Greasy Grass

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Where’s the general?” the general’s brother asked.

  I pointed to the ridge behind me, and the general’s brother whipped his horse hard. He rode to General Custer. I went to find Colonel Benteen.

  As I reached the next bluff, I saw Major Reno still fighting Indians. There was much smoke, and much dust. I tried to make my horse go faster.

  Finally I found Colonel Benteen. He was riding far ahead of the pack train with his trumpeter. We were between two ridges. It was very hot.

  I stopped, saluted, and found the note the captain had given me, and gave it to the colonel. He read the note aloud.

  [The court asked for the note to be read aloud. It said, “Benteen. Come on. Big village. Be quick. Bring packs.—W. W. Cooke. PS: Bring packs.”]

  Colonel Benteen laughed after he read the note. He said something about the captain being in such a hurry, that he had spelled packs wrong. I think he said something like that. He did not laugh for long, however, and soon turned to me. His face looked determined.

  “Where is the general now?” the colonel asked. He spoke very slowly. I could understand what he said.

  I told him that the Indians were running and that the general, the last I saw him, was charging.

  The colonel did not ask me about Major Reno. I did not tell him. I meant to, but the colonel gave me no time, and then he was looking at my horse, and asking what was wrong with the animal.

  I answered that it must be tired, but the colonel shook his head, and pointed and told me to look at the horse’s hip.

  After I dismounted, I saw blood, and put my hand on the horse’s hip. The horse moved away, and I glanced at the blood covering my hand.

  Colonel Benteen said that I was lucky, that it could have been me and not my horse.

  I felt weak. I wiped the blood on my pants, and I reached for my crucifix and Saint Christopher. As I prayed, the other trumpeter dismounted his horse, and came to my injured horse. The trumpeter poured water from his canteen into the dirt and grass, and made some sort of mixture, which he picked up and put on my horse’s bullet wound.

  I thanked him, and we both mounted our horses. By that time, more soldiers had arrived. One was Captain [Thomas] Weir. The other was a lieutenant whose name I do not know [Winfield Edgerly].

  The colonel handed the note to the lieutenant, and raised his hands up in the air. He said something about how the general wanted him to come quickly, but he could not do that and bring the packs. He said more, but I could not understand much about what was being said.

  Even more officers arrived.

  The colonel told them that the Indians were running. I believed the Indians were running. The general had been so worried that the Indians would run away before we could beat them.

  One of the officers said that we would miss out on the glory again. Another said something about congratulating the general one more time, then he cursed. They did not appear to be happy. They seemed … jealous?

  I do know that Captain Weir reminded Colonel Benteen that his orders were to come quickly.

  The colonel said angrily, “We are going.”

  Then, the colonel told the lieutenants to return to the column. We were to move out at a trot.

  Over the hills, we could hear the sounds of gunfire. The colonel told me to rejoin my troop, and that is what I did. I rode to find H Troop.

  The soldiers in my troop asked me all about what was going on. I told them about the big village, and we started trotting. I hoped my horse would be able to keep up.

  The soldiers in H Troop were very excited. They wanted to fight.

  They had not seen the size of the village. They did not know how many Indians were out there.

  One of the men in my troop asked me what General Custer was doing when I left.

  That made me smile. I never saw the general again, but that is how I will always remember him. The way I saw him that last time.

  Charging.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Captain

  Myles Keogh

  Notes for Memoir

  June 25, 1876, afternoon:

  Just time for quick thoughts. Reno is engaging hostiles. Wish I had the privilege of leading I Troop with him, but, alas. Riding back with Cooke to rejoin Custer. Not sure of Custer’s plan.

  * * * * *

  Back with Custer. Fred Gerard caught up with us, told us Indians fighting. NOT RUNNING! A Crow scout just told Custer we should assist, but Custer said, “No, let them fight.” He’s waiting on the packs. Sent Sergeant Kanipe to bring them back. Kanipe hasn’t returned. Nor have we seen Benteen after Custer ordered that little Guinea to fetch him.

