Half a dozen heavily muscled Hunkpapa Sioux rushed toward Reno, two of them firing Henrys from hip level as they ran, striking the paltry force rushing to assist the major. Reacting blindly, Reno fired indiscriminately, a slug shattered the flint stone of a coup stick, its deadly shrapnel imbedding into dark, atramentous eyes and the thick, vein distended torsos of bull necks.
“Ha! To me men! I am beset!” implored Reno-the seven and one half inch barrel lifted with each detonation of the searingly hot Colt. A massively built Brule, standing a full head above six feet, approached Reno, flinging down a dripping scalp lock and slipping .44 caliber cartridges into the loading gate of his Winchester Yellowboy as he walked. He was laughing. The hammer of Reno’s Single Action Army fell upon a spent chamber, and he looked into the blood shot sclera and black pupils of a man whose eyes beamed into him.
“To me, men!” reiterated the major, while all around him men rolled about locked in deadly embrace, the outcome of the hill was in the balance, Major Reno could not receive succor and had to think fast.
Reno took the last dreg of whiskey from his flask and hurled it at the approaching Brule Sioux, who deftly canted his head to one side, allowing the object to pass.
“Get away from me!” warned the major, his rat like eyes were slits behind squinted eye lids, eyelids which dare not close for even a second as the macabre threat approached.
“I like killin’ funny man!” shouted the Brule Sioux over the din of gunfire, raising the Winchester to his shoulder, “Gonna take your hair!”
The man wore a large war bonnet of eagle feathers, horse hair and buffalo hair. It was split with buffalo horns and rested on the head by means of a deer skullcap cushioned with rabbit skin. The brow band consisted of trade beads and hawk bells. Reno did not notice any hair, nor the forehead which was ensconced by the magnificent headdress. He was aware that the Brule had no eye brows and that the nose was a pronounced arch, hooking evilly downward. The face was masked in red war-paint, and had a white lightning bolt extending from either eye, downward to the corners of the cruel mouth; the lips of which were pulled back, revealing a set of straight, tobacco stained teeth as he aimed the Winchester. The defined jaw was set upon a neck which had the girth of a tree trunk. Crisscrossing the swell of the massively developed pectoral muscles were two bandoliers of rifle ammunition. The muscles of the abdomen were sharply defined and tightly pulled in. Both biceps were barely contained by large armlets of beaten copper.
“Now, fat white man, you die!” yelled the Brule, the stock weld was slippery as he pressed the side of his cheek into the sweaty rifle stock, jerking the trigger impatiently.
The first bullet passed through the jowl of Reno’s neck, on the right side. Turning his head from the flash of the weapon, the second round penetrated the cheek of the left side of his mouth, between the upper and lower pallets, demolishing his dentures. Reflexively, Reno swung his head back and spat out the dentures, and locked eyes with the brave, who looked at the dentures, and then at Reno.
“See what you did?” the words came across as an accusation, more so than a question as Reno approached the big Sioux.
Backing up in superstitious horror, the red Hercules vanished into the receding ebb of aboriginals as they were driven from the summit.
The 300 plus defenders maintained the advantage of position; it was precarious and could only be saved by coming of night. Oceans of bare footed supermen ascended the hill like the enormous tidal surge accompanying a hurricane. Arapahos dismounted from their painted ponies to fill in gaps opened up by the shattering revolver fire. Literally everyone in Reno’s command was using a Colt revolver. A wounded captain was seated in the open, prying swollen copper cartridge casings from the useless Springfields and reloading them.
As dusk approached, a light drizzle began to fall, and after a short while, stopped. The seething red masses had ebbed back to the giant village on the other side of the Little Bighorn and a few thousand warriors remained hidden about the surrounding hills, maintaining a desultory suppressive fire. Dead horses were moved into position in front of shallow rifle pits. Tens of thousands of flies swarmed each carcass, and would alight from the dead animal in a cloud each time one was moved. Wounded horses were put out of their misery and added to the defensive breastworks while wounded men screamed for water.
