Greasy Grass

by Johnny D. Boggs

  For a moment, the wind blew, parting the dust, and I saw the split flag of the Mila Hanska. Many Long Knifes had gathered around that flag up the hill. Others were running away.

  Those could wait. I leaped back on my pony. I rode to the backbone of a ridge to kill more of my enemies.

  A handful of Long Knives gathered in this depression, the one with the sleeve markings planting his split flag in the ground near a dead horse. A brave warrior rode his red dun horse around, but a bullet smashed his knee, and downed both him and the big horse. The red dun horse got up, and hobbled away. Many wasicus grabbed the one whose knee would no longer work, and leaned him against a dead horse. Then Gall arrived with his followers, and all of those Mila Hanska were no more.

  Again, I had to wait for the dust to fall away. Gall galloped up to where I was, pointing over toward the nearest hill.

  “Hiyupo, Crazy Horse!” he said. “Leave those down there to our women. Hiyupo!” He rode away, still shouting, “Hiyupo! This fight will soon be over.”

  Indeed, in just a short time, it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lame White Man

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  I push myself off the ground, spit out grass and blood, and rise on my knees. I try to watch, though dust blinds me, as Human Beings kill these warrior white men.

  I sing my death song.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  I think of this morning.

  How beautiful it was, the fur from the cottonwoods falling on our circle like snowflakes in the Moon When Freeze Begins on Stream’s Edge. I gave my youngest son the bow of ash that was ready, and a quiver of a dozen arrows with turkey feathers on the shafts. He was pleased. It made my heart glad, even though he lacks strength to pull back the sinew string. He will grow stronger, and will master this bow.

  For he is a Human Being.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  The warrior white men’s horses are running. Our Hotóhkeso allies and we Human Beings have crushed many, killed many. Soon, all these warrior white men will be dead, though they fight well. Soon, I will be dead.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  I think of not long ago.

  Our Suicide Boys, who vowed to die fighting to defend our people, marched through our circle. Those five young men made me so proud. I told my oldest wife, “I must go up there and ride down in the parade with my boys.”

  I rode my golden mare. I heard our people singing songs of honor to those brave boys. After that, I went to the river, to the sweat lodge, to bathe in the heat, to purify myself, with my friend, Wooden Leg. That was when we heard the warning that the warrior white men were coming. That was when we heard the gunfire at the other end of the village of all free Indians.

  Naked, I ran to my family. I sent my wives, my children north. Out of danger. Family must come first. Always. I wrapped a blanket over my waist, pulled on my moccasins, grabbed my rifle, my bow, my quiver, my knife. Then I rode to meet these warrior white men.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  I can see nothing now but dust, though I still hear the booming of rifles, our warriors crying, “Hi-yi-yi!” I can picture our brave boys counting coup, lifting scalps. It is hard to breathe. Slowly I sink, trying to stay up, trying to stay among the living, just long enough to see our great victory.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  We crossed the river, saw the warrior white men, their split flag waving, riding very fast, the first bunch on white horses.

  Our Suicide Boys wanted to go. So did many other warriors. “They are too many,” I said. “Wait. We must wait.”

  Those following me honored me. When I slid off my pony, they did the same. “Wait until they are closer,” I said.

  When they drew near, we opened fire. Many were hit, including one with a big gray hat and red scarf who slumped in his saddle. This discouraged these white men. Two rode to the wounded man, grabbed the reins to his horse, rode away, up the hill. Another followed.

  The horn of the warrior white men blew, and the remaining men stopped their horses. Some of them held four horses, but did not fight. Our ponies, however, were trained not to run. We did not need to have one warrior hold our ponies. Other warrior white men approached on foot with their long guns.

  “Kill them!” I yelled. We fired again. By then, more Hotóhkeso friends and Human Beings had appeared on all sides of the hills. No more could I see the falling fur of the cottonwoods. All around me was dust. And smoke from the rifles.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  Now I push myself back up, feel saliva running down my chin. I reach up, touch it, find it sticky, and stare at my fingers. It is not water from my mouth. It is blood. I sink onto my hindquarters. Still, I sing.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  We charged out of the ravine. I found a veho lying in the sweet-smelling grass. I slit his throat, to make sure he was dead, then I scalped him. I pulled off his belt with the cartridges, and fastened it around my blanket. I stuck his pistol, the barrel still blazing hot, inside the belt. I pulled off his blue coat, and wore this.

  I rose, mounting my mare again, yelling for those following me to come on, to kill some more.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  I fall to my back. There is no dust here. The battle has moved away from me. I stare at the sky, so clear, so blue, so beautiful. I think of my wives, my children. They will live free, though, because after today, and after our victory at the Rosebud just a few suns ago, no warrior white men will come to bother us again.

  Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.

  We rode with Hotóhkeso allies, and other tribes, and chased some warrior white men up a ridge. Then they came down, maybe forty, dismounting, firing. These vehos were brave, accurate with their weapons, so we went down the ridge.

  The fight grew fierce, but slowly we began to inch up the hill, firing arrows, weapons. I emptied all of the bullets from the short gun I had taken. I looked around me, and saw hundreds and hundreds of warriors.

