“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 Native American tribes came together to form an army of several thousand. 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. “I think that’s 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 usually shot their enemies at close range to make sure they were dead. It was 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.
“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 all yelled 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.”
He stopped and looked out over the rolling buttes and high ridges and vast stretch of horizon. “My God,” he breathed, “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 place that marked where men had fallen in battle. He seemed familiar with all 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 Native tribes scoured the battlefield after the fight, and took everything they thought they could use. Watches, pistols, clothing, even saddles and boots were carried off. They threw away the soles of the boots and used the leather to make other things out of.”
“Tell me about your great-great-uncle,” she said, and listened attentively while they walked back up from the steep banks of the ravine. He held her hand tightly, speaking at length about the battle and its historical controversies.
He took her to the museum when they were through. She wandered through the souvenir shop afterward, oohing and aahing over the exquisite beadwork on the crafts. She paused by a full-length warbonnet and sighed over a war lance. It was amazing to consider how terrifying these same things would have been to a woman only a hundred years before. Gene insisted on buying her a pair of beaded earrings for her pierced ears. On the way home, he explained the wearing of earrings by the various Plains tribes and how you could tell warriors of each tribe apart by their hairstyles and earrings.
“It’s just fascinating,” she said.
Gene glowed with pride. None of his dates had ever liked to hear him hold forth about the battle. Allison not only listened, but she seemed to be really interested. He learned as they drove back that she was a student of Native cultures herself, and she seemed to have a wealth of knowledge about the Mayans. He listened to her on the way back, absorbing little-known facts about the