Greasy Grass

by Johnny D. Boggs

  I scream. Crow scouts scream. We point.

  “What are they saying now?” Peaked Face asks.

  Boyer can see, too. He spits, wipes his mouth, cusses more white man words, and says, “They are angry, Varnum, that the soldiers are cooking breakfast. They want to know if you want to let all of the Sioux know we’re this close to them. They want to know if you want to get killed.”

  Boyer signs to me what he has told Peaked Face, who looks at the smoke where his warriors cook their breakfast and make their coffee. He cusses white man words.

  Peaked Face writes on paper, hands the paper to Red Star, a good Arikaree scout, tells him to take this to Long Hair. So Red Star and our friend, Bull, mount their ponies, and ride away.

  So now we wait for Long Hair, but then I see dust. Not far. A couple of Crows and I mount our horses, ride. Now it is my turn to cuss white man words, for there are two Lakotas, an older man riding a pony and leading another with a rope, and a young boy trailing, whipping the roped pony along. They ride toward the bluecoats.

  We hurry back to Peaked Face, tell him. He cusses. “If they spot the column, they’ll warn the village, and the Indians will scatter to the winds. We have to kill them before they can send out a warning.”

  Boyer signs again to me. I nod. So we ride, hiding our presence in trees and coulées, but the Lakotas turn another way. Then we see more dust.

  Peaked Face shouts. He is saying that this dust comes from Long Hair and all his warriors.

  Seven Indians are on another ridge, watching the bluecoats come. When I point, Peaked Face cusses again, and the Indians disappear.

  Instead of riding after those Indians, Peaked Face decides to go to Long Hair. There is no reason to ride after any Lakotas. By now, whole village must know the bluecoats are coming.

  * * * * *

  We meet Long Hair, who seems happy. “Well, you’ve had a time of it,” Long Hair says, and Peaked Face nods.

  We ride back to the spot from where we saw the pony herd.

  Long Hair is just like Peaked Face. Blind when it comes to seeing plenty of ponies.

  “I’ve been on the prairie for many years,” Long Hair says. “I’ve got mighty good eyes, and I can’t see anything that looks like Indian ponies.”

  Boyer screams. “If you do not find more Indians in that valley than you ever saw together before, you can hang me!”

  Boyer never scout for Long Hair till this time. Many time, we hear what good Indian fighter Long Hair is. Now we know. Long Hair blind. Long Hair damned fool.

  Long Hair jumps up. Laughs, but mood not good. “It would do a damned sight of good to hang you now, wouldn’t it?”

  Don’t know what words mean, but know that Long Hair cannot see the ponies, either. Are all white men so blind?

  Reynolds pulls out see-far glasses from a leather case, offers them to Long Hair. Boyer and Peaked Face point in the direction of the herd, of the massive village. This time, Long Hair whistles.

  At last, he can see.

  While Long Hair and Peaked Face talk with the other white men, I walk over to Red Star and Bull.

  Bull has started his death song.

  I speak to Red Star.

  Red Star shakes head. “I tell Long Hair that we will find enough Lakotas to keep us fighting two or three days. He says … ‘I guess we will get through them in one day.’”

  “They have seen us,” I tell him.

  “I know,” Red Star says.

  “It has been good riding with you all these years.”

  “Yes.”

  Behind me, Long Hair make orders. Other bluecoats laugh. A Crow signs to me what they are saying.

  One says that Long Hair will take them all to some big white man party in some big white man city many days’ travel from here.

  “And we will take Sitting Bull with us,” another says.

  They laugh.

  I look toward pony herd, toward more dust from the village.

  “It will be all over soon!” a bluecoat shouts. A Crow signs to me what this fool white man has said.

  Yes, I think, it will be all over soon.

  Long Hair has decided to hide all bluecoats until the next day. The Crow scouts and Peaked Face try to change his mind. Long Hair does not want to believe that the Lakotas and Cheyennes have seen us. Only when Long Hair’s bluecoat brother rides to the hill and tells him of Indian sign does he change his mind.

