Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel

by William Sumrall

  “How do we get out of here?” asked Jackson.

  Jackson was a Blackfoot scout and the grandson of a white fur trader. His hair was cut short in the way of the white soldiers and his long, narrow face reflected his European ancestry; dark complexioned, tall and thin, he was often mistaken for a ranchero. He had lost his hat, and was wearing a black shirt with matching trousers; the cuffs were not tucked into his black leather Wellington boots.

  “Not wise to follow those painted devils,” murmured Gerard, biting the corner from a plug of thickly pressed tobacco.

  “We’ll try picking up a trail once the moon comes up. When the wind shifts, it will blow the smoke from the grass fires to a different direction. This will give us enough moonlight to approach the river. Beaver trails will let us know when we're near to it." Gerard continued.

  Upon exiting the copse of trees, Reno rode at breakneck speed nearly two miles alongside the river, followed by his entourage and the hotly pursuing Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho. He had seen a high bluff on the other side of the Little Big Horn, it was periodically visible through the haze of the growing blaze of the grass fire, which was now towering in red waves of fifty and a hundred feet. As the wind whipped it up, it fed ruthlessly off the tall grasses, weeds and shrubs.

  The heavy war horses of the 7th reached the river’s edge and without halting leaped fifteen feet into the chilled water, submerging with their riders and coming back up. Hundreds of Indians raced alongside the cavalry, taking unsteady shots with Henrys and Winchesters, but the single action Colts demanded a respect that kept the painted braves from realizing full capability of their repeating rifles. Other horribly painted hordes had crossed the river and were on the higher ground, shooting into Reno’s men as they tried to mount the steep slope.

  Overcome with the killing lust, a seething mass of red men descended the bluffs, hurling themselves into the troopers, many of whom were dismounted and climbing ashore, as water sloshed from the tops of the filled boots. Three massively built braves went for the mounted Reno; one of them grabbed the reins of his horse, while another slashed at his leg with a bowie knife, cutting deeply into the leather of the high legged cavalry boot, drawing blood. The third was a gigantic beast of a man with two eagle feathers fixed into the rawhide braid of his gray streaked black hair. He fired his Henry at the wildly careening Reno, leaving a furrow along the length of Reno’s scalp giving the appearance of the hair having been parted as though with a comb. Quickly fine threads of blood sprang from the white tissue, which welled up with blood.

  “To me, men! I am beset!” Reno shouted.

  As he screamed the terrified words he drew and fired his .45 into the rock hard slab of chest muscle shielding the heart of the Henry wielding warrior.

  The bullet struck the gorilla-like Brule as the behemoth ejected and cranked another .44 caliber round into the deadly repeater. Panicking, Reno brought the big revolver from his right, to the left and over the saddle horn pointing the 7 and ½ inch barrel a foot from the slashing warrior’s face, which was painted black on the bottom half, and red on the upper. Thumb cocking the hammer spur and pulling the trigger, he saw the back of the warrior’s head erupt in an explosion of blood and bone fragments, the brain oozed out and dropped into the buffalo grass. Not realizing it was dead, the body just stood there, hand gripping the knife hilt, uplifted.

  “Save me!” screamed Reno, as he took unsteady aim at the big Lakota who still held onto the rein of the rearing horse, the thickly corded muscles of his arms standing out with the effort.

  Time seemed to move slowly in the mind of the bison like warrior as he studied the face of the man who was about to kill him. Reno’s face was a mask of blood and brain tissue from Bloody Knife, added to that was the obscene part in his hair, all of it contributed to a horrific grotesque image that froze the warrior in place, he could not avert his gaze nor release the reins.

  “I am beset!” shouted Reno at the top of his lungs.

  The major squeezed the trigger and the slug struck the man near the very top of his head, shearing it off. The warrior released the reins and instinctively reached for the top region of his skull, picked out a piece of brain matter, studied it for a fraction of a second and ran away screaming. Hundreds of the other painted men witnessed this, and their killing ardor gave way to a superstitious fear, which developed into panic. They looked at the horrific visage of Reno, who returned the stare-the stare of a madman, screaming:

  “Men! To me! Be of assist!”

