BANTAM BOOKS BY TERRY C. JOHNSTON
CARRY THE WIND
BORDERLORDS
ONE-EYED DREAM
LONG WINTER GONE
SEIZE THE SKY
WHISPER
OF THE WOLF
REAP THE
WHIRLWIND
TRUMPET
ON THE LAND
A COLD DAY IN HELL
WOLF MOUNTAIN
MOON
CRY OF THE HAWK
WINTER RAIN
DREAM CATCHER
DANCE ON THE WIND
BUFFALO PALACE
CRACK IN THE SKY
RIDE THE
MOON DOWN
I dedicate this book to
Richard Wheeler
the gentle poet and philosopher
of the high plains of Montana
On Custer Hill the knot of fallen men graphically portrayed the drama of the last stand. Although Cooke and Tom Custer had been badly butchered, most in this group escaped severe mutilation. “The bodies were as recognizable as if they were in life,” Benteen wrote to his wife a few days later.
Although naked, “The General was not mutilated at all,” Lt. Godfrey later wrote. “He laid on his back, his upper arms on the ground, the hands folded or so placed as to cross the body above the stomach: his position was natural and one that we had seen hundreds of times while taking cat naps during halts on the march.”
—ROBERT M. UTLEY,
Cavalier in Buckskin
I believe anyone familiar with old-time Indians will prefer their version of a fight to that of other eye-witnesses. The Indian was by nature and training a very close observer, objective and unimaginative as few white men can be. Moreover, the Indian was a veteran who went on the warpath several times each year from early adolescence until he became too old to fight.… He was therefore cooler and more experienced, as a rule, than his white opponents.… War was his absorbing sport. His rating in the tribe depended upon his proven exploits in battle and he took good care to claim all honors to which he was entitled, and to demolish any false claims advanced by his comrades. Therefore in any kind of a fracas he had all the keen, clear-eyed alertness of a professional sportsman. And as long as he lived, whenever he had an opportunity, he recounted his exploits in battle publicly and in the presence of his rivals.
—STANLEY VESTAL
New Sources of Indian History
THE HILLSIDE
CLOUDS of black powder smudged the late-afternoon ridges like yesterday’s coal-oil smoke. Yellow dust floated into the broiling air beneath the countless unshod pony hooves and moccasined feet scurrying through the gray sage and stunted grasses beneath a relentless summer sun. There weren’t many of the big, weary, iron-shod army horses left on the hillside now. A few carcasses lay stiffening, bloated, their legs rigid. But most of the big iron-shod horses had clattered down to water.
He cried out. Not wanting to go up that hill. Terrified of what he saw. More terrified of what he heard.
Wailing, screeching, and hideous cries assaulted the ears. So many keened in mourning. Still others cried out their songs of victory. Many more lips screeched bowel-puckering shouts of vengeance as they attended their deadly labors of conquest. The side of the hill ran dark with blood.
He dared not look, covered his eyes. But just as quickly his mother jerked his hand away from his dirty face. She wanted him to see, to remember.
The parched, sandy slope was littered with the stinking refuse of battle: bodies pale and lifeless, scattered across the dusty sage and brown grasses. Their dark blood soaked into the eager, thirsty soil that stretched all the way up to those mule-spine ridges far to the east where the sun, now into its western quadrant, glared down like a cruel, unblinking eye.
He tripped, stumbling to his knees. He cried out as he was dragged to his feet again, as his spindly copper-skinned legs bled. Quickly he cut off his own yelp. Long ago he had been taught that a boy of the People does not cry out in pain.
There were several women and men clustered around each of the pale bodies on this knoll. Mostly it was the women, hunched over their crude handiwork. These bodies were as white as fish bellies—except for bloodied, leathery faces, necks, and hands.
What hairy creatures these fish-bellied men are.
Some of these browned-hide faces were almost copper enough to belong to the People. Had it not been for all the hair on their faces that made him shudder with the sharp memory of childhood nightmares, he would not have believed these bodies were what the neighbor tribes called the dreaded wasichus.
His mother halted near the crest of the hill. There she knelt and enclosed him within her arms. At first her teary eyes moved about before gazing at last into her son’s face. She instructed him to stay by her side. Fearfully his own dark-cherry eyes darted about the hillside, and he understood why she admonished him not to wander. Here in this place existed a mad fury he had never seen in his few summers of life.
Women, children, old men—running about carrying knives and axes, stone mallets and tomahawks, lances and bows, pistol butts and rifle barrels … cutting, slashing, clubbing, tearing, and gouging.
The little boy huddled against his mother. Fear formed a hard, hot knot in his belly.
She bent, putting her face right next to his so she would not have to speak so loudly. Instead, she began to sob again before any words could come out.
Another woman of their tribe came up beside the mother and son, kneeling in the blood-soaked soil. Bighead Woman was a good friend of his mother. He called her aunt because he had no real blood relatives among the People. The woman smiled down at him, brushing the tears from one of his dirty cheeks. When she looked into his wide, frightened, small-animal eyes, he saw in hers a sorrow he had never before seen on her face.
“Monaseetah,” the older woman whispered hoarsely, like a trickle of water running over a drought-parched creek bed, “you must be quick about this now. I wish to leave and go with the others across the hills. To touch these pale men who came with such foolish hearts to strike our camps of women and children again. Always they come to strike the women and children first—”
Her words snapped off in midsentence like dry kindling as the boy’s mother lifted her face, a mask of utter sadness and despair. Bighead Woman understood that despair and hopelessness immediately.
“This I did for you, Monaseetah.” Her gnarled, scarred hand pointed down at the three bodies crumpled on the ground nearby. “I watched so that none would touch his body. Many came here to mutilate him … as they do now with the others who rode against us when the sun rode high in the sky. But I told them your story. Most left without a word to find other bodies they could revenge themselves upon. Some said a small prayer for you before they turned to go. My heart shares how you must feel. Long ago I lost a man in battle—in a time of cold when the Winter Man’s breath blew white out of the northlands. My man was killed in a battle just like this with the pony soldiers. It was the time you lost your father. You will remember … must remember—that time those cowardly white warriors of winter followed their chief … this one!”