  A bluecoat blows on horn. It has been days since we have heard this noise. The bluecoats meet, but only Long Hair talks until one bluecoat points off in another direction. I know what he means, even if I do not know the words and there is no one to sign to me what he says. But I know. He knows that the other bluecoats are in that direction.

  And I know what Long Hair says. He jabs his finger toward the Indian camp. He is telling the bluecoats that there are no Indians that way, only his way. That is where we go. No get help from other bluecoats. Long Hair will do this by himself, with men he has.

  Reynolds and Boyer speak up now, and I know what they say. They warn Long Hair that this is largest bunch of Indians any of them ever see. I know what Long Hair is saying. He say he no care how many Indians, long as they no scatter.

  Reynolds and Boyer turn away. Both angry.

  After more talk from Long Hair, bluecoats head to horses. Some excited. Some pale. One wets britches.

  We mount our horses, and ride downhill.

  We ride toward village.

  Then, Long Hair does foolish thing. He orders bluecoats to divide. One will go with long-face soldier in straw hat named Reno. Others will go with mules and wagons and white-haired one named Benteen. Long Hair lead others.

  A foolish, foolish thing. I ride to Boyer. I beg him to tell Long Hair not to divide men.

  “There are too many of the enemy for us,” I say. “Even if we stay together. If you must fight, keep us all together.”

  Long Hair has no ears. He will not listen. He tells Boyer, who tells me, “You do the scouting, and I will attend to the fighting.”

  So this is where journey ends.

  I slip off my pony, and take off clothes. I join Arikaree and Crow brothers in singing our death songs. I paint face.

  Through Boyer, Long Hair angrily asks what I am doing.

  I look up at Long Hair, whose hair is short now like the man who got blinded and was made a slave and died many winters ago.

  “Because you and I going home today,” I tell Long Hair, “by trail that is strange to us both.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Major

  Marcus Reno

  To be delivered to:

  Ross Reno, c/o J. W. and Bertie Orth

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  In the event of my death

  Son:

  I write you from a hole dug on a hill in Montana Territory; all around me is death. The smudge on the torn corner of this paper comes from the brains and blood of an Indian scout. God! It splattered across my face, blinded me. Yes, more of that I will tell you, tell the world, later. I write you because I fear in the months to come my name, my reputation, my career, my honor and your last name will be dragged through the mud. I fear I will not survive to spare you the ordeal other twelve-year-olds might subject you to.

  Please know this, believe this: I was not drunk. I am not a coward.

  I did the best any soldier could. I am no Indian fighter. I did not want to be here. I asked for a leave to be with you after your mother’s untimely passing. Damn this man’s army.

  It’s Custer’s fault. Where the hell is he?

  I am not drunk.

  I am scared. I admit that. Most of my command is. I hear praying. Begging. Crying. God. Has someone else has just been shot? I did the best … I am NOT DRUNK!

  Where is Custer? He said he would support me.<
br />
  This might be the only record to survive this butchery. I pray no savage will burn this. Or tear it in shreds and let the winds scatter it.

  Here is my account of what happened.

  I am not drunk. I was not drunk when it all went to hell.

  The command left the place where Lieutenant Varnum saw the Indian village, the place he said reminded him of the old Crow’s Nest at West Point, we were in column of fours. Custer sent Captain Benteen’s men toward the bluffs. He told him to “pitch into anything.” Custer took five companies down one side of a creek. I led my three companies down the other.

  God, it was hot. Dry, dusty, miserable. We rode on, mouths parched, horses already lathered with a salty foam of sweat. My lips were cracked. I wet them and slaked my thirst from my canteen.

  Then rode up the scout, Fred Gerard, like he was in a race. “We’ve found our Indians!” he shouted. “Runnin’ like devils! The damned Rees won’t go after them.”

  “Let us at them!” said some damned young fool in my command.

  I drank again. Just to calm my nerves. It wasn’t just whiskey in the canteen. It had been cut with water. I was thirsty. I wasn’t drunk.

  Cooke was suddenly there. Don’t know where he came from. Well, from Custer, of course, on a horse.