  At first, dozens of warriors, then hundreds began to flee the field, to escape this hellish apparition that could not be unseated from his horse.

  Chapter Fifteen ~ Escape from the Little Bighorn!

  Beyond the Little Bighorn River the primitive still held suzerainty over the gloomy haunts of the tree lines, and in buffalo skinned tepees where the scalps of soldiers hung. The coals of cooking fires glowed redly, casting gruesome shadows on leather walls. Drums thundered, and Winchesters were cleaned in the hands of red, solemn men with braided black hair and obsidian eyes. Many of those eyes glared malevolently toward the hill atop which Major Reno had reestablished his command, while others, wearing green war paint which they believed assisted with night vision, scoured the woods that lined the Little Big Horn.

  Gerard and Jackson had resumed their journey toward the Little Bighorn River in an oblique direction; not heading directly for it, but carefully feeling their way through the forest at an angle, to avoid the numerous search parties. Both of the escapees froze in their tracks as a long, sustained hissing sound passed directly over their heads. The sound was made by the air rushing through the plumage of a great horned owl, dimly illuminated by the growing moonlight. The heavily built, barrel shaped bird alit on a somber tree branch of a gnarled cottonwood and issued a “hooo ha hooo, hoo haaaa whoooooo!” this was quickly answered by others, further away, and still more, throughout the canyons that enclosed the Little Bighorn. Soon the calls of owls became deafening as their numbers grew exponentially.

  “It’s Sitting Bull!” cursed Gerard. Jackson felt the hairs on the back of his arms stand up in the horror of the import of what Gerard expostulated.

  “You mean? You can’t be serious!”

  “Keep your voice down” muttered Gerard, “yes, he’s using the owls to track us, and now he knows where we’re at. We must make at once for the river with all that we’re worth. He is onto us now, and more will be following. Let’s go, we’ve got to run for our lives!”

  The indigo serpent that was the Little Bighorn glided and snaked its way through the wood lined canyons and ravines, flanked by ghostly gulches in the silver wash of moonlight. With its binocular vision, the owl telescoped its keen eyesight onto the two figures making their way through the trees, behind them, it saw, was a pack of two dozen large wolves, hotly pursuing the trail.

  The pack was led by an enormous alpha male. The wolves howled insanely at the warming scent of the two vagabonds, growling and snapping their jaws at each other when one would impede the progress of the other. The fugitives espied dead trees, whose trunks had been girdled by beaver, and they used these as guide marks in their headlong race to the river, abandoning all pretenses at silence. The ground suddenly inclined sharply and the two slid into the chilled night waters of the Little Bighorn, the reflections of the stars and moon shattered violently before returning to their unstable positions atop the sluggishly moving waters. The arriving wolves slid into the water as the scree of clayey limestone and friable sandstone made untenable the purchase of pawed feet.

  Other wolves, which did not slide on the loose rock into the river, leapt into it, swimming furiously at Jackson and Gerard. “Swim for it!” shouted Gerard “We’ve gotta make for the other side before they get us!”

  “Wolves can’t do this!” cried Jackson, who recalled seeing with horror human like eyes staring at him above the maw of one of the wolves as it swam doggedly toward him. Treading water with every ounce of strength, they caug
ht the current and were swept into a vortex of eddies and whirlpools in one of the river’s rapids. Seven or eight miles downstream they managed to stumble ashore, scrambling up the moonlit scree-a jumble of lignite and shattered sheets of slate. Many fine specimens of petrified wood glowed eerily in the wash of the moon, ghosts of an ancient, primordial forest. They froze in place behind the fallen trunk of a gigantic petrified tree. There followed a tense silence in which Jackson could hear his pulse pounding in his ears.