Small parties of men were sent on death missions to fill canteens at the river, only to be shot off their feet by thousands of rounds. Benteen’s men used knives, spoons-whatever they on hand, to try to excavate rifle pits. The thundering war drums from the Indian camp reverberated through the valleys of the Little Bighorn River valley.
"Damn my soul!" expostulated the gnomely Captain Benteen, looking down from the hill, into the village through his binoculars, “They are set to burn them alive!”
Tied about the trunk of a large, solitary cottonwood were three captured soldiers, dry branches and brambles had been heaped around the base of the tree, and added to that were many tree branches and other flammables. The soldiers stood atop the ground cordwood stacked to waist level. The soldiers were secured tightly to the doomed tree with loops of thick hemp cordage. Shining with sweat, shirtless Indian women tended coal beds near the cottonwood tree, occasionally picking up coals with a shovel, and turning them over. Their breasts swayed and jiggled with each turn of the spade. The coals glowed from red to bright orange as a light breeze fanned them.
“Hey!” shouted one of the soldiers, “Do you speak English? Listen, we can help! Don’t burn us and we’ll give you the plans-tell you everything you want to know! Get your chief over here!”
The soldiers within eye view of the shiny, oiled women watched with horror piqued curiosity as the women, nude but for a loin cloth, stepped onto, and then walked across the coals. One of the women was completely naked-a tall Sioux who danced slowly atop a coal bed, raising one leg, and then the other while doing a balancing act. While doing this, she ran her hands through and lifted her shiny black shoulder length hair high above her head, and began gyrating her chest wildly; making her apple sized breasts swing violently back and forth. Sweat flew from her breasts and hissed as it landed on the glowing coals.
“I no speak the English, soldier,” answered one of the raven haired beauties, leaning forward and against the hickory handle of the shovel, “an’ I don’t get no chief over here neither!” she laughed, as she resumed the shovel work.
Other bonfires burned, and hundreds of warriors danced about them, as calloused hands beat painted rawhide war drums. Many of these drums were painted in the colors of the Lakota four directions. Old men pranced about singing through toothless maws and banging war clubs against shields made of elk rawhide wrapped in rawhide lacing. They were decorated with images in black and red ochre paint. There were foot races, wrestling and great festivities all through the massive encampment. Here and there captured cavalrymen were flayed alive while children who watched shrieked with glee. Groups of painted braves drank whiskey and looked hungrily up toward the moonlit hill where the remnants of the 7th cavalry were marooned.
Benteen and Reno watched the Roman holiday atmosphere in the camp through binoculars. Reno moved the glasses nearer and farther from his eyes to bring the imagery into sharper contrast, seeing several naked women, rather barbaric, Reno thought, setting fire to the wood kindling at the base of the cottonwood tree where the three soldiers stood tied. He saw the men lifting their heads to the sky and opening their mouths, but the thrum of hundreds of drums drowned the screams of the roasting men.
“If they come at us again tomorrow as they did today, the outcome is problematical.” said Reno in a low voice to Benteen, who continued to watch the celebration.
“And?” queried the captain.
“The wounded. We cannot take them with us.” Benteen lowered the binoculars and faced Reno.
“Now you listen here, and you listen to me good, Major Reno. We will not abandon this position on this night and were we to; we would not leave our
wounded to the fate of those miserable souls below.”
Reno moved in closer to Benteen, lowering his voice in a conspirational whisper.
“Be reasonable, Captain. The Indians are occupied, and now is our chance to evacuate this mound-a chance like this will not again present itself!”
An answer in the form of a sharp cuff across the face was Benteen’s reply.
“Damned coward!” shouted Benteen.
“No and no! We cannot leave this mound on account of the wounded!” Benteen grabbed Reno by the cheeks using both hands, “and if you mutter such a suggestion again, I’ll rip your eyes out!” again Benteen struck the major across the face, prompting Reno to step back, holding his mouth, again Benteen approached him and slapped him repeatedly. The Major receded into the darkness, his figure dimly visible in the wash of light from the countless Indian campfires which burned on the other side of the Little Bighorn River.