  Much excitement. Custer yells, “If Reno can keep them occupied down below, we’ll hit them hard. We can capture the entire village, get the women and kids. Force them to surrender.”

  “Hurray!” Custer waves hat. “We’ll finish them up and then go home to our station!”

  Don’t think Custer thought there really was an Indian village till now.

  * * * * *

  Weather hot. Unbearable. Custer has taken off his buckskin coat. So have I, but still sweating like a pig. Still no Benteen. Letting our horses drink, but not too much. Much fighting to come.

  * * * * *

  Huge village. Two times more than what we thought. Maybe even larger.

  Below, all we see are women and children, running around, excited. No warriors.

  “Maybe they are off hunting,” Tom Custer suggests.

  “That must be it,” Lieutenant Calhoun says.

  Hunting? Who do they think is fighting Reno now?

  * * * * *

  Enough time to pull out my Agnus Dei, a gift from Pope Pius IX back in the Old World, and hang it over my neck.

  May it bring me luck.

  * * * * *

  Custer wants to hit rear. Hoping Benteen can hold center, when he gets here. Still hear shooting where Reno has engaged. Glory, what a commotion, what a fight that must be.

  * * * * *

  Cannot wait on Benteen. Must strike camp. Before Indians scatter.

  * * * * *

  Crow scouts are dismissed after a fine job. They located the biggest Indian village ever seen. Some Rees joined us, only to be dismissed, too. Can see the dust they’re raising as they light a shuck for the Powder River depot.

  Damn the red heathens. They want no part of our big fight.

  * * * * *

  Custer divides us. I have honor of commanding three troops in the right wing, with Yates commanding the left wing. Flank attack is planned. Captains Yates and Smith heading over hills toward river. Custer watches with field glasses.

  * * * * *

  My first sergeant rode over, asked me if I could see the dust, and pointed toward the river.

  “Hell, Varden,” I replied, “dust is all I see.”

  It rises like smoke. Little wind to carry it away.

  * * * * *

  Comanche fights the bit, ready for battle. As am I.

  * * * * *

  There are our Indians! Not running. Hitting Yates in coulée. Big fight—

  * * * * *

  Yates pinned down. Heavy fire. Have issued orders to double amount of horses each holder will be in charge of. To give us a few extra shots. Awaiting—Here comes Cus—

  * * * * *

  Have orders. Victory near. More later.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Crazy Horse

  When the shots first reached us, I was swimming in the Greasy Grass with Long Nose. We knew what those shots meant, for, at that time, both of us said, “Mila Hanska!”

  Then we heard cries from the Oglala circle, and, just next to our circle, the Hunkpapa, which is where the bullets were near.

  “The Long Knives are coming. The Long Knives are coming.
”

  Carrying our breechclouts, we ran. I met Red Feather as he bridled a pony. “Take any horse!” he yelled at me, but that was no good. I decided that I would wait to find my own pony. Long Nose, however, caught the first pony he saw.

  The boy named Black Elk, naked and dripping wet, ran past us, bringing two stallions behind him. He had been swimming in the river just below Long Nose and me. Now as he hurried to find his father, Black Elk sang, though his voice cracked with nervousness, a strong-heart song.

  Next, I heard singing from inside the lodge of a wicasa wakan. I asked to enter, and he stopped singing long enough to tell me to come. Inside, I donned my breechclout, and asked the holy man to pray for all Lakota people. I asked him to give our warriors patience. When this was done, I stepped outside to prepare myself.

  I knew how to defeat Mila Hanska.

  Many Oglala warriors were mounted, waiting for me. Despite the holy man’s prayers, they had no patience, but a Lakota should not go into battle in haste.

  “I will ride,” I softly told one of the angry ones, “when I am ready.”

  He did not wait, but rode off toward the Hunkpapas. Most, however, honored me. They did not like it, but they waited.

  My right hand grabbed dirt, which I used to dust myself. I found grass stems, and put these into my hair. I saw other Oglala warriors, saw their impatience. A young Itazipacola joined us, and hollered for me to hurry, but Red Feather told him to be quiet.