  There were guttural expostulations just beyond the next column of shattered petrified timber, then sparks of flint and a flash of gunpowder ignited the dried tinder-illuminating a group of four painted aboriginals clustered around a nascent cooking fire. This sprung brightly into life as the flames took hold. All four were wearing war shirts and breeches made of deerskin, the shirts were adorned with curious designs. Gerard and Jackson spied in silence, watching the group prepare a macabre meal; a captured trooper lay dead nearby.

  The dead soldier was occasionally visible in the unsteady light cast by the fire’s wildly dancing flames. Using a hatchet-the kind acquired at trading posts, one of the braves hacked through the sternum, and flayed the rib cage open. Using a small hunting knife, he carefully removed the lungs of the soldier. These were wrapped in green corn husk sheaths and placed at the fire’s edge. As the four continued their subdued conversation, the meat cutter stood up and walked toward the river to clean his hatchet, knife, and hands.

  Short and stocky, the man’s war shirt failed to ensconce the hard, muscular lines of his arms and chest. He walked with the bow legged gait of one who had spent his life mounted on horseback. His black hair was pulled back tightly and braided into a pony tail that was secured with rawhide. A single large eagle feather jutted at an angle above where the braid began. The forehead slanted sharply back and was flattened across the front. Across the deformed forehead writhed a single red horizontal zigzag made of iron oxide. The eyebrows were shaved off, the pupils were of coal, and the sclera bloodshot and reddened. The nose was long and evilly hooked. Nearly the entirety of the lower face was masked with a black human hand imprint, derived of charcoal mixed with saliva and buffalo fat. His thin lips pulled back as he spat tobacco juice, revealing an absence of frontal dentation, except for the horribly emphasized canine teeth. He swung past the petrified log where the two fugitives lay, holding their breaths, not looking directly at, but peripherally past the danger which did not discern their presence.

  The Oglala Sioux knelt at the water’s edge, cleaning his instruments, when a subtle sound alerted his ears. He jumped upright and turned his head sharply in the same motion, the tendons standing out in the thickly corded muscles of his ox-like neck. He froze in place, staring into the aqua blue eyes of the grey timber wolf; it was a huge, yet slender and powerfully built animal. Its rib cage was large and deeply descending. The abdomen was pulled in and the shoulders and neck were powerfully muscled.

  Other wolves appeared from the river’s edge, violently shaking the water from their coats, while more appeared from out of the tree line, smiling with tongues lolling out of their mouths as they panted. Seeing that the flat headed Indian was not his quarry, the large alpha male began to turn, eliciting a high pitched yell from the brave alerting his companions. The three Oglalas at the cooking fire began firing almost immediately at the wolves, cranking out rounds from the Winchesters and Henrys with such rapidity that the pack was devastated, the leader being hit mortally behind the shoulder.

  Instantly, in a large tepee centered in one of the giant concentric circles of the Indian village, Sitting Bull lurched from his self-induced coma, howling like a wolf. The remaining pack members-fully a dozen of them, rushed the three warriors at the fire side. Their ammunition expended and not having time to reload, they could not ignore the heavy, broad foreheads from which protruded long and powerful jaws. These were armed with oversized teeth and were capable of exerting a crushing pressure of nearly two tons per square inch. Instinctively hugging close to the fire, the three red men savagely swung their rifles as clubs and yelled at the wolves. The flat headed man fled in silence, his receding presence betrayed by the movement of gravel beneath moccasined feet. Gerard and Jackson ran for the river, the reflection of the moon and stars being shattered once again…

  Re-emerging on the opposite side, and beyond the next serpentine bend in the river, Jackson and Gerard mounted the steeply sloped bank by clutching onto the branches of trees which leaned precariously toward the water; the river having undercut and carried away their supporting soil. Often root masses were exposed which clung tenaciously in the fissures of stone, sometimes the caverns of beavers would extend into the mud and clay that punctuated imbedded boulders and rock. The two scout-interpreters avoided skin ripping thorns and low hanging branches with effort.

