“Libbie, I don’t know where you gather the courage for such brazen frankness, never could I produce the boldness to lay before the sun as do you. And here I am your most devoted audience! I cannot but anticipate with all the excitement in the world, your sunbathing sessions!” expostulated Margaret, who noted how the sun was amplified through the window glass, causing sweat to bead up and pool into the small of Libbie’s back.
“It’s alright to be shy, Margaret. It’s alright to watch me.” responded Libbie, relishing the heat of the amplified sun rays that beamed through the glass windows.
Above the wooden mantel of the fireplace was mounted the trophy head of a buffalo, whose skin had been fashioned into a coat which served at times as a comforter on the master bedroom bed. Black eyes made of glass peered from either side of the head of the wooly beast. Its appearance was made gruff by the presence of a large goatee underneath the jaw.
As Margaret Custer padded by on bare feet to get Libbie a glass of water, the lifeless eyes did not seem in fact to be so lifeless; they seemed able to see. As a matter of fact, there were many trophies mounted on the walls of the house, some in every room. There was the grizzly bear, whose head graced the wall above Custer’s study; in 1872 the General had acquired the trophy while at the Yellowstone River, in the company of Alexis-the fourth son of the Tsar of Russia. This bear’s skin often served as a rug before one or the other of the two fireplaces in the parlor.
These trophies and souvenirs were often rearranged, being moved from one wall to another or from one room to the next. There were the mounted heads of deer, of antelope, stuffed trophies of feathered varieties stood perched on wall mounts, or atop tables that were lined with porcelain figurines or framed photos. One of Custer’s favorite was a beautiful snowy owl-a female belonging to one of the largest species in North America. He spent hours in the winter months practicing his hobby of taxidermy.
Returning from the kitchen with a large glass of water, Margie’s loosely contained breasts jiggled as she passed the Steinway square rosewood grand piano, beside which stood a magnificent harp-both rented from Minnesota and delivered via Conestoga wagon. The reflections of daily life in the Custer household played in the glass eyes of the stuffed animals; eyes that seemed uncannily alive. Eyes through which a Hunkpapa Lakota holy man watched, from a large tepee far away, surrounded by lithe brown naked maidens.
On December 22, 1870, the powerful medicine man and noted prophet, Sitting Bull had accurately predicted a total eclipse of the sun. Whether or not he’d been privied on the event by occult circles of the whites was never ascertained. But what is certain, is that the tribes of the Sioux and Cheyenne, as well as many others believed he accurately predicted it, and that it was a portent of the total destruction of the European tidal wave of immigration. The destruction of the very people Sitting Bull gazed upon now, through the eyes of mounted trophies.
Neither Libbie nor Margie Custer was aware of this as they discussed the upcoming event of the morrow. Libbie stood up, the pool of sweat running down the small of her back and into the large crack of her plump behind as she accepted the proffered glass of warm water. Draining the glass, she lay down on her back to give sun to her front.
“Tomorrow we will be clad in rustling silk gowns, light gloves and shall carry our parasols. We will bring our picnic and Et-nah-wah-ruchta along with her husband and sundry family members will accompany us. There is to be creek fighting and our little group of excited women, lifted up by one common impetus, will seek delight in gathering by the stream to revel in the excitement!” chirped Elizabeth, excitedly.
Margaret listened with genuine surprise as Libbie described the contest. She was sitting on the two person double end, upholstered sofa fanning herself. She felt the room was uncomfortably hot, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her walking shirt, her heavy breasts were glistening with sweat, and she had to admire Libbie’s endurance under the intense magnified heat pouring through the glass panes.
“But what is creek fighting? Is this a game or some recreation indulged in by our aboriginal friends?” asked Margaret, who felt nauseous but resisted the urge to pass out.
“Libbie, I am feeling faint, how much longer can you endure this session with father sol?” asked Margaret as she lay down on the small sofa, fanning herself harder; she turned her head toward Libbie and watched a pool of sweat form on the flat of Libbie’s stomach beneath the small breasts, which she thought seemed almost boyish when she lay on her back like that.