Captain Benteen again turned to the celebrations below and placed the binoculars to his eyes once more. Scanning the outside of the perimeter for movement, he made slow, broad sweeps with the binoculars, which amplified the light of the moon and the wavering light of the bonfires in the Indian camp. He saw movement at the edge of the camp…
A shot rang out, followed by dozens more as Jackson and Gerard lay flattened against the dew drenched grass.
“Hold your fire! Don’t shoot! It’s friendlies, Jackson and Gerard!” Jackson screamed at the top of his lungs.
“Hold your fire!” was repeated along both sides of the line and then the command was issued to advance to the line, a contact man was sent out to guide them into the hill’s defenses. Benteen interviewed the men at length, discovering that there were more survivors in the woods on the other side of the river, including 1st Lt. DeRudio, “Count no Account” as Benteen acidly referred to him.
At a distance, lying in the prone position and using freshly excavated dirt on which to rest his binoculars, Major Reno watched his men writhe horribly as the flames took to the dried wood, he also watched the wild gesticulations and leaps of the tall Sioux woman who danced naked in front of the burning men. As their clothes burned from their bodies they saw her naked sweating form bending over, her back to them, she peered at them from between her legs, her long hair touching the coals and igniting.
Chapter Eighteen ~ Sitting Bull Pays With His Soul
The soil floor on which Sitting Bull lay was not the soil endemic to the area; it had come from far away, when the oceans were lower and the coastlines different. In those days his ancestors had crossed a land mass that linked Alaska to Siberia. The soil was sacred soil, saturated in the ashes of long forgotten shamans, shamans who intermediated spiritually with the Holy Man who lay upon the sacred bed of soil. The face of the prostrated man was shiny with sweat; his eyes were rolled back revealing only the white sclera. The scarred face, ravaged from small pox was contorted into a grimace of agony, the lips pulled back and relaxed as he muttered incantations in a forgotten tongue, of a language dead for countless eons.
His spirit was on another astral plane, he was in total darkness, when a female voice answered him in his native tongue.
“You call, I come. For what deed do you seek to task Witkokaga? Why have you brought me through the vastness of time?”
The holy man could see nothing but darkness, he could not discern if he were still supine or standing. He could not tell up from down, he had the sensation of floating.
“Your people need a great service of you, Princess.”
There was venom in the voice that responded to Sitting Bull.
“My people are long disappeared from the places you travel. We reside in another world from where you have torn me. Tell me what you want from me before I blast your soul!”
Sitting Bull was not perturbed; he had spoken to demons in wishing wells, to animals that answered and to men skinned alive whose tongues had been ripped from their mouths and through which spirits spoke.
“I beseech you to take the form of Mo-nah-se-tah.” The tone of his voice was soft, and affectionate-it seemed to go unnoticed by Witkokaga, who sneered at the request, “Then you will give me Yellow Bird!”
Sitting Bull did not want to relinquish Yellow Bird, a potential hostage of great value in negotiations with the Yellow Hair if the Indians were not to win the coming battle.
“What do you see?” sneered the goddess.
“Blackness, Witkokaga, only the night.” responded Sitting Bull.
Sitting Bull had the impression that his nose was bleeding, and that one side of his face had been pushed in, as from a sharp blow, but there was no sensation of pain. The voice of the goddess was like that of chimes tinkling on a cold arctic wind when she countered with hostility:
“What do you see?”
Suddenly he was blinded by a light of such intensity that he threw his hands to his face to shield his eyes. He peered through between his fingers at the deity which stood before him. Before him stood Mo-nah-se-tah. He could not disguise the surprise in his voice.
“Mo-nah-se-tah!” he cried.
“You look upon Witkokaga, High Priest! I am Witkokaga the Befooler!” came the spirit’s reply, almost in the form of a retaliation.
The voice of Sitting Bull was soft, almost a whisper. His tongue caressed the Befooler with a cooing inflection. He spoke to her as though he were her lover.
“I implore you to deceive the one they call the Yellow Hair. I can see only a small distance into the future. They will come across water, but I don’t know where.”
Witkokaga approached the medicine man, she smelled of honeysuckle, he thought. Her eyes were dark pools that flooded into his mind.
