“Come on, you Wolverines! The Rebs outnumber us now, but not for long. What can cannon do to us?”
You should see these brave boys. Staring straight ahead at death. Courage, boys, courage, my Wolverines. Follow me. Follow me. We plunge into the Rebs, crashing together. It sounds like thunder, like all the cannon at Gettysburg going off at once. Saber against saber. Horses fall. Men are crushed, mauled, mangled, brutalized. Glorious war. Glorious battle. My horse is killed. “Give me the stirrup.” Again, I ride, and that horse falls dead. I find another. Ride. Yell. “Follow me, you Wolverines!” There, the Rebs retreat, running back to Cress Ridge. I wanted to pursue, but my grand Michiganders were too worn out. A great, glorious charge. Let the journalists, let my critics spread their slander, that I killed more of my own men than I did Confederates. I won that battle. I …
Where … am I?
Indians. Oh, God, Cooke has fallen. Poor Cookie, poor Cookie.
“Charge, Wolverines!” I yell. The sergeant turns, looks, ignores my command. Fires his revolver, one hand on the guidon’s staff.
Libbie, I want to see your face. I want to feel your lips. God, I want to live.
Ah, but, charge, my Wolverines, charge! Watch those Rebels run! We’ve licked them again.
No. No. Not Cedar Creek.
Where am I? Darling, where are you?
The battle sounds around me. Tom’s yelling. I can’t see him. I can’t see anyone.
There you are, Libbie. Let me reach for you. Let me smile.
God, I thought I’d live forever, but do you know what?
After today, I will.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sergeant
Robert Hughes
“Come back here, you damned sons of bitches! Stand your ground.”
* * * * *
Steady. Damn it.
“Pry out that shell with your knife, damn it.”
* * * * *
“Damn it. Hand me your revolver, boy. Your revolver! Mine’s empty! Sons of bitchin’ Indians!”
* * * * *
“Stand your ground! I’m in command!”
* * * * *
“Come back here. Stand your ground, men. Die like soldiers, you godda—”
Oh … Christ … oh …
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour …”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gall
It was said that the wasicus fought bravely. I say this: Like dogs, they died.
We knew Mila Hanska approached. Our warriors had seen the dust. But we had driven those wasicus away down along the Rosebud. Let them come, we said. We would whip them again.
Now … I … wish we … had not been … so brave.
When we heard the gunfire near the Hunkpapa circle, I prepared myself for battle, mounted the first pony I could find, and rode to Sitting Bull. Yet even before I reached the circle, I heard a woman screaming behind me, “Dacia! Dacia!” She pointed toward the high ridges on the other side of the Greasy Grass, and I knew more Mila Hanska were coming to attack us from the north!
Seeing Crazy Horse, I yelled at him, and rode beyond our circle and into the woods and pastures, to find my war pony. More importantly to find my family. I had sent two of my wives and most of our children north as soon as the attack began, but my youngest two wives, and three more children, had been sent into the woods to find our ponies. I had sent them to do this task.
I sent them … to their … deaths.
In the woods, I found their bodies. Wasicus had not killed them, scalped them, had not … No they lay dead, their beautiful bodies turned into porcupines from all the arrows that pinned them to the ground.
From my youngest wife’s body, I pulled an arrow from her back. “Palani!” I said, and spit, breaking the arrow in my trembling hands.
The devil Palanis, wolves for Mila Hanska, had murdered most of my family. I turned to my youngest son, dead, scalped, butchered, but could not see him, for tears blinded me. I raised my head, staring at the treetops, but saw nothing. Nothing.
For the longest while, I just knelt there, crying.
Slowly, though, the sounds of battle returned. My tears dried. I rose. The Palanis had stolen all of our ponies, so I would not be able to ride my favorite war pony. No matter. I tied up the tail of the painted pony near me. I listened.
The battle no longer sounded near our Hunkpapa circle. It came from the north, beyond where the Sahiyelas lived.
