Greasy Grass

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Sitting Bull wants to be like Red Cloud. Or like Red Cloud was ten or twelve winters ago.

  “How many of your young warriors have left the reservation to join the hostiles?” the bluecoat asks.

  “My people are ready,” I answer. “I tell you what I told Gray Fox. The Lakotas are not afraid of Mila Hanska. They are not afraid of your chiefs. Every lodge will send its young men, and they all will say of the Great Father’s dogs … ‘Let them come!’”

  My throat hurts. In this stinking square room, I sweat. Hastings looks scared. Rarely has he heard me speak this way. He thinks of me as the diplomat, the peace-keeper. He was not around at the time of the Battle of the Hundred in the Hand. He was not here when we fought what the wasicus came to call “Red Cloud’s War.”

  He does not know how I feel. He thinks I am—how do the wasicus say it—a “tame Indian.”

  No wasicu can understand the heart of a Lakota, or of any Indian. War is our way. When I was born, I was poor. Those eighty battles—most of them not fought against wasicus, but our Indian enemies—the Pawnees, the Omahas, the Crows—won me honors, prestige, ponies, and riches, and the respect I have today as an old man whose eyes don’t see well, and who has trouble even walking, let alone riding.

  The bluecoat takes in a deep breath, and slowly lets it out. “Can you keep any more braves from joining the hostiles?” he asks.

  “I am told,” I tell him again, “that my young men have left the agency to hunt buffalo.”

  At this, I have no more to say to these wasicus. I rise, even as the man who stinks, scratches, and spits is still making Lakota words into wasicu ones. I walk out into the sun. I walk to my lodge.

  It is a lonely lodge.

  My son, Jack—a wasicu name, to please the black robes and the agency men, but a name whose sound pleases me, too—is no longer there. Jack Red Cloud rode away. To join Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. I gave him my fast-shooting wasicu long gun. I gave him my fastest pony. I gave him my blessing.

  I wish I were not an old man. I wish I were with the free Lakotas. I wish they could wipe out all of the wasicus so that my country would belong to my people again.

  I was born Lakota. I have lived Lakota. When I die, I will die Lakota. I am Lakota.

  Chapter Four

  Lieutenant Colonel Wesley Merritt

  When agent James Hastings, the interpreter, and I left the log cabin and watched Red Cloud feebly make his way back to two of his caretakers, I let out a long sigh, and fished a cigar from my tunic.

  Hastings struck a match, holding it close as I tried to get the stogie to fire.

  “I don’t understand Red Cloud,” Hastings said. “I think Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, all those red devils, have gotten that old codger into thinking the damned Indians might win this war. I’ve never seen him so fiery.” He grinned, shook out the match, and said, “Hell, Custer could ride through the entire Sioux nation with the Seventh.” His grin turned into a chuckle, but, seeing me, he stopped. “I mean … well …” A terrible laugh. “What I meant to say, Colonel, was that you and the entire …”

  “I seem to recall Fetterman saying the same thing a few years ago.” I pointed my cigar at Red Cloud. “Before he ran into that very same fellow.”

  On December 21, 1866, William J. Fetterman led his command out of Fort Phil Kearny in Wyoming Territory and was wiped out by a force of Cheyenne and Sioux hostiles. Fetterman had boasted that with eighty men, he could “ride through the Sioux nation.” He died alongside exactly eighty soldiers.

  Now, almost ten years later, everybody from Washington to here in Nebraska seemed to think that a great Army victory had been preordained. Why, we had George Armstrong Custer, self-proclaimed Indian fighter after he killed a bunch of peaceable Cheyennes at the Washita in 1868, and George Crook leading our boys against a bunch of undisciplined savages who scatter and never attack. Indian agents, soldiers, and politicians should have a better grasp of history. This Indian campaign was not yet won, and damned well could be lost.

  “Well …” Hastings couldn’t find anything to counter my argument.

  This was my second trip to Fort Robinson and the Red Cloud Agency. In March, General Sheridan had sent me to investigate reports of malfeasance. Mark my words: I was no fan of George “Glory-Hunting” Custer, but every charge he fired at President Grant’s corrupt staff regarding Indian affairs proved true. Still, I couldn’t find any proof of fraud at Red Cloud, though what I saw of the agency left me sickened.