  They were pushing through thick undergrowth and making more noise than they wanted. It was slow, terrifying work. From behind them came the screams of the three warriors, who were being devoured alive by the wolves. The screams carried in the night, echoing in the canyons until they were swallowed by the concussion of the thundering Indian war drums. The silvery light of the full moon reflected eerily off the snowcapped mountain tops in the distance, as hundreds of wolf packs consisting of dozens of individuals each howled to each other. Their eyes glowed when they looked to the moon as they serenaded.

  The howls of one group were answered by those of another, all along the Little Bighorn River, until the whole length of waterway was a cacophony of howling. The orchestra was magnified and reverberated by horrifying echoes throughout the canyons. Dark hands continued to pummel painted war drums as a chorus of frogs and crickets chimed into the opus.

  The aroma of roasting sacrificial human flesh added an odd smell to the cacophony of sound, as it wafted down from the village. Dead soldiers were being spitted and roasted over large beds of coals, their fat dripped onto the embers resulting in violent hissing clouds of smoke, which the wind caught and carried to the flared nostrils of Gerard and Jackson.

  They had penetrated some distance into the purple gloom of the woods when Jackson asked Gerard, “Is Sitting Bull in league with the Devil?”

  Gerard shook his head in the negative. “I’ve heard it rumored that Sitting Bull is well known within Occult circles back East, in Boston. Here, take a bite out of this plug. Careful of those loose teeth, though.”

  Jackson accepted the plug of tobacco from Gerard, and biting into the thickly pressed licoriced brick, bit off a piece. “Then, he has eyes everywhere and we have no chance of escape.” postulated Jackson, as he pushed one of his upper incisors back into alignment. He hoped that the tobacco would kill the gnawing hunger pains that the smell of roasting meat had evoked.

  Gerard was silent for a moment, and when he replied it was with carefully chosen words.

  “He can’t be everywhere at once. Reno’s bunch made it to the river, and the last I saw of them, were attempting to make for the high hill on the opposite side. There may still be soldiers in the woods, yet. And as to Custer-well assuming he is still alive, that will be yet another random factor in the equation for Sitting Bull.

  I heard heavy firing from the direction I saw Custer go. Into that maelstrom of musketry is where most of the braves went. One man’s loss is another man’s gain, and to Custer we undoubtedly owe our lives.”

  Jackson intentionally swallowed the saliva mixed with tobacco juice, willing his hunger to stop.

  “I speculate, then, as to what Sitting Bull is doing at this very moment?” worried Jackson.

  Chapter Sixteen ~ Libbie Custer Sunbathes in the Bay Room

  Margaret sat on one of the chairs of the bedroom, dressed in matching beige walking shirt and skirt, underneath was a hoop underskirt. These were held in place by a narrow, black velvet belt. She was not wearing a corset and she had taken her shoes off at the door. Her legs were crossed and fingers laced behind her neck as she watched Libbie undress. Even though she was 23 now, she sti
ll liked to watch her older sister in law in the act of undressing, a practice she had indulged in since her teens, when timidly, she first asked permission to observe.

  It was midmorning now, and the sun was beaming brightly through the tall window panes of the bay room and light spilled into the parlor. The glass panes were a foot wide and two feet tall, there were four of these windows one atop the other, each divided by a window frame. There were six rows of these tall windows side by side, which if viewed from the outside conveyed the impression of an octagon which seemed to extrude itself partially from the side of the house.

  Potted orchids and ferns sat atop a two tiered table which resembled an end piece of a sofa. Usually this table and other potted verdure were positioned on the floor of the bay room to capture the maximum exposure to sunlight. During social functions these would be relocated strategically for maximum visual appeal. These had been moved aside and a small pallet was situated on the mahogany floor in such a way that it was totally illuminated by the glass filtered sun. Each tier of windows had its own spring loaded window shade, which was completely rolled up, affording the maximum entry of sunlight. The bay room extended outward from between the two massive fireplaces located in the east wall of the parlor. Margaret always looked forward with great anticipation to the mornings when Libbie would sprawl naked atop the pallet in the full sun of the bay room windows.