aunt. He should be back in Bismarck, setting the type for the fourth edition of The Bugle . But the editorâs wife was taken ill and Kellogg volunteered to stand in for Editor Lounsberry to accompany the Seventh Cavalry on its pursuit of the Plains Indians. He pulls the rug around his shoulders, draws on his pipe, enjoying the sweet taste of the tobacco as he composes his thoughts. The scratch of his pen on paper, lit by the first light of this his last day on earth, is the only sound to be heard. He imagines the voice of the postmaster reading the letter to his sister Eileen who, through force of circumstance and no fault of her own, had no schooling for herself.
Dearest Sister, Yesterday Colonel Custer shot a deer, so I had a very fine dinner with him and his officers. While we were eating, our Arikara Indian scouts reported the sighting of our quarry. Early intelligence suggests both Sioux and Cheyenne are gathered and that we will be somewhat outnumbered. Yet, I have all confidence in Colonel Custer and his men and pray we will round them up and bring them back to the reservations from whence they have fled. But it cannot be denied there is danger ahead. It aches my heart to think my daughters, bereaved of a mother, could lose a father also. But I remain optimistic and of good faith. Sister dear, please kiss my daughters and accept my eternal gratitude for your guardianship. Your loving brother, Marcus Henry Kellogg .
The sun is now high in the sky. Hot and dry. Little-Path lies still in the grass as the battle rages all around. He listens for the movement of those close by him. Rain-in-the-Face, Iron Hawk, Chasing Eagle, Feather Earring. They will show him the way, he the young brave, fresh to this world of battle and tears. Looking up, the spiky grass tickling his cheek, he can see the soldiers in the trenches digging crazily, deeper, with spoons and plates and hands. Digging trenches, digging their own graves. Many are drenched in sweat and blood from the manic retreat. Some have arrowheads, embedded in muscles, bristling like the quills of a porcupine. On the wind he can feel the fear of the soldiers-blue, some just weeks arrived from distant lands of green fields where there is no thunderclap and deluge of arrows, no fearsome painted men with red skins and desperation, pride and volcanic anger. Wide-eyed, the soldiers-blue on the ridge, thoughts lost in kith and kin, never to be seen again, never to hold.
Little-Path sees the feather in the hair of Sounds-the-Ground-as-He-Walks, who now is up on one knee. The look in the eyes of the older brave is that of a resolve saddened by the silence on the plains, where buffaloes, once more numbered than stars in the sky, are all slain; embittered by the slavery and herding, the fencing in of a proud people. This one last angry, wild stand against the invader. Arrows, lances, tomahawks, stone-headed clubs, brave squaws waving flame-red blankets to frighten the horses. Little-Path sees history in those dark eyes, and the future. Last night, after the first day of the Battle of the Greasy Grass, Sounds-the-Ground-as-He-Walks told them all of his daring deed. How he had rushed upon Custer, before he fell, and tapped him with the coup stick. Just once on the shoulder. The blue-eyed chief turned, knowing full well what the touch would mean, how it would all end. Sounds-the-Ground-as-He-Walks shrieked with pride and glee, as he ducked below the blazing bullets, weaving back to his fellows, adulation assured. He was awarded the eagle feather, no smudge of red paint smeared to show an injury in the deed of derring-do. Little-Path sees the feather in his mentorâs hair and wishes for the chance to earn one for himself.
âLie still, Little-Path,â says Rain-in-the-Face, whispering through the blades of grass, the dusty clay and ants that separate them. âHollow-Moon will whistle when itâs time to attack.â
In the near distance, corralled into a ravine,
Dearest Sister, Yesterday Colonel Custer shot a deer, so I had a very fine dinner with him and his officers. While we were eating, our Arikara Indian scouts reported the sighting of our quarry. Early intelligence suggests both Sioux and Cheyenne are gathered and that we will be somewhat outnumbered. Yet, I have all confidence in Colonel Custer and his men and pray we will round them up and bring them back to the reservations from whence they have fled. But it cannot be denied there is danger ahead. It aches my heart to think my daughters, bereaved of a mother, could lose a father also. But I remain optimistic and of good faith. Sister dear, please kiss my daughters and accept my eternal gratitude for your guardianship. Your loving brother, Marcus Henry Kellogg .
The sun is now high in the sky. Hot and dry. Little-Path lies still in the grass as the battle rages all around. He listens for the movement of those close by him. Rain-in-the-Face, Iron Hawk, Chasing Eagle, Feather Earring. They will show him the way, he the young brave, fresh to this world of battle and tears. Looking up, the spiky grass tickling his cheek, he can see the soldiers in the trenches digging crazily, deeper, with spoons and plates and hands. Digging trenches, digging their own graves. Many are drenched in sweat and blood from the manic retreat. Some have arrowheads, embedded in muscles, bristling like the quills of a porcupine. On the wind he can feel the fear of the soldiers-blue, some just weeks arrived from distant lands of green fields where there is no thunderclap and deluge of arrows, no fearsome painted men with red skins and desperation, pride and volcanic anger. Wide-eyed, the soldiers-blue on the ridge, thoughts lost in kith and kin, never to be seen again, never to hold.
Little-Path sees the feather in the hair of Sounds-the-Ground-as-He-Walks, who now is up on one knee. The look in the eyes of the older brave is that of a resolve saddened by the silence on the plains, where buffaloes, once more numbered than stars in the sky, are all slain; embittered by the slavery and herding, the fencing in of a proud people. This one last angry, wild stand against the invader. Arrows, lances, tomahawks, stone-headed clubs, brave squaws waving flame-red blankets to frighten the horses. Little-Path sees history in those dark eyes, and the future. Last night, after the first day of the Battle of the Greasy Grass, Sounds-the-Ground-as-He-Walks told them all of his daring deed. How he had rushed upon Custer, before he fell, and tapped him with the coup stick. Just once on the shoulder. The blue-eyed chief turned, knowing full well what the touch would mean, how it would all end. Sounds-the-Ground-as-He-Walks shrieked with pride and glee, as he ducked below the blazing bullets, weaving back to his fellows, adulation assured. He was awarded the eagle feather, no smudge of red paint smeared to show an injury in the deed of derring-do. Little-Path sees the feather in his mentorâs hair and wishes for the chance to earn one for himself.
âLie still, Little-Path,â says Rain-in-the-Face, whispering through the blades of grass, the dusty clay and ants that separate them. âHollow-Moon will whistle when itâs time to attack.â
In the near distance, corralled into a ravine,
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