  So I stood up, leaping onto my fine mare. I was much older than our Suicide Boys, but I had to be just as brave.

  “Come!” I shouted. “We can kill all of them.”

  Leading the way, I rode, and we crushed those warrior white men. We clubbed them. We shot them. We took many coup, many scalps, and left many dead.

  Only a few began running for the hillside, where several more of the warrior white men remained, fighting among dead horses and another split flag.

  “Come!” I cried out again, and rode after those fleeing.

  I rode hard. Till the bullet hit my breast, and I fell off the horse, stunned. For a moment, my lungs would not work. Finally I breathed, though it burned like hot coals inside me. Weakly I pushed myself off the ground, spit out grass and blood, and rose to my knees, watching, though dust blinded me.

  I sang: “Nothing lives long. Only the earth and mountains.”

  I have closed my eyes, just for a moment, just to rest, just to remember my wives, how beautiful they are, and my children, what great warriors and lovely wives they will grow to be, though I will never see them. Footsteps fall around me, and my eyes flutter open. A shadow crosses my face. At last, my vision clears, and I can see this man.

  Holding his rifle, a young Hotóhkeso stands over me. He cries out, and more footsteps sound, more Indians gather around me. The first Hotóhkeso tosses his rifle to the ground, and draws his knife from its sheath.

  “Palani!” he shouts.

  It is now that I realize I was not shot by a warrior white man, but this Hotóhkeso. He has mistaken me for an Ónone wolf. I was foolish to have put on this war
rior white man’s blue coat. All of these Indians, who fought with us Human Beings against the vehos, draw their knives.

  “Nothing lives long,” I sing. “Only the earth and mountains.”

  The knives come down.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer

  I have no strength, no time, to write. Not even paper to record these thoughts. My rifle, empty, lies at my side. My Bulldog revolver rests in my hand, though the muscles in my right arm will not respond. I cannot lift it. I could not even put pen to paper, to tell you how much I love you, how much you have meant to me, how much better my life has been because of you, sweet Libbie.

  So I pray that these words, my final thoughts on this earth, will reach you, somehow, carried across the Montana plains all the way to Fort Lincoln.

  We’ve always been so much alike, so much in love. I send my thoughts to your memory.

  Oh, dear God, where is Benteen?

  To the river we rode, intending to strike across the Little Bighorn and hit the Indian encampment. That would relieve Reno. We would capture the hostile women. We would earn the greatest victory of all the Indian wars, eclipsing the Washita.

  Darling Libbie, you know me. When I ordered the charge, I rode at the point. Custer’s luck. I thought we had caught the savages napping, but, no, they were ready. More than ready.

  A bullet struck my breast, just below the heart. How it missed my heart, I know not. I thought I would fall off of Vic, but Tom and Sergeant Hughes rode to me, grabbed the reins, turned me around, led me up this hill.

  I think I told them that we should hold the high ground. Re-form here.

  How many Indians are there? Many.

  I thought we were flanking the camp, but this village must have stretched along the riverbanks forever. We hit the center. No … they hit us.

  I wanted to cross the Little Bighorn first. Remember the time during the Rebellion, when General Barnard couldn’t make up his mind if we could ford the Chickahominy? Remember what I did? How I spurred my mount, went into the middle of the river? I can still see that look on the general’s face. He thought I was either the craziest officer under his command, or the bravest.

  This afternoon, we never even got across the river, except for a few young recruits who, unable to control or stop their frightened mounts, kept right on riding after our trumpeter blew the command to halt, to dismount.

  Who gave that order?

  Remember what I wrote in My Life on the Plains?

  “If I were an Indian I think that I would greatly prefer to cast my lot with those of my people who adhered to the free life of the plains rather than to the limits of a reservation, there to be the recipient of the blessed benefits of civilization, with the vices thrown in without stint or measure.”

  I still think that way, for these savages fight like very devils. Even harder, I dare say, than the Rebels during that glorious war that carried me to glory, that carried me to you. I do not think you would have married me, that your father would ever had consented to our nuptials, had it not been for that war.

  Custer’s luck got me through the butchery of Southern insurrection.

  Yet it has failed me here.

  More Indians appeared at the top of the ridge. We did not make it.

  “Shoot your horses!” Tom called. Tom. God bless him. What a brother to have, what an aide, what a captain. The bravest man I’ve ever known.

  “Use your horses for redoubts. We can hold them off till Reno or Benteen relieves us.”

  They eased me off Vic. Who soon fell, great animal, shot by one of our troopers or an Indian, I know not. Vic. Short for Victory. Which is why I chose to ride him into battle. The fastest horse in the Seventh, never to run again.

  They leaned me across another dead horse. No, now that I look, I see I lean against dead soldiers, God have pity on their souls. They died bravely.

  Dr. Lord is dead. Many are falling. Gamely we shall all go to Glory.

  I glanced at my right hand, saw the revolver I still held, that I hold now. Tom managed to cock the hammer. He reached somewhere, and produced that damnable, omnipresent flask.

  “Drink this, Autie,” he said.