I looked at the wasicu holy iron I held, but left it with the bodies. My heart was bad. I would kill all of my enemies with the hatchet.
Mounting the paint horse, I rode to the north, through the Oglala and other circles, and came to the Greasy Grass, reining in. Our women brought horses in from the west. Our warriors stood by their horses, waiting. On the ridges, beyond the river, the Sahiyelas and Oglalas fought the wasicus.
“Hiyupo!” I shouted, and my pony splashed across the Greasy Grass.
Lakota warriors followed me, as did Sahiyela women. Some went after the frightened wasicu horses, running away from Mila Hanska. Most, however, followed me.
Straight we rode, into the cowardly wasicus. Soon, my hatchet dripped red with blood. Our warriors stopped to gather the guns the dead wasicus no longer needed. They tore off the clothing of the dead. They lifted scalps. Some of the younger boys took arrowheads, and pressed them into the toenails and fingernails of our enemies just lying on the ground—to make sure they, indeed, were dead. We found one only pretending to be dead.
Him, we left to the Sahiyela women.
At the bottom of a ridge, in a buffalo wallow, warriors stripped one dark-haired man who had fought well, but then they stopped, staring and pointing at the strong medicine hanging from his neck on a gold string. The cross the Black Robes try to teach us about. It had given this warrior strong medicine.
His medicine proved not as powerful as that of the Lakotas.
“Leave him alone!” I pointed up the hill, and rode there. “There. Kill them all.”
Crazy Horse reined in his pony, his hair dripping with sweat.
To him, I yelled, “Hiyupo, Crazy Horse! Leave those down there to our women. Hiyupo!” I kicked my pony into a lope, still shouting, “Hiyupo! This fight will soon be over.”
Many wasicus ran toward the last remaining soldiers on the hillside. Most did not make it.
Some stopped, falling to their knees, yelling, “Sioux, have mercy. Have mercy.” I did not understand their words. I cared for nothing they had to say.
These we killed.
Some just ran until our horses overtook them.
These we killed.
Some stopped, turned.
These killed themselves.
Near the top of the ridge, the wasicus had formed. There was nowhere for them to go. Lakotas and Sahiyelas stood on the top of the hill. Onward we came. Onward from all directions were Indians.
All the wasicus could do was die.
For a moment, we stopped. Our warriors reloaded the holy irons they had picked up off the ground. A breeze came, just briefly, clearing away the dust. The split flag of Mila Hanska waved, but just like that, the wind no longer blew. The flag died.
So did the remaining Mila Hanska when we charged.
Some fled. I stopped, watching our warriors run down those trying to reach the Greasy Grass, and slid off my pony. My hand clutched the pole of the split flag. I stared down at the body of one of the last wasicus to fall.
His face was part blackened by a long-ago gunshot. His clothes were white from the dust. I dropped my hatchet, and picked up his fast-shooting holy iron.
I looked down at his eyes, which saw no more. He was a white man, but I saw only Palani. I saw my dead wives. My dead children.
I lifted the wasicu holy iron and brought the stock d
own on the man’s head. I beat. I beat. I beat.
A Minneconjou woman came to me, said something. Blood rushed so violently that I could not make out her words, but she held a mallet in her right hand, and I knew what she meant. After I tossed away the bloody long gun, I accepted her gift, fell to my knees, and continued to hammer the dead wasicu’s face.
I smashed his head with this mallet until it was flat as my own hand, until his body could not be recognized, perhaps not even by his own god. I dropped the mallet, I picked up my hatchet, and I chopped him up. I swung my hatchet until I could no longer lift it. I ripped out his heart.
Then, as warriors and women ran about the dead wasicus, I raised my head to the skies, to Wakan Tanka, and cried.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mitch Boyer
I scream, “The only chance we got’s to run!”
“Stand your ground!” some damned fool yells. “I’m in command!”
What command? We’re finished.
I never should have signed on to scout for the general, damn his soul for all eternity!
