a little scared a couple of times—but I just can't seem get anything straight in my mind. The Indian made me drink some medicine, and then... I can't explain it. My brain seemed to leave me, and all these colors—"

"You were drugged," he growled, his expression stern. He tugged on the end of his mustache, wondering how best to broach the next subject. Custer glanced at his wife, thinking of eliciting her aid, and then looked beyond her to the entryway as the front door opened then slammed shut.

Captain Tom Custer stamped into the room. A few years younger, a couple of inches shorter, and several ranks below his famous brother, his florid complexion was due to exertion, not allergies. "Nikki? Thank God. Are you all right?"

Accepting his hand as he approached, Dominique brought it to her cheek. "I'll be all right, Uncle Tom."

Impatient to get at the truth, Custer sliced into their greeting. "You ever hear of a Sioux called Redfoot, Tom?"

"Redfoot? Humm, no, can't say that I have. Why?"

"Nikki says he saved her from drowning, then brought her to the fort. He said he was Sioux."

"Huh?" Tom looked from his brother to his niece, then back to Custer again. "I didn't realize there were any Sioux left in this neck of the woods."

"There aren't supposed to be." Scooting the stool closer to his niece, Custer took her small hands in his. Stroking her soft flesh with skin ravaged by a sun allergy and years of outdoor work, he softened his tone as he continued his probe.

"Let's try something else. Surely you saw the Indian before he drugged you. Can you describe him? Can you remember anything he said to help us figure out who he really was?"

Shrugging, Dominique thought back to the night, to her first memory of the Indian who called himself Redfoot. "It was awfully dark, even with the little fire he made. I never saw his face. All I can remember is his long heavy braids and ..."

She closed her eyes and tried to recall the last twenty- four hours. Fragmented thoughts, like damp grains of sand, fell in painfully slow particles through the hourglass of her mind. The image of Redfoot's nude buttocks glistening in the shadows appeared. Then she saw his torso, the sable curls enhancing the contours of his thick chest, and suddenly for some reason, she knew exactly what it felt like to be pressed against the length that hard muscular body. She shivered, yet felt a great bud of warmth bloom in her abdomen at the same time.

Popping her lashes open, she gasped as a blush crawled up the sides of her neck. "I can't tell you any more than that. I didn't get a good look at him."

Custer's gaze turned narrow, thoughtful. As he leaned even closer, the tip of his large, crooked nose came within inches of her cheek as he whispered, "If this Indian has hurt you in any way, touched you anywhere he shouldn't have, you can rest assured that Tom and I will track him to the ends of the earth and see that he is punished severely."

"No, Uncle Armstrong," she insisted, even as her fingertips went to her mouth, to her swollen upper lip. "He didn't hurt me at all. If anything, he saved my life." And then, as if to shield her from the memory of how her mouth received its bruises, her mind provided a forgotten word. "Oh. I remember what he called himself—Lakota. That's it. He said Sioux was a word we might use for Lakota."

Clearly disturbed by the information, Custer jerked to his feet. "Do you have any idea in which direction the Indian traveled when he brought you to the fort?"

"North—northwest, I think. Yes, I'm sure we came in from the northwest."

"Through the trees and up to the infantry post?"

"Yes."

Swiveling toward his wife, he said, "See that Nikki is fed and rested. Tom and I are going to gather a few troops and go on a little mission."

"Oh, Autie." Libbie started to rise, but her husband's gentle hand pushed her back in her chair.

"Don't worry, sunbeam. As usual, your boy will take very good care of himself." He kissed her forehead, then gestured to his brother as he strode from the room. "Run over to Company B and pick out three good men. I'll meet you at the quartermaster's."

Then, their boot heels clicking with precision, with purpose, the Custer brothers marched out of the room.

Turning back to her niece, Libbie did what she'd done a thousand times before. She shut out the image of her beloved husband walking away from their home and into danger, and concentrated on something else. "Warm enough yet?" she inquired with a smile.

"Finally." Dominique squirmed beneath the thick blankets and uttered a delicious giggle. "I never thought I could feel this warm or this safe again. It's a good thing Papa doesn't know what's happened to me since I left home."

"And he's not going to know—at least not from me." Libbie's small mouth grew stern. "From your father's letters, I think he's grown enough gray hairs over you and your escapades. It would be prudent of us not to add to them."

"This one wasn't my fault. Surely the boatman could have—" The sentence died in her throat as she remembered the start of the journey on the river. "What happened to Hazel and the others?" she exclaimed, jerking upright.

"Calm yourself. Your chaperon is a little shaken, but doing just fine. Her biggest fears were about you and what your father would do when he found out you were lost."

"Was she rescued by Indians, too?"

"No, dear. She and the soldiers managed to hang on to the overturned ferry until it hit another patch of ice. The boat was actually quite close to the fort when it snagged on a fallen tree. She wasn't in the water long."

"Thank God for that." Dominique settled back into the chair, considering all that had happened. Then she remembered her reception at the Bismarck train station. "I have to say, I was a little surprised by the escort Uncle Armstrong sent for Hazel and me. Why, not one of those men wore a fancy uniform or blew a bugle in my honor."

"My dear," Libbie said through a chuckle, "you have a lot to learn about military life. I'm afraid that soldiers, even officers, are considered less than socially acceptable in town. The men are very concerned with our reputations so they do not wear their uniforms when escorting us ladies to or from Bismarck."