  At first, I refused. Remember the time I came calling on you, well in my cups? You rebuked me, chastised me, shamed me. Never would I touch ardent spirits again. Till now.

  It made me cough. Cough up blood.

  “Hang on, Autie!” It was young Bos, grand brother, tears in his eyes.

  Oh, now, how I wished we had not picked on Bos so. I remember earlier on the campaign, sleeping out of doors, Tom and Jimmi and Bos and Harry Reed. As soon as Bos was asleep, Tom and I would shower him with clods of dirt.

  Or how Jimmi would torment precious young Harry: Jimmi would begin writing, then tap his glass eye with the pencil’s point. The look on Harry’s face would leave us rolling on the ground.

  The guidon was planted.

  I tried to give a command, but could not speak. Through dust, so thick, so horrible, it burned my lungs with every breath, I looked around. Keogh’s men. Jimmi’s command.

  Where’s Benteen? Where’s Reno? I should have sent Benteen into that camp, should not have rebuked him, backstabber that he is, denied him of a chance at glory. Benteen is a fighter, a soldier. Reno …?

  Too late now. This hand has been dealt.

  A trumpet sounds. Or is it Gabriel’s? No. One of our troopers has been killed. An Indian blows it. Private Martin? Did Indians waylay him before he brought Benteen my orders? I hear the whistles of Indians. The gunfire. More troopers have joined us. They run from Jimmi’s position, what is left of it.

  What has happened to Colonel Keogh?

  Didn’t I tell that newspaper reporter that the Seventh Cavalry could defeat the entire Sioux nation? Where is Kellogg? I haven’t seen him since he was whipping his mule after us, trying to keep up. Defeat the entire Sioux nation? I forgot that Fetterman said something similar before he led his command to ruinous death outside of Fort Phil Kearney, what, a decade ago?

  They say Fetterman disobeyed orders. Will history say the same of me?

  Thermopylae. Masada. The Alamo. Will this place be remembered in history alongside those great battles? Will you remember me?

  Of course, my darling. Death cannot separate us.

  Oh, Mo-nah-se-tah, your beauty, your grace. God, never had I met a woman like you. You grabbed hold of my heart when I first saw you among the captives at the Washita. Your eyes, so bright, they held me prisoner. And your hair, not greasy and dirty like most Indian wenches, but shining and smooth like a raven’s wing. Young-Grass-That-Shoots-In-Spring. That’s what your name meant, I was told. But you struck me in the dark of winter. I brought you to my tent on the way back to Fort Hays. You were my interpreter. You warmed me during the chill …

  Forgive me. Those thoughts were not for you, Libbie.

  Oh, my darling Libbie, you loved me despite all my failings. That Cheyenne woman that I bedded after my victory at the Washita? She was an infatuation, nothing more. I called her “an enchanting, comely squaw,” but you saw through me. You always saw through me. Yet even you could see something in Mo-nah-se-tah. “The belle among all Indian maidens,” you called her at a dinner at Fort Hays. Which brought a terrible silence to the party.

  I knew then that you knew about my transgressions. So did Tom, Jimmi, all of the officers, and, likely, many of their brides.

  God, I thought you would leave me. Perhaps I was jealous of all the attention so many of my fellow officers heaped upon you. Not that I can blame them.

  Why did you stay? You had every right to leave me, to insist on a divorce. But I know. Now I know. I must have always known.

  My heart has always belonged to you. It always shall belong to you. And, yours, I pray, will always belong to me.

  The Wash
ita. I wonder. Colonel Benteen always blamed me for abandoning Major Elliott, which was an egregious lie. Has he abandoned my command as an act of revenge?

  Is this, as they are prone to say, my life flashing before my eyes?

  I remember our reunions. April 9, 1869, at Fort Leavenworth, after six months apart. July 19, 1867, at Fort Riley. That is the one history will recall, for it resulted in my court-martial. Absent without leave. We can forget the other trivial charges. I left my post, of course, to be with you. To the blazes with Captain Weir. He showed you far too much attention, and I would gladly have pleaded guilty to striking a junior officer had he given me the chance.

  That brought me closer to you, didn’t it? You saw how much I loved you. That I was found guilty, suspended from rank and pay for a year. That I would gladly sacrifice my army career just to hold you in my arms, so that no other man could lure you away from me.

  Yet the one I remember most is Thanksgiving Day, 1862. Conway Noble, bless him, introduced me to this charmingly delightful, if somewhat standoffish, woman named Elizabeth Bacon. I had just been brevetted captain, and you said, “I believe your promotion has been very rapid?” To which I replied, “I have been very fortunate.” Fortune shined on me that night. I met you. Although later, you reminded me, with that devilish laugh of yours, how you—and your father!—had seen me before, staggering down the streets, drunker than a skunk!

  That night, I dreamed of you. You have been in all of my dreams, all of my nights, since that glorious evening. I made it a point to walk by your house on my leaves. I must have worn holes in my boots walking past your home. I made an utter nuisance of myself. Remember? You told me, “You should forget me.” And I told you, “I can never forget you.” You said you couldn’t forget me, but could never be my wife. Yet I wore you down, darling. I wore you down.