  “Major,” he said, “I have orders from General Custer. The Indians are about two and a half miles ahead. On the jump they are. Go forward as fast as you think proper. Charge them wherever you find them. General Custer will support you.”

  Read THAT AGAIN! Custer said he would support me, Ross. He said that. There were witnesses. If any of them’s still alive now.

  Well, I was about to pitch into the savages. They’d accused me of butchering my chance at a brevet, at glory, at maybe even rivaling Custer when I hadn’t attacked or tried to attack those Indians when I’d led my command down the Powder. Now I’d get a chance. I’d show Custer. I’d show General Terry. I’d show everyone.

  I waved my straw hat, damned near dropped my canteen. Rode on toward the village. As I crossed the creek, I saw General Custer, waving his big hat.

  “Take your battalion and try and overtake and bring them to battle!” Custer cried. “I will support you.”

  See. He said it, too. The general.

  Where the hell is he?

  “And take the scouts along with you.”

  That’s all the orders I had. That’s all the plan was. I was to find the village. Attack. Custer would come in to help. To reap all the glory. Some Crows stuck with the general. The Arikarees, practically all of them, followed me. Even Bloody Knife. He was half-Arikaree, half-Sioux. Varnum and Wallace left Custer. They wanted to be in on the fight. I had a hundred, a hundred and fifty, I don’t know. Not enough. Not even with three dozen Indian scouts.

  Most of the recruits riding with me were just that. Recruits. Green as spring. Could barely stay in the saddles. We rode a hard trot maybe three miles. I had to keep barking over my shoulder, “Keep your horses well in hand, boys. Stay in formation.”

  I noticed Dr. Porter, my lone surgeon, a contract surgeon, not a career army man. Asked him if he were armed. he said, “No, Major.” Therefore, I offered him my Remington Rolling Block rifle.

  He declined. “I’m a doctor, Major,” he said, trying to smile.

  He’s a damned fool. Too young, too inexperienced. I bet now he wished he’d taken up my generous offer.

  Contract surgeons. College boys. We need military men in the army.

  Then we reached where the creek flowed into a river. We rode into the Little Bighorn River. I let my horse drink.

  Lieutenant DeRudio—Count No-Account, as we call the pompous ass—rode past me, drenching me with water. I cussed him, returned my flask. Told him not to drown me before a bullet could kill me.

  Yes, I thought I would die. I might yet still.

  Then here came Gerard, the interpreter. It is said that he had once married a Ree. Custer loved that old boy. I cared not a whit for him. He yelled at me, “Major, the Indians are coming up the valley to meet us.”

  Meet us? Fight us? Surely, the Indians must be running. Scattering. Like they always do. I stared and said, “Forward,” and let my canteen command.

  Gerard rode away. I guess to tell Custer what he figured the Indians were doing. I led my men out of the water, over the hills, out of the timber. Let the recruits dismount, tighten their cinches. we reassembled into columns of fours.

  After climbing the bank, I could see Indians. Tepees. Scores of them. Women and children running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. The Arikarees rode across. Downstream, I saw a bunch of Indian ponies. Some of my scouts rode after them. I reached inside my tunic, brought out my flask. It wasn’t cut with water. I wasn’t drunk, Ross. I was not drunk. There’s nothing wrong with taking a bracer, a good, strong bracer, before mixing into a fight like this. I drank. Just a sip. For my parched tongue, my throat caked with dust. Checked my watch. It was almost three o’clock on the nose. Damned not.

  “There goes Custer!” somebody yelled.

  Across the river, sure enough, I saw the general, riding old Vic, his white-legged sorrel. Riding hard. Away from us. I guess to circle the village. Prevent them from scattering.

  We rode at a trot. Then a gallop. The land was flatter here. I could see Indians. Some of the boys saw Custer leading his men. They cheered. Waved their hats. One of them even began singing some foreign ditty.

  I tossed my flask to Benny Hodgson. He looked like he needed a bracer worse than me.

  “Stop that damned noise!” I shouted. Then I yelled something else.