  Long Nose had built a buffalo chip fire, and over this I knelt, pulling an offering from the medicine bag around my neck. This burned, carrying my prayers to Wakan Tanka. Some others swung from their mounts, and approached the small fire to make their own medicine.

  Which was good.

  On my face, I painted hail spots, put the hawk feather in my hair, then dusted my pony with dirt. Last, I placed the white stone behind my ear.

  By this time, Long Nose handed me my war ax and a fast-shooting wasicu long holy iron. These I lifted to the waiting Oglalas.

  “Hokay hey!” I shouted, and their echoes drowned out the sounds of Long Knives’ guns.

  An old Oglala woman ran up to us, pointing north. She yelled that she saw other Long Knives, that they would be striking our camp soon. Many warriors wanted to ride that way, but I pointed toward the Hunkpapas. The Hunkpapas were closer, and our Sahiyela friends were already preparing to attack any Long Knives who might strike from that direction.

  So were our brothers the Sicangus, Minneconjous, Itazipacolas, Sihasapas, and Gros Ventres. Even the five Mahpiya To, who many of us had not trusted when they first arrived at our camp, were ready to fight.

  There were many, many Lakotas. Many Sahiyelas.

  Today, Sitting Bull’s vision would come true.

  “Our Hunkpapa brothers need us. We must help them first.”

  I am not a shouter, but my throat hurt after I issued my command, the first any Lakota leader will say before going into battle.

  “Hiyupo!”

  My heart was glad when all the Oglalas did, indeed, follow me. We galloped to the Hunkpapa circle, and the voices made my heart even stronger.

  “Crazy Horse is coming! Crazy Horse is coming!”

  A woman sang:

  Brothers-in-law, now your friends have come.

  Take courage.

  Would you see me taken captive?

  Sitting Bull was shouting, his pony dead. Then I saw Lakota women, and children, and some warriors, lying on the ground, not moving, their spirits gone. Dead. Sitting Bull told me that we must fight, that these wasicus did not want to make peace, or bring us gifts.

  We were strong. Our spirits were good, for we had just whipped many Mila Hanska down south just a few suns earlier. And we all knew of Sitting Bull’s great vision. He had foretold of our great victory.

  Gall rode over to our conference. He yelled at me, but Gall was always yelling, and rode off, saying he must find his family, that they were rounding up the ponies, and rode away. I saw Rain-In-The-Face ride toward the wasicus, and a Hunkpapa woman disappearing into the dust. More women began singing strong-heart songs.

  I saw the wasicus running into the woods. So I rode that way, close to the woods, waving my rifle over my head, feeling their bullets whistle over my head. No wasicu bullet can kill me. That, too, has been foretold. I let them shoot up their bullets in vain, so that we might kill them much easier.

  Back I rode, this time waving my war ax. The wasicus continued to shoot, but I reached the Hunkpapas unharmed.

  When I turned my pony around, I saw many Mila Hanska fleeing the woods, where the dust was not so great, running or riding toward the Greasy Grass.

  Till then, I had not fired a shot, nor swung my war ax.

  “Here are some of the soldiers after us again!” I yelled to my friends. “Do your best, and let us kill them all off today, that they may not trouble us any more.”

  So we rode. Again, the dust became heavy, thick, mixed with the smoke from all the guns being fired. It was difficult to see, but it was easy to kill.

  My club swung. I felt the bones in the head of a wasicu break. I swung again. Another Long Knife died.

  Mila Hanska crossed the river. Some of our warriors followed, but as I turned, after the dust had settled, I saw more dust toward the north. I remembered the other Mila Hanska, heading toward the Sahiyela circle.

  To Crow King, a good Hunkpapa, I yelled, “Let these cowards run! There is danger.” I pointed.

  Crow King cried out, and we turned our ponies. Back to the village we galloped, riding through the Hunkpapa circle, through the other circles, still hearing more and more strong-heart songs.

  Through the circles we rode, hearing songs, wailing, crying, gunfire. We crossed the river. Yes, Mila Hanska were coming. But we were ready for them.

  “They will not cross the Greasy Grass!” Flying Hawk yelled behind me. “They will not harm our women and children.”