Dominique was astounded. "But back home Uncle Armstrong is a hero. He wears his uniform everywhere."

"I'm aware of that, Nikki, but we're not in Michigan or New York, you know."

Dominique groaned, her hopes and dreams of an adventurous summer in serious jeopardy again. Libbie's next words pulled a sigh from her and scattered her dreams of excitement into the atmosphere along with her breath.

"Now, about my plans for you. If I'm going to finish you properly, I suppose we should get busy. I have a reputation as a stern taskmaster to uphold, you know, and I've only a couple of short months in which to do it." Libbie smiled, but her tiny mouth was pinched and businesslike as she cautioned, "I intend to turn you into a lady your papa will be proud of if it takes me all summer."

* * *

Nearly two weeks later, George Custer strolled around the barracks of Company F as the troops put the finishing touches on their decorations for the evening's dance. All of the bunks had been removed from the enormous room and the normally pale gray walls were bright with colored flags and guidons.

Both ends of the long room glowed with cheer as huge logs burned brightly in the wide fireplaces, and arms were stacked against the adjacent walls. Above these weapons, long tables laden with refreshments and imitation laurel leaves beckoned revelers with their bountiful offerings. The theme of this impromptu ball was a celebration of Saint Patrick's Day, even though the date had already passed. In accordance, paper shamrocks and sprigs of green were attached to the walls and windows. Even the cracker-box boards had been cut into shamrock shapes for use as side brackets or candle holders.

Pausing in front of a makeshift table, Custer helped himself to a piece of hard candy from a cut-glass dish.

"General Custer, sir. If I may please have a word with you, sir?"

Turning to his left, Custer regarded the tall, gaunt soldier standing at attention. "At ease, Lieutenant."

Barney Woodhouse relaxed and smoothed his scant mustache. Even though he was a full inch taller than Custer's six feet, he weighed a good thirty pounds less. His face, long of forehead and chin, seemed to confine his dark features into small, narrow space, as if it had other plans for the bare expanses of flesh between his eyebrows and hairline, and between his mouth and Adam's apple. Even his mustache, sparse and thin, seemed pushed into an area too small to cultivate anything more than a few dark hairs.

Still stroking this pencil-thin adornment, Lieutenant Woodhouse stared openly at the thick rust-colored brush drooping down along the corners of his commander's mouth and said, "Do you have a moment?"

"For you? All night," he said, polishing the brass buttons on his dress uniform with his shirtsleeve. Studying the soldier, he commented, "I must say, you're looking a great deal better than you did yesterday morning when you stumbled into the garrison. It takes more than a few rabid Sioux to bring down one of my best men. What can I do for you?"

"I want you to meet that fellow I told you about—the one who saved my life." Gesturing over his shoulder at the man standing behind him, Barney explained, "He's so damn vengeful over what them redskins done to his partner that he joined up to fight 'em. I'd like you to meet Private Jacob Stoltz, sir. He enlisted this morning. Private, this is General Custer."

Jacob stepped forward and snapped off a salute, hoping the only greeting he'd learned was correct for a man as important as the general. "A pleasure, sir."

"The pleasure is mine if I'm to believe everything Barney's told me. A good Indian fighter is worth his weight in gold around here. Welcome aboard, Private."

Jacob accepted his handshake, struggling to keep the hatred in his soul from leaping out through his eyes as he stared into the face of the Long Hair. This was the moment he'd been preparing for, the beginning of the end for this foolish leader and all like him.

A spasm ricocheted up Jacob's spine as the reality, the enormity, of his mission overcame him. He pumped the general's hand, surprised at first to find the soldier shorter than he was and smaller of stature than Lakota warriors had assumed. But Jacob quickly realized that wiry frame hid a deceptive strength as Custer's grip tightened, cutting off his circulation. A test?

Equal to the task, Jacob increased the pressure of his own grasp and smiled broadly. He stared into the ice-blue eyes, made a note of the florid, splotchy complexion of a man whose skin was at war with the sun, and admired his thick, curly hair. That red-gold mane streaked with flaming strands and his bravado were the things that separated the general from all other soldiers. Jacob smiled into Custer's sharp features. When this was over, he would bring that colorful scalp back to his village as a gift for his father.

Custer stared into the private's eyes, gauging the man's intelligence. Pleasantly surprised by the soldier's tenacious hold on his hand, for most were too intimidated to respond to his challenge, Custer released his grip. As far as he could tell, the new enlistee was not lacking in any department. "Have you been thinking of joining the cavalry for some time?"

"No," Jacob answered easily. "I searched for gold until the Sioux murdered my partner and took me captive."

Custer stroked his mustache, appraising the man's talents, wondering where a strapping man like this would best serve the army. "If what Lieutenant Woodhouse tells me is true, you reduced a whole camp of Sioux warriors to whimpering women."

As he stifled the urge to snarl, Jacob's dark blue eyes glittered and he lifted one corner of his mouth. "I did little. We were lucky."

"You are too modest. Lieutenant Woodhouse tells me he was knocked cold shortly after you two sneaked out of your tipi. You dispatched the guard, then dragged your unconscious companion to the horses and made sure he was lashed down. I'd say that took a little more than
luck.
I'd say your actions were worthy, had you been in uniform, of a medal, sir."