  “Charge!”

  Spurring my mount, I bit my lip, leaned forward, and rode into battle.

  “There’s only fifty of them, boys!” one of my lieutenants called out. He stupidly fired a pistol.

  Fifty. We could handle that. I could see a bunch of Indians, fifty I guess, working their horses, running those mounts not toward us, just back and forth. A dust cloud must have stretched a mile into the sky. I barked out for G Troop to take the right flank, along the timber. M Troop rode on the left, next A. I glanced over my shoulder. Saw Custer’s men riding. But not toward us. Going elsewhere still. Some of his boys seemed to be raising their hats.

  Hell.

  There was a ditch ravine. Looked as if it led to the depths of Hades, and out of this hole came those red devils.

  The Indians were supposed to be running. These weren’t. They were, God, standing to fight. By this time I could see beyond that thick dust, see the hostile village maybe a half mile away. Fifty lodges my ass. God. Four hundred. Five hundred. Mayhap a thousand.

  I was not drunk.

  I was not about to lead my command to be slaughtered.

  “Battalion halt!” I yelled. “Prepare to fight on foot. Dismount!”

  Hodgson rode off to relay my orders.

  Jesus. Green horses. Untrained mounts. Not all of the boys could stop their horses. Some of them kept on riding. Riding straight to all those damned Indians, disappeared in the dust. Still now, I can hear their screams, hear the bullets, hear the savages wail out. Thank God I could not see what happened to those damned young white men.

  We approached in skirmish line, shooting, marching, shooting. Sweat blinded me. I admit that I wished I hadn’t given Hodgson my flask. With our boys, I marched. The Indians put up furious resistance. I wanted to look back, for once, to see Custer coming. But couldn’t.

  Maybe we’d gone a hundred yards. I called out to halt. The boys dropped to the ground, firing prone. Some turned mounds from prairie dog holes into breastworks. Our officers marched behind them, yelling out for them to make their shots count, to steady their nerves.

  “My rifle’s jammed!” some soldier cried out.

  “Use your knife to pry out the cartridge!” Captain French ordered. I glan
ced down at the skirmishers. Hell, half the boys’ Springfields had become overheated. They were pulling those hot copper cartridges out of the chambers.

  We were doing all right. Few casualties. Some of the boys sang out that we’d have them on the run soon. A few recruits even laughed. But, God, those Indians … more and more seemed to pour from that village, out of the ravines, into the woods.

  Everything will be fine, I told myself. Custer’s coming. We’re all right. We’re all right. I’m all right. I’m not drunk.

  Some trooper with his face blacked by powder tugged my sleeve. I spun, almost shot the dumb bastard.

  “What is it, you damned fool?”

  “I been screamin’ your name, Major,” he says back at me. “Captain Moylan wants to speak to you, sir. It’s urgent.”

  Hell. I fumbled with cartridges to reload my revolver as I followed the trooper to Captain Myles Moylan.

  Moylan looked steady enough. I wiped my brow as he told me, “Major, about two hundred hostiles have flanked us to the left. Indians are behind us now, sir.”

  “Custer?” I demanded.

  “I asked Billy Jackson if he could ride to the general, Major,” Moylan says. “He says there are too many to ride through.”

  What the hell else could I do? I spun around, yelling, “Retreat to your horses, men.” Then I began walking—no, son, I was not running, not abandoning my men—I just had to get to the trees. But there was Hodgson, so I took back my flask, emptied it, kept going.

  A few troopers, bloody cowards, shot past me. Running.

  Good old Captain French, though, he was strong. I heard him yell, “I’ll shoot the first man that turns his back on the enemy! We’re falling back, slowly. Slowly, do you hear me? In order. Keep up a continual fire, you damned fools!”

  We reached the timbers. I thought it would be better there, but, God. The din surrounded us. Bullets. Indian yells. The horrible noise from bone whistles. Men—white men—begging, crying, screaming from wounds. Horses bolting. Dust and gun smoke blinded us.

  I found Varnum. No, I guess, he found me.