  Now I looked around. A Sioux woman, still in her teens, nursed an infant without shame. She looked wretched. An old Indian man sat beneath a brush arbor. His eyes appeared dead. The place stank of dung.

  The place made me sick. I tossed away my cigar.

  “Don’t you wish you were part of this campaign?” Hastings asked.

  Custer—well, Terry was said to be in command—had left Fort Lincoln in Dakota Territory, heading west into Montana. Crook was pushing north from Fort Fetterman in Wyoming. Gibbon was coming east. They would catch the hostiles between them. Then they would fight amongst themselves for the glory. Such were the spoils of war.

  And Lieutenant Colonel Wesley Merritt? Well, I was on special assignment. At least eight companies of the Fifth Cavalry had arrived near the Red Cloud Agency. Considering the mood of Indians here—Red Cloud’s malevolency seemed a pretty good indication—the army got here none too soon. The war might break out here instead of on the Powder River in Montana, I thought, and smiled.

  Wouldn’t that gall Custer?

  * * * * *

  Over the next few days, I continued to tour the Red Cloud Agency.

  “The Indians got a way of communicating with ’emselves,” my interpreter told me. “They knows what’s goin’ on at Standing Rock or, I’ll be jiggered, all the way over in Montana Territory with their hostile pards. They knows that long before we ever knows it.”

  “How do they do that?” I didn’t believe the poor lout.

  “Hell’s fire, Colonel, if any white man can ever figure that out. Smoke signals. Carrier pigeons. Specters or talking to coyot’s. Your guess is as good as mine. Though I hears …” his voice dropped into a whisper, “I hears that Sittin’ Bull’s actually a renegade white boy, got kicked out of West Point, soldiered with Napoleon.” He winked.

  To let me know he was joking.

  Imbecile.

  We reined up at a flat spot of earth, and the interpreter dismounted, wrapping his reins around a clump of sage, and wandered about the place, kicking through flattened grass, poking around the ashes of a fire pit, breaking open dung.

  “Here’s another lodge gone,” he said, “to join up with ol’ Sittin’ Bull.”

  “Louis-Nicolas Savout no doubt,” I said, remembering the cad’s joke about Napoleon.

  “How’s that, Col’nel?”

  “Nothing. How long?”

  “Have they been gone?” He shrugged. “Two days. No more’n that.”

  On we rode, talking to Sioux men and boys—those who would converse with us—coming across more abandoned lodge sites.

  A day later, Mr. Hastings sent word to me that Yellow Robe had arrived at the agency. With due haste, I proceeded from Fort Robinson to the agency, where I met the Sioux chief. Yellow Robe was not as recalcitrant as Red Cloud. He talked. He did not hold back.

  What he said, however, unnerved me.

  Reports from Standing Rock and Red Cloud were one thing, but, coming across a dozen or so abandoned lodges, I had not been able to comprehend the magnitude of what was happening in Indian country. After hearing Yellow Robe, I galloped back to Fort Robinson, wrote out a message, which I sent by our fastest courier to Fort Laramie. From there, my dispatch would be telegraphed to General Sheridan’s headquarters in Chicago, and Sheridan would relay the important information to General Terry, who was already in the field with the Seventh C
avalry.

  Yellow Robe, a Sioux chieftain, arrived at Red Cloud Agency today. He says that when he left the hostile camp on the Rosebud six days ago, eighteen hundred lodges were there, about to depart for the Powder River. Yellow Robe says the Indians will fight. He says that they have about three thousand warriors.

  I did not hate Custer. I cannot say that I liked him, although I begrudgingly concede that his pluck and daring made him a fine leader in combat, though I don’t think he cared one whit about how many men were killed under his command. Yet I knew that Custer, Terry, et al., should have this information.

  Here, however, was where I wished that the United States Army could relay messages like the Indians, be it by smoke signals, pigeons, ghosts, or talking coyotes.