“Libbie, I believe I am near to passing out!” gasped Margaret as she felt the room spinning, prompting her to lay down flat on her back.
Margaret awoke thirty minutes later, feeling the wetness of a dampened bath cloth across her forehead and other wet cloths across her chest and feet. Libbie had opened the bay room windows and a warm, but cooling breeze entered the parlor. Grasshoppers lined the rusted window screens. All of the other windows had been opened. The two front doors had been opened as well; the outer screened doors acting as barriers to the swarms of grasshoppers, permitting a cross breeze.
“I am so sorry, sister.” Libbie apologized. She was dressed now, wearing a light blue summer dress. It had an arrangement of wide tucks on the bodice and skirt. She fanned Margaret with a plume of peacock feathers.
“I am so set to my sessions in the bay-room that incognizance impeded my awareness of the torrid heat in this house. Try to sit up slowly and take sips from this glass of water.” The high ceilings assisted with the dispersion of the heat.
“How are you feeling, now?” asked Libbie who was now seated on the piano stool as she continued to fan Margaret.
“I feel deeply embarrassed, and melancholied by the imposition my swoon has burdened you with.” replied Margaret, who felt better with the fresh air circulating in the large, high ceilinged room.
Margaret indeed felt much better, although weak. Libbie continued talking to Margaret in her cooing manner as she fanned her.
“I implore you to remain for the extent of the day. Et-nah-wah-ruchta will be by to cook and prepare my bath. She is as near to being a sister as an Indian girl possibly can be. Together we will reconstitute your vitality for the event of tomorrow.” Libbie assured Margaret who saw the full, pretty lips form an O as she blew air on her face. The chin was small, the jawline well set. The smallish nose was met on either side by rounded cheeks, above which resided soft, gray blue eyes. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin wisps beneath a high forehead. Auburn hair, damp and smelling of sweat, fell to her shoulders.
The smell of Elizabeth’s sweat reminded Margaret of the odor of pork sausage frying in a skillet; the odor seemed to hang in the air around her, creating a mental image of kitchen smells of bacon and sausage. Margaret’s nausea and faintness were being replaced with hunger and desire.
“Tell me of the coming event tomorrow, Libbie. For if the heat will be equal to that of today, I fear to be an embarrassment.” requested Margie as Libbie continued to fan her.
“I promise that tomorrow you will find surcease to your melancholy. Of the event in the creek tomorrow I am inexpressibly impatient. There is a beautiful young Indian maiden of the Arikawa, who has the propitious misfortune to be serenated by two handsome young warriors-both of whom are dashing young scouts for my dear husband, the General. Oh! How they would be with him now, had they not been sent on an errand of utmost urgency to secure provisions for the gallant families who sadly remain sequestered at this garrison! Rather than choosing the one, and thereby alienating the other, she has elected to have them both sport in the creek for her.”
“Do you imply that the Indian girl means that they fight for her?” asked Margie, her curiosity piqued.
“Why yes, Margie.” Libbie smiled angelically, “It is an athletic contest in which the victor will sound the death knell over his competitor, restraining him beneath the agitated waters until he is compelled to relinquish his breath!”
Margaret did not reply immediately. Finishing the glass of water, she s
at the empty glass atop the end table, watched by the eyes of the antelopes mounted on the wall opposite her.
“But I have seen the Indians swim and flaunt their nakedness quiet brazenly, Elizabeth. In modesty I have turned my face and hurried away. In the endeavor of the two suitors to subdue one another I dread bearing witness to the exposure of their parts, which scarcely can be hid in their Neptunic struggle. To see such appendages flopping madly about would be a visage of the utmost humiliation to a proper lady, such as yourself.”