“Run, damn it!” I yell to some kid. “Head for the river. That way. Run. That’s the only chance we got!”
Maybe they won’t see us because of all this dust and smoke.
“Run!”
I lead the way. I know I’ll never make it off this damned hill.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Harry Reed
“Run!” Uncle Tom yells at Uncle Boston and me. “Get the hell out of here!” And he turns back, firing his Winchester, to face a million Indians.
God … God … God have mercy. God have mercy.
Run, Uncle Boston.
Oh, God. Oh, Uncle George. Uncle Tom.
Run, Uncle Boston. Run!
Merciful Jesus, save me. Save us.
I …
Jesus, this can’t be happening to me. This …
Oh, God, please, Indian, no! Not the tomahawk. Please, God. This can’t … Not the tomahawk! Not …
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Red Horse
We chased the fleeing wasicus. Many turned, falling to their knees, crying out wasicu words before we killed them. Some made it into a steep ravine, but they never reached the Greasy Grass. My Lakota brothers and our Sahiyela friends stood on top of the ridge.
A few wasicus tried to climb out of the ravine, their hands slipping, digging. They could not get out. They could only die.
It was easy to kill these men.
Then I heard something strange, and I looked up. There was no more shooting. The echoes of guns had died, except for the occasional shot of triumph, or a warrior firing into the head of a wasicu who might or might not still be alive. I heard singing. I heard crying. I heard shouts.
And the sounds of horses running.
I looked toward the top of a hill, and saw one last wasicu, riding hard on a red horse with white stockings, pursued by four Indians, one of whom I recognized as my Oglala friend, He Dog. The wasicu was riding south, toward the hill where the rest of Mila Hanska had been driven.
Still, he grew farther and farther away from his pursuers, and I had lost many, many races to He Dog and his fast spotted horse he had stolen from the Nez Percé.
“He is going to get away!” Groaning, Iron Hawk turned to me. “How did he get past our warriors?”
“The dust,” I said. “His medicine was strong.”
Then, the fool wasicu did a dumb thing. As fleet as his horse was, as great as his medicine, he would live. He would take the story of this battle to other wasicus. He would tell them to leave us Lakotas and Sahiyelas alone, that our medicine was too great. He would make it back to his companions on the ridge.
Instead, he pulled out his holy iron from his hip, stuck it against his head even as his horse carried him yet farther beyond He Dog and the other Indians.
We saw the smoke from his gun, saw him topple off into the dirt, saw his horse keep galloping.
Three of the Indians chasing him stopped, looked at each other, turned their horses, and rode back to take more scalps, steal more weapons and trophies. My friend He Dog, though, was very smart. He kept riding after that red horse with the white stockings. He would have another fast horse to race.
If, of course, he ever caught it.
Iron Hawk turned to me. He smiled.
Then, we both laughed.
Chapter Thirty
Kate Bighead
We moved about the field of dead warrior white men. Our warriors sang victory songs, but there were also songs of mourning, for the warrior white men had killed many of our Hotóhkeso friends, many Human Beings.
The Hotóhkeso holy man, Sitting Bull, arrived, yelling that we should not take the clothes, the guns, the other things of the dead.
Our men, our women, we did not listen. There was too much to take, much we could use.
Horses lay dead. Vehos lay dead. Some were only wounded, but, soon, they were also dead.
The Hotóhkeso warriors had stripped many of the dead of their clothing. One man lay leaning against a dead horse and other dead soldiers. A warrior chopped off one of this man’s fingers, to get to a ring this man wore. They marked his right thigh in the way of the Hotóhkeso people. They shoved an arrow up his manhood. One was about to take his scalp, when I said, “Hi-es-tzie! It is Hi-es-tzie!”
They stared, but did not take his scalp.
Two other Human Being women joined me. One yelled, “Do not harm him any more. He is a relative of ours.”
The two warriors frowned, but walked away from our dead relative.
“Hi-es-tzie,” I said, but now my voice was only a whisper. Yes, it was Long Hair, only now his hair no longer grew long. His chest was bloody from a hole, and he had also been shot in the head. He seemed to be smiling.