  From Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, my dispatch was wired to Chicago on June 6. It was then telegraphed to Fort Lincoln, Dakota Territory. Sheridan’s staff directed that the message be sent to General Terry by boat or any other means. From Fort Lincoln, the message was forwarded to the steamboats Yellowstone, Key West, and Josephine. On June 24, the Josephine reached the military depot established on the Powder River by General Terry’s forces. From there, the commander sent the message west by Arikaree scouts on horseback. They reached the general’s camp two days later—a punishing ride by anyone’s standards—but, alas, the general was already marching south.

  The note was finally placed in General Terry’s hands on June 30, five days after the Battle at the Little Bighorn River.

  Chapter Five

  Lieutenant

  Edward Godfrey

  My God. Never did I think that I would live to see white men act this way.

  Commanding K Troop on June 15, I accompanied General Custer with the Seventh Cavalry’s left wing. Pursuant to General Terry’s orders, Major Marcus Reno’s right wing had departed the supply camp we established on the Powder River, following that river south. With General Custer, we rode southeast along the Yellowstone River to rendezvous with Reno, as well as Gibbon’s Montana Column at the Tongue River. General Terry had boarded the Far West at our supply camp and traveled west to meet up with the Montana Column.

  We rode with five days’ rations and forage, one wagon for each troop, fifty rounds of ammunition in our belts, another fifty in our saddlebags, and, as always, General Custer’s staghounds.

  We traveled without the regimental band, thank God, for if I ever hear “Garry Owen” again it will be far too soon. We traveled without our sabers, crating them up to leave at the depot—sabers being practically useless, too heavy, and too cumbersome in the field. Many of us, I now understand, left our dignity and humanity back at the supply camp, as well.

  I still have trouble accepting what I witnessed.

  The unpredictable weather had changed to dry and hot as we trotted over sagebrush and dust, coming into an old Indian encampment, due east of the Tongue. A Sioux camp, our Indian scouts told us, and our hearts sank at the size.

  “How old?” General Custer signed to Red Star.

  The Arikaree scout signed back, “Last winter.”

  With a curt nod, the general walked about camp, pulling his horse, Vic, behind him.

  Two other Indians came to Red Star, muttering excitedly in their guttural language. The Arikaree scolded them, pointed harshly, and they mounted their painted ponies, and rode in opposite directions.

  I stared at Red Star, and signed, “How many lodges?”

  His lips flattened. He picked up a handful of sand, and let the grains slip through his fingers. Later, we would estimate that this camp stretched some two miles, and numbered between twelve hundred to fifteen hundred tepees.

  I followed General Custer, catching up with him in front of an old fire pit with his brother, Brevet Major Tom Custer, the newspaper reporter Mark Kellogg, and Lieutenant William Cooke. The general was leaning down, and I quickly saw what held his attention.

  A human skull, charred.

  Major Custer had to keep one of his brother’s hounds from digging through the pit, which, we now understood, was also a grave of sorts.

  No one spoke until the general removed the gauntlet from his right hand, and fingered through the ash, pulling out a blackened button, which he wiped on his trousers, studied, sighed, and held up for the rest of us to examine.

  The button came from a cavalry overcoat. I looked at the fire, at the blackened clubs surrounding the pit, saw the skull again, and pictured the terrible torture this poor soul, a soldier such as myself, had endured, beaten and burned by the godless heathens of the cursed Sioux.

  Rising slowly, the general spoke quietly, ordering Lieutenant Cooke to form a burial detail for this unfortunate, unknown soldier. Then General Custer stood, and merely stared at the pit and skull for the longest while.

  * * * * *

  Such a tragic scene knotted our insides, but, even so, I could not have steeled myself for what next I was to witness. And having enlisted in the Twenty-First Ohio during the late Rebellion, I had seen much horror at Stones River and Snodgrass Hill before entering West Point and earning my commission in 1867.

  Before we reached our rendezvous point at the Tongue River, the command rode into a Sioux burial ground, a forest of trees along the banks of the Yellowstone, and Indian-constructed scaffolds. Dusk was descending, darkening the skies and the mood of my commanding officer.

  Reining up in front of a scaffold painted red and black, Custer asked Red Star the meaning of the colors. When the scout answered that it was the sign of a brave warrior, the general ordered three troopers to tear it down.