The rising and falling motion of the peacock feathers reflected on the black, marble eyes of the twin trophies of prong horned antelope. A thousand miles away, in a large tepee lay a sweating, comatose man, also being fanned. Brown nubile virgins, whose naked bodies glistened with sweat, fanned the medicine man with shields made of buffalo hide. Naked but for a loin cloth, the sorcerer’s breathing was erratic, coming in short, shallow breaths, it would stop-for up to a minute, then resume. Sometimes the breathing was characterized by a long drawn out breath, which would be followed by several rapid inspirations, then slow almost to a stop again. The charcoal eyes stared intensely into the blue void beyond the circle of the hole in the top of the tepee. Far above was a buzzard, through whose eyes was focused the intense concentration of the sorcerer below, eyes which transported the imagery of what reflected from the eyes of the mounted antelope.
The eyelids closed, and the black dot that was the buzzard drifted away, carried aloft by thermal waves that issued from a half mile below. From the buzzard’s view was an oblong semicircle dragging for more than four miles along the serpentine Little Bighorn River. Within the semicircle were more than a half dozen massive circles. Such was the extent of the enormous village; a conglomeration of many tribes-such as the world had never seen, nor would ever see again.
Lakota, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho had come together in response to the magic of the man who was lying inside the tepee prostrate on bare ground; the buffalo skins on the floor of the tepee were moved to either side of him. Slowly emerging from his catatonic state, Sitting Bull’s eyelids opened, after mumbling words in his native tongue.
“The Yellow Haired One is not there!” shouted the enraged seer who then lay exhausted.
He was a massively built man, even while supine, one could see that he stood a head and shoulder taller than most braves. His unbraided hair was parted down the middle, and lay about his broad shoulders on a carpet of turned earth. The soil of which seemed incongruous with the alkaline soil of this area. The soil of the tepee floor appeared as though it came from elsewhere.
His chest rose and fell rhythmically as his normal respirations returned, the swell of massive pectoral muscles underscored the vitality of the life force ebbing back into his lungs. The neck, as thick as a buffalo’s, supported a head which bore a horrific visage; the forehead was high, and the dark skin was furrowed with deep lines. The eyebrows and lashes had been plucked smooth and into the bleary sclera of the eyes were set dilated pupils. Everything curved downward on the face, lending to the impression of a gigantic frown; the pronounced crow’s feet at the corner of the eyes curved downward, the enormous cartilaginous nose hooked viciously downward, as did the corners of the thin, cruel lips. The jawline was strong, and the chin pronounced. The darkly pigmented face was horrifically pitted with countless, deep, scars of small pox. These covered the entire face, including the nose. Rolling over onto his stomach, he assumed the front leaning rest position, and pushed himself up with heavily muscled arms-the triceps standing out like horseshoes with the exertion, like Antaeus he seemed to gain his strength from the earth.
“Send to me, Low Dog! Do it now! Move!” shouted the magician, reinvigorated with the power flooding back into him.
Chapter Seventeen ~ Captain Benteen Saves Major Reno
Captain Benteen folded the note and placed it into his left shirt pocket, resuming march at the head of his mounted column of five officers and 110 men. They were moving rapidly toward the sound of heavy gunfire. It was the sound of many different weapons types. The smell of burning grass mixed with gunpowder increased as the column drew near.
Approaching the Little Bighorn River, Benteen saw chaos in the field as Reno’s command desperately blasted their way through and established themselves on the hill. The captain had sent a man back to Captain McDougal’s column to urge them forward with the ammunition packs. Benteen then swung back around to the reverse slope of the hill that Reno’s men were occupying.
“Have the men standby to receive orders to formation immediately! Every fourth man takes bridles. I’ll tell you what to do in a moment!” Captain Benteen gently spurred his horse up the slope of the massive hill, the acrid smoke making his eyes water.
Major Reno rushed down the slope to meet Benteen, grabbing him by the leg. Benteen struck the hand of his superior officer with a sharp smack of his riding crop, causing Reno to grab the smarting hand with his other.
“You’ve got to help us! Half of my men are dead! We’re out of ammunition!” pleaded Major Reno; his voice was shrill, and hard to hear over the sound of gunfire.
“Put your hand on me again and I’ll rip it off! I’ve got a note from Custer to join him ASAP with the pack mules and I’ve sent a man back to stick a hot poker up McDougal’s ass! What the hell’s happened here?” ejaculated the junior officer as he surveyed the situation before him.