“You hesitate to give me Yellow Bird!” she stabbed the words at the medicine man.
“He is of great value to me. The Yellow Hair does not know his son is among those he means to kill.” responded Sitting Bull carefully, seductively.
The voice of Witkokaga softened, “You will give him to me.”
“Yes, Witkokaga, the Yellow Hair’s son is yours.” responded the seer, albeit with a tone of remorse in his voice.
The goddess placed both hands on either side of the pockmarked face of Sitting Bull and issued a command to him.
“Then sleep, Sitting Bull, sleep and dream of me.”
A litany of horrific screams issued from the tepee of the wizard as he dreamed. Sioux maidens, naked and shining with sweat bathed Sitting Bull’s face with dampened cloths as he screamed.
“Nooooooo! Witkokaga! Noooooo!” The maidens looked about with fear, but saw only the twisting, writhing Sitting Bull who could not be wakened from his dream.
Chapter Nineteen ~ Custer Attacks!
Custer had low crawled with his company commanders and spied upon the enormous Indian village from atop a summit of one of the nearby rolling hills. Behind him his exhausted troopers were fueled by adrenaline as they anticipated the coming fight, their horses panted from thirst. What the officers beheld boggled the imagination; the encampment stretched for miles.
“We’ll ford the river where you see the ripples, the water is shallowest there. See that Indian woman bathing in the center of the river? The water is barely to the woman’s belly, but we will have to be quick about it.” spoke Custer, who scanned the river and then the camp with DeRudio’s binoculars.
The commanding officer was met with silence as his captains surveyed the objective with disbelief.
“We will go across on line,” Custer continued, “and then split up as previously arranged. Any of the braves not napping are being slain by Reno right now. Remember, the whole idea is to grab hostages, and then the surviving warriors will surrender to us.”
The companies of cavalry filed rapidly from behind the bluffs in company formation, riding several abreast before halting and facing the river. Custer looked to his right and left, seeing the guidons which indicated the companies were in place.
I have total surprise! thought Custer.
H
e sat ramrod straight in his saddle and then stood up in the stirrups and turned around, looking directly behind him to make sure that Kellogg was nearby; he wanted the press reporter close at hand.
Now is the time! thought the Boy General. He took off his wide brimmed straw hat and waved it, while continuing to stand in the stirrups.
“We’ve run the buck to cover!” expostulated Custer, “Sound the charge!”
As Custer entered midway into the Little Bighorn River, a woman emerged from the water. Her appearance was incongruous with the situation.
“Belay that order! Mo-nah-se-tah! How did you appear? My son! Is he in this village?” the general was wild eyed and the words came from his mouth in a rush.
Custer was confused and uncertain. He was suddenly rocked with an emotion which was alien to him. He felt stark terror at risking the lives of his Indian wife and child. He considered calling off the attack altogether; he faced his dilemma with incertitude. The wings of cavalry on either side of him had stopped in midstream, as the rear echelons of cavalry came up behind, they stopped at the edge of the stream.
Shouting could be heard from the Indian camp, braves were running toward them-at first dozens, then hundreds. Some would stop and shoot from the shoulder at the soldiers, while others ran past them, war whooping with bloodlust.
In the autumn of 1868, Custer had led the 7th Cavalry in an attack on a Cheyenne village led by Chief Black Kettle. Among the killed was Chief Little Rock, Mo-nah-se-tah’s father. That fact did not stop the former general from marrying the 17 year old beauty and taking her as his second wife.
When Elizabeth Custer arrived and caught onto the liaison, she made the striking beauty take the infant and leave. Since Elizabeth had no desire to have marital relations with the man who had sterilized her, she condoned his philandering. Extramarital affairs conducted discreetly were one thing, but open marriage to a second wife was intolerable. Pitifully, as Mo-nah-se-tah left the military post, she offered the infant to the childless couple. Libbie was generous and let Custer make the choice. The embarrassment of having an illegitimate Indian child by a Cheyenne wife would destroy his bid for the Presidency, and so he watched his family go.
Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel Page 10