  My mouth fell open. Even Red Star seemed aghast as the troopers, following orders, toppled the body into the dust. The general wasn’t finished. Next, he ordered the Negro interpreter, Isaiah Dorman, to unwrap the corpse, take any plunder he so desired, and heave the carcass into the Yellowstone.

  A binge of destruction followed.

  Lieutenant Donald McIntosh ordered G Troop to tear down all the scaffolds, and his soldiers went about it with such merriment and raucousness, my horse turned skittish. Gas and wretched smells escaped several corpses as they crashed to the ground. Soldiers climbed the trees, pushing bodies to the ground, stealing eagle feathers, leather bags, headdresses.

  “Boston! Look!” I had managed to calm my horse, and saw young Harry Reed, the general’s nephew, holding a quiver of arrows and pair of moccasins to General Custer’s younger brother for inspection. Boston grinned, and brandished a bone breastplate.

  My eyes closed.

  Understand this. I have no love for Indians, but I must respect the dead, red or white. Oh, not all acted like fiends from Hades. I could hear a trooper begging his lieutenant not to let this happen, that they would be sorry. I heard another interpreter, Fred Gerard, tell a Crow scout, that, yes, our white God might call for vengeance for this desecration. I heard Indians singing, praying. Horses squealed in panic. Even two of General Custer’s hounds howled over the unholy carnage. One of the new recruits in my troop, who had joined us in St. Paul, prayed in his native, foreign tongue. Mostly, however, what I heard was frivolous, excited banter.

  Our soldiers went through the corpses like children hunting Easter eggs.

  Instead of joining this barbaric act, General Custer rode off down the river, followed by some of his immediate command and his dogs. But his men … our men … like grave robbers, officers, enlisted men, and civilians plundered with relish, waving trophies as if they had captured them as trophies of battle.

  Neck-reining my horse, I motioned K Troop to follow me, and I rode after Custer. More corpses splashed into the Yellowstone. Isaiah Dorman chastised the troopers, telling them to take those bodies downstream, that they were spoiling his fishing. Yes, the Negro was fishing in the Yellowstone. I have no desire to learn what he was using for bait.

  Chapter Six

  Buffalo Calf

  Road Woman

>   Little Hawk found them, although he was not searching for them. He simply wanted to steal horses from the white people. He rode with four other Human Beings. That is how we call ourselves. The Hotóhkesos—Lakotas as they call themselves—call us Sahiyela, and the veho, the pale eyes, call us Cheyennes. Well, Little Hawk and his friends killed a buffalo cow near the red buttes. They were cooking this meat when Crooked Nose saw two riders who did not notice the Human Beings, and disappeared beyond a bluff. Thinking they were our Hotóhkeso friends, Little Hawk said, “Let us have some fun with them.”

  Such is the way of Little Hawk. Two days earlier, after I had filled a water bag from the river, he sent an arrow through the bag, and yipped like a coyote as the water soaked my deerskin dress.

  They rode up a gulch, and Little Hawk crept up the hill. He was going to pretend to attack our Hotóhkeso friends, but as soon as he looked over the ridge, his heart leaped, and he quickly backed down. “Notaxé-ve’hó’e!” he said urgently.

  They were not Hotóhkesos, but warrior white men.

  “Good.” Little Shield smiled. “We can steal ponies from warrior white men.”

  “How many?” Crooked Nose asked.

  “The land is black with them.”

  Little Shield no longer smiled. Little Hawk mounted his pony, as did the others, and they raced into the timber. They did not stop until they had reached our village at the Deer Medicine Rocks.

  Seven suns earlier, the Hotóhkeso holy man, Sitting Bull, had finished the Sun Dance, yet everyone still talked about his vision. Yes, we were talking about it as we prepared food when Little Hawk loped into camp. He spoke excitedly about all the warrior white men nearing the Rosebud River. My brother, Comes-In-Sight, turned to Sitting Bull, and asked, “Is this what your vision saw?”

  The holy man’s head shook. “They will attack the village from the east,” he said. “Not the south.”

  “Let us attack them!” came a cry from another Hotóhkeso. “It is a good day to die!”