“Get your companies into position facing the river!” screamed Benteen, anger was in his voice, anger and exasperation.
“But…”Reno vacillated.
Leaning forward, the Captain struck the major smartly across the ear of which the drum had been perforated, causing Reno to drop to his knees, both hands placed on the ear, screaming in pain.
“If you don’t get your men into position now, I’ll kill ya!” shouted the exacerbated Benteen.
There were thousands of red men swarming the area-they were everywhere. Benteen was torn between orders from Custer and a situation that had been radically altered since those orders were written.
Soon they’ll be over the hill and finish us off. Reno’s out of ammo. I’ve got to deploy my men with his around this hill, before they overrun us! the captain was thinking to himself.
Benteen considered the situation before him; Reno’s ragged command was desperately arranging a defensive perimeter about the hill, there was considerable gunfire directed onto the soldiers from thousands of Indians some distance away, and a couple of miles distant he could hear a murderous fire fight in progress. He had orders from Custer that Reno just now countermanded.
Not that Benteen had any compunction about bucking Reno’s orders; it just seemed that now might be a fortuitous moment to obey them. Captain Benteen shouted loudly, ensuring that the dialogue would be heard.
“Be clear, Major Reno! Are you countermanding Lt Colonel Custer’s order? Are you ordering me to remain here with you to save your command from annihilation? Is that an order?”
“Yes!” shouted Reno, “are you blind to this disaster unfolding?”
Quickly, without hesitation Captain Benteen trotted back down to the base of the hill and issued orders to his adjutant and 1st Sergeant.
“Deploy the companies around this side of the hill, tying in with Reno’s men, make it quick, and give orders to divide your ammo with them. McDougal will be here in half an hour with the pack train!”
Captain McDougal with two officers, 127 soldiers and seven civilian packers arrived as Benteen’s Companies D, H, and K tied in with what remained of Reno’s Companies A, G, and M. McDougal’s men tied in as well. Soon after, a detachment under Lt. Weir departed to join with the Custer group, other elements were detached from the redoubt also, and mounted up with the intent to rush to Custer. Several coordinated rifle volleys had been heard coming from the Custer element. The rifle volley was an accepted and understood means of signaling for assistance.
Atop the next hill, Weir, Benteen and Reno surveyed the cloud of dust and the positions of what
appeared to be at least one Custer redoubt being overwhelmed. Lowering their binoculars a few degrees, they saw undulations in the grass, as though the ocean of green was being whipped about by a strong wind. Squinting his eyes while trying to focus the image of the rudimentary binoculars, Reno realized with cold, clammy horror what it was.
Reno drew and fired his revolver high, without taking aim, startling the other two officers who scowled at him, and then returning their view to the anomaly a thousand yards ahead of them; they saw a figure drop from a spotted Indian pony-a one in a million lucky shot. It was then that they realized the sheer enormity of what was approaching them, as they turned their mounts, they saw that Reno had already descended to the rear at a fast trot and was screaming orders at the top of his lungs to take cover in the positions that the troopers had been hastily preparing.
On every side of the hill waves of Indians climbed the bluffs. Some low crawled, seeking to evade the accurate rifle fire, while others ran uphill at a low crouch, their Winchesters and Henrys held in one hand, so that they could break their fall with the other if they had to go to ground. Some, armed only with trade muskets had discharged their one shot and came on armed only with knives. They came to hand grips with the soldiers, shouting maniacally. All along the crest of the hill the fighting raged out of control, manifested by its primitive ferocity.
It seemed through Reno’s sweat stung eyes that he looked down into an ocean of red calamity when suddenly from behind him a mob of howling Sioux and Cheyenne broke through the perimeter and flooded into the center of the knoll. Hundreds of horses and dozens of wounded were packed in there. War bonnets flying, many wore decorated deer skin leather war shirts, or were bare-chested but for a reed vest. Others were naked except for a loin cloth, the quivering, over-developed muscles of their arms standing out in bold relief as they strangled wounded soldiers.
“My Lord!” screamed Reno, “They have broken through!”
Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel Page 9