“Poor Mo-nah-se-tah,” one of the women said as she wiped away the blood from Long Hair’s body. “Will she mourn for her husband?”
Many moons ago, during the Deer Rutting Moon, when I lived with the Human Beings in the south, Long Hair had brought his warrior white men to our camp while we slept. He killed many of our people, mostly women and children. It was terribly cold that morning. The river ran red with the blood of our people.
The warrior white men captured many of our women and children, and took them to the soldier fort. Long Hair saw Mo-nah-se-tah, how young and how pretty she was. Long Hair fell in love with Mo-nah-se-tah. He bedded her. It was said that she later bore him a child, but he never returned to claim his son.
Now he never would. Which, I thought, was a good thing. For now Mo-nah-se-tah’s son would grow up to be a Human Being, and not a foolish veho.
“He smoked the pipe with Human Beings,” an old woman said. “He was warned not to make war on us ever again. If he did, he was told, the Everywhere Spirit would cause him to be killed.”
“It is so.” Nodding at the memory, the second woman produced an awl, and rammed it into Long Hair’s eardrum. “Now,” she said, with a little laugh, “maybe he can hear better.”
At that moment, Wooden Leg rode up. He was angry. He hollered at our warriors, at the Hotóhkeso men. “Come on!” he cried. “There are more warrior white men away from here. They hide on a hill. Let us go kill them, too.”
So most of the men, and some women, rode south.
I did not. I stared at Hi-es-tzie. I thought of Mo-nah-se-tah. I sang a song of mourning for them both.
Chapter Thirty-One
Left Hand
Unmoving, I stand. The dust settles. All around me come sounds of victory. The hillside is covered with bodies. Every niátha lies dead. Women sing. Warriors strip the bodies. They shout. Into the air, they fire some of the weapons that now belong to them. They take scalps. They count coup. I see the Lakota boy, Black Elk is how he is called, running around with his friends. The shoot arr
ows into the dead pony soldiers. Or they shove the arrows deeper into the bodies.
I hold the lance. I stare at the man I have killed. “Tenéi’éíhinoo,” I whisper to myself, but I do not feel strong.
I close my eyes. When they open, I still see the body of the man—no, he is no more than a boy, no older than Black Elk—whose life I have taken. He lies in a lake of his own blood. His eyes stare at me, and, for a moment, I think they have blinked. “Niiteheib-ín!” I cry, but I am surrounded by other Indians. They do not know my tongue, for I am Arapaho, and they are too busy gathering their plunder to help this boy.
Again, I look. No, his eyes did not blink. Maybe my own tears fooled me into thinking, hoping, that. Maybe it was a fly attracted to the dead, for it grows even hotter, and already the smell of the dead begins to thicken the air.
Slowly I draw my lance from the body. Angrily I pitch it away, and fall to my knees. I retch. I sob. Staring into the blue sky, I scream. Now, I can feel the eyes of curious Indians I do not know staring at me, but I do not care.
I have killed a boy. I came here with my friends hoping to earn honors by fighting some Shoshones, maybe stealing their ponies. Instead, I have wound up in a great camp of many tribes, and we have fought white men, pony soldiers. It will be a fight spoken of for many, many winters. Many songs will be sung. There will be feasts in many Indian camps.
Yet the boy lying before me was not niátha. He was not even a wolf for the pony soldiers.
He was Lakota.
I did not mean to kill him. There was so much dust, it was hard to see. I had leaped off my pony, jumping down to finish off a pony soldier, but this fool white man that I chased put the barrel of his pistol in his mouth and blew out the back of his skull. I counted coup on this dead man, then heard a scream. Turning, I thrust the lance I held, and, out of the dust, this Lakota boy appeared, and the point of my lance drove into his chest. Thinking him to be an enemy, I plunged with all my might, blinded by the dust, and drove the boy to the ground, pinned him to the dirt.
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