  We entered a ravine, followed it. Our Sahiyela brothers had already turned back many wasicus. The wasicus did not fight well.

  Some ran toward us, unable to see us at the edge of the ravine. I tucked away my ax, and brought out my wasicu holy iron, worked the lever, and fired.

  Killing these Long Knives was easy.

  They stopped, kneeling in the tall grass, firing at us, but their bullets flew wild.

  “Let them shoot for a while,” I told our warriors. “Their guns do not shoot good after a while. And these Long Knives are shooting very fast.”

  Tossing my war ax and wasicu gun to Red Feather, I let my pony climb out of the ravine. Many bullets buzzed past me. My pony did not want to run, did not cringe at the bullets. My pony was very brave.

  Calmly I brought the eagle bone whistle to my mouth, and let it sing. Loudly it sang. Even above the noise of gunfire, of Indians yelling, of wasicus begging, the whistle could be heard.

  My Oglala brothers yelled, “Come back down where it is safe!”

  Back and forth I rode, letting the wasicus shoot. Much time passed before I allowed my pony to jump back into the ravine.

  A Mahpiya To who had joined us yelled triumphantly, “You are the bravest man I ever saw.”

  “Hokay hey!” came the cries among the warriors I led.

  “Hokay hey!” I called back. “Today is a good day to die!”

  Mila Hanska no longer shot so fast, and I knew their weapons were not working as they should.

  “Let us ride out now,” I said, taking back my war ax and holy iron from Red Feather. “Let us kill them all and be done with these Mila Hanska! Hiyupo!”

  Out of the ravine we rose, riding, charging. We sang our death songs. We shot.

  “Kill the ones holding the horses,” I said.

  So we shot them. Arrows sliced into flanks and backs of many horses, and they jerked from their holder’s gra
sps. They bolted away.

  These wasicus were funny with their horses. Gray horses were all together. Red horses were all together. At first. Soon all the horses were mixed. Many lay dead. Others galloped in all directions. Some of our younger warriors raced after the horses, to capture them for their own. That was good. Most of us, however, stayed to kill those who had come to kill us.

  When most of their horses had run off, or died, most of the wasicus lost their nerve. The hills were covered with Indians. The Long Knives fled, but there was nowhere for them to go. They could not escape.

  There was so much choking, blinding dust, again, it became hard to see, but one did not have to see to kill. My long gun spoke often. More Mila Hanska died. When my own long gun no longer worked, I grabbed it by the hot barrel, and smashed a screaming wasicu who had fallen to his knees, begging.

  Cowards deserve no mercy. His brains spilled onto the grass, and I leaped from my pony to slash his right thigh. Let him carry that mark into the other world.

  Holding my horse’s hackamore, I looked around. Through the dust, the smoke of hundreds of long guns and short guns, this is what I saw.

  Red Feather pulled the cartridge belt from a dead wasicu. He held the holy iron in his hand, and put a bullet into the back of a Long Knife who was crawling away.

  A red-headed wasicu tried to grab one of the fleeing horses, but fell down. He came up, tears in his eyes, saw many Lakotas and Sahiyelas charging to him, and he stuck the barrel of his short gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger just before our braves hacked his body to pieces.

  One wasicu with the yellow markings on his sleeves shot his own horse. Behind this dead animal, he made a fort, and worked his long gun and short gun. He fought well, but we were too many for him. Arrows sliced into his body. When a young Sahiyela tried to count coup, Red Feather stopped him, saying, “Leave this dead man alone. He fought bravely.” Then they ran into the dust to kill more.

  An arrow thudded into the back of a Long Knife, dropping him to his knees. Another arrow entered his stomach, almost to the feathers at the end of the shaft. This wasicu did not fall, however, until the third arrow hit his eye. This killed him, and young Oglalas and Sahiyelas stood over him, putting more arrows into his body, but soon stopped, staring at the arrow in his eye. Later, young Black Elk told me that it was a strange eye, splintered by the arrow. The eye seemed to be made of glass. What strange medicine for a wasicu. The medicine of the Lakota, however, proved much stronger.