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"I have to take care of my best girl," he said softly. The strange thing was that he meant it.
She was the best girl he'd ever taken out. She wasn't demanding or petulant or sulky. She reminded
him of bright summer sunshine, always cheerful.
She became radiant as she heard the words, blushing. It got worse when he reached out and tangled
her fingers in his as he drove.
"Miss me?" he asked gently.
"Oh, yes," she said, not bothering with subterfuge.
He glanced at her, his eyes lingering on her rosy cheeks and soft, parted mouth before he forced his
gaze back to his driving. "That goes double for me." His fingers clenched in hers.
"You're good medicine, sunshine."
"Medicine?" she teased.
"Up in this part of the world, medicine means more than drugs. The Plains Indians used to
'make medicine' before battle, to protect them and help their spirits find the way to the hereafter.
There was good medicine and bad, equally potent. They filled small rawhide bags with special
talismans to protect their bodies from their enemies. Good medicine," he added, smiling as he
glanced at her. "But I'd have hell stuffing you into a rawhide pouch."
She laughed. "I expect it would be uncomfortable, at that." Her eyes adored him. "Thank you for
taking me to the battlefield. I've wanted to see it all my life."
"My pleasure. I don't think you'll be disappointed."
She wasn't. There was a museum and guided tours were available. She noticed that Gene avoided the
groups of tourists as they meandered along the paved walkway up to the graves in their wrought-iron
square and the tall monument on which was carved the names of the soldiers who died at the spot.
"We're standing on Crow land," he explained nodding down the ridge to the small stream that cut a
deep ravine through the green grass. Beyond it was
a large stand of trees and an even larger body of water. "Through there was the encampment.
Several tribes of Sioux Blackfoot, Sans Arc, Brule and Min-neconjou and a band of Cheyenne.
In all, several thousand of them. This fenced area is where the last stand was made. Custer died here,
so they say, along with his brother and brother-in-law and nephew. He was shot through the left breast
and the temple."
"I read somewhere that he committed suicide."
He shook his head. "Unlikely. If you read his book, My Life on the Plains, you get a picture of a man
who is definitely not the type for suicide. One authority on him thinks he was shot down in that ravine,
through the left breast, and brought up here to the last stand position by his men. A bullet wound was
found in his left temple. The Indians usual y shot their enemies at close range to make sure they were
dead. The Indians reported that after a buckskinned soldier was wounded in the ravine, the soldiers
lost heart and seemed not to fight so hard. If it was Custer who got shot then, it would explain that
near rout His men were young and mostly inexperienced.
Few of them had ever seen Indians on the warpath."
"I guess it would be scary," she said, looking up at him with fascination.
He lifted the cigarette he'd just lit to his mouth. "You don't know the half of it, cupcake.
Plains Indians in full regalia were painted faces, surely, and bodies. Even the horses were painted.
Add to that the death cry they al yel ed as they went into battle, and the eagle bone whistles they blew,
and you've got a
vision of death terrifying enough to make a seasoned trooper nervous."
"You said Sioux and Cheyenne; didn't the Crow fight the soldiers, too? We're standing on Crow land,
you said," she added.
"It is. But the Crow saw the way of things, and allied themselves to the soldiers. The Cheyenne and
Sioux were no more friends of the Crow than of the whites. Long before Sioux and Cheyenne came
here, mis was the land of the Absaroka people of the fork-tailed bird. My God," he breathed,
looking out over the rolling buttes and high ridges and vast stretch of horizon, "no wonder they
fought so hard to keep it. Look. Virgin land, untouched, unpoisoned by civilization.
God's country."
"Yes. It really is beautiful," she said.
The wind was blowing hard and he slid an arm around her, drawing her close. "Want to walk down to
the ravine?" he asked.
"Could we?"
"Surely. There's a trail. Watch for snakes, now."
He led her down the deceptively long path to the ravine, stopping at each white cross that was
supposed to mark the place where a man fell in battle. He seemed to know the names of al of them,
and the history. He stopped for a long moment beside one marker.
"My great-great-uncle," he said, smiling at her expression. "Surprised? Now you know how I knew so
much about the battle. His wife kept a journal, and I have it. The last entry was the night before he set
out with Custer's 7th for the Little Bighorn. He probably kept a journal all the way here, too, but the
Indian women scoured the battlefield after the fight, and took everything they thought they could use.
Watches, pistols, clothing, even saddles and boots were carried off. The Indians threw away the soles
of the boots and used the leather to make other things out of."
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