Chapter 6

Dakota University was etched into the sky as a shadow against the stars, a castle on the prairie. Had I expected the stone building to be desolate at this time of night? Haunted? A trap?

Most of the windows in the towering building glowed. Horses and carriages lined the hitches along the front.

Raven sped along the road like a train barreling down a track. I kept my head low so the wind wouldn’t blow away my hat, but I lifted my gaze as we slowed in front of the building. Through the windows, I saw people in chairs crowding a room, their attention turned to a speaker in front of a chalkboard.

A single image slammed into my brain like a boot to the temple.

Tall grass waved in an Iowa wind. A stump filled with holes rested on a grassy hill, tiny pricks I’d put there with my Smith and Wesson. My fourteen-year-old hand held the heavy revolver. Riding toward us, the frozen horse in midstep, came a cavalry officer. His golden curls flowed back in the wind, and his smile rivaled the sun’s gleam off his golden buttons. But the person at the bottom of the hill caught my attention.

She was beautiful. Filled with youth, energy, life, as if the sunlight flowed from her eyes.

The same woman spoke to the people inside the building. Older now—I could see through the window as I approached the front doors—but this woman had seen me as I worked to learn the craft of gunplay. She knew me.

I needed to know how and why.

I would wear my guns, hat, and duster inside.

My boots tapped against the marble floor, and the air was cool and stale as I took a breath. Perfume hung like a cloud in the darkness, a smell mixed with a strange whiff of formaldehyde.

To the right the door was open, casting a bright rectangular glow into the hallway. Libbie Custer’s voice drifted from the classroom into the hallway, echoing away into eternity.

I stepped toward the door. Instantly two men blocked me and pushed me back into the hall.

One man’s hand reached for my gun. I caught his wrist in an iron grip. “No need for that, my friend,” I whispered. Even in the stone lobby my soft voice carried.

“Who are you?” the other man asked, his hand on his hip, probably near a gun covered by his fine, black jacket.

“Philip Anderson.”

The man I gripped yanked his hand back. He rubbed his arm. “Doesn’t . . . doesn’t matter who you are.” He tugged on his tie, checking the knot and the loose ends that hung over his chest. “Can’t let you in there.”

“Why not? She knows me.”

The other man choked, looked back toward the room, and leaned toward me. “Sir, she speaks with no one.” He touched his nose. “No one.”

“Why not?”

“Dedicated to her dead husband, she is. Won’t ever be seen talking to another man alone, no matter how famous.”

I rubbed my jaw and considered the two barrel-chested men. Hired for the evening, they were simply thugs to deter people from bothering Mrs. Custer, no doubt. “I’ll just stand in the back and listen.”

The men exchanged glances then nodded. “You’ll stand between us.”

We filed into the room, silently standing by the door.

I decided to leave my hat low on my head.

In front of the fifty or so people sitting on benches, Libbie Custer stood. Her back was straight, her chin high, her hands gesturing slowly as she spoke. Her long, blue dress swished as she paced slowly back and forth. White ruffles encircled her neck, where dark hair that had slipped from her bun tickled her neck.

My mother would be her age.

Her eyes showed the vitality of youth, but the wrinkles around her eyes, forehead, and mouth told of experience and wisdom.

My brain churned like a steam engine. Libbie Custer might connect so many strange problems of my past, and living on the edge of this moment was intoxicating.

She didn’t notice me as she spoke.

“Twelve years of my life with my husband, I wouldn’t trade for the world.” Her voice was surprisingly strong. “I met Autie—that’s what we called him—at a party.” She folded her hands in front of her. “He was home from the Great Rebellion for just a short time.”

She rested an arm on a podium to her right. “Let me tell you about Autie. Handsome. Action was his love. Goals drove him on, and love gave him purpose. He dearly loved his siblings. He was never sick, never laid up. He was, though, rather evil.”

Nervous laughter filled the room.

“Since I’m speaking to writers, I’ll explain. Injecting a twist, a word change quickly, is jarring. The surprise can be fun, interesting, or off-putting. But proceed carefully when playing with words.” Her lips lifted into a warm smile as the small crowd murmured.

She paced again, lifting a hand and then a finger, which silenced the crowd. I studied her leadership quality with keen interest as she continued. “Autie was a prankster. In West Point during a language class he asked the professor to translate a sentence of Spanish. Obliging, the professor read the paper provided. Class dismissed. My Autie stood and marched out of the room.”

I smiled as the others chuckled.

“I met Autie in 1862 after I graduated from seminary.” A year after I was born. “He was on a short reprieve from his war duties as a cavalry officer. Our budding courtship ended as Autie tottered down the street in a fit of drunken reverie. My father forbade me to see him again.”

She crossed the front of the room as she spoke. “But please understand why he remained the love of my life.” She held both hands in a prayerful pose and brought them to her lips. “He looked such things at me.” After the laughter died down, she said, “He staggered home, and his sister dragged him into a study and said something to him that I to this day do not know. But from that day, General George Armstrong Custer never took a drink, never swore, and his pranks were only at his own expense. He was a different man.”

Libbie Custer reached across a table and took up a piece of paper. “Autie returned to the war and wrote my father of his exploits. So reckless and bold, so brave.” She swallowed the look of anguish that crossed her face. “His charges at Gettysburg, at Brandy Station—Autie even routed Jeb Stuart’s cavalry.”

Returning to the podium, she picked up a pencil. “After some time of correspondence with Autie and no small amount of pressure from his daughter . . .” She grinned. “I finally convinced my father by helping him understand what it was like to be a girl. I was in love. Autie was in love. We were the perfect match.”

She touched the pencil to her chin and looked to the white molded ceiling. “I wore a dress of mist green trimmed with a yellow cavalry braid. Autie wore his blue dress uniform, chevrons gleaming as bright as his smile. Many claimed the wedding was the most magnificent they’d ever seen.

“Autie and I toured Washington. As a war hero, he was invited to the gayest dances, the most important socials, and simply splendid receptions. But soon it was back to war, and I moved to the front, staying in his quarters.” She set the paper on the podium, and even from the back row I heard the scratching as she wrote. “He fought in Virginia, and I saw the long rows of men with caps in the air, voices ringing with the sound of my husband’s name.” She paused her writing and closed her eyes. “Glorious.”

After a moment of writing, she set down the pencil and continued. “I was invited to Washington to the grandest balls, simply to toast my husband.” With her back straight and manner calm and reserved, she walked down the center aisle made between benches. “Near the end of the war, General Sheridan claimed my husband was the single most important soldier who contributed to the winning of the war.”

She marched straight toward me and held out her hand. Between her middle finger and ring finger was the folded piece of paper. As if in a dream, my hand reached out and took it. Everyone in the classroom had turned to watch the exchange, eyeing me with curiosity. She simply continued speaking.

“Autie gave me a present offered by the generals—the table the war’s surrender conditions were written on.”

I glanced down at the paper as she returned to the front of the room. She was explaining to the students in the classroom how General Custer was now a fixture in the military. He wanted to do something else with his life like work business opportunities but felt compelled to continue with the cavalry.

With a quick flick of my thumb I opened the paper.

Philip Anderson, please stay afterward.

My heart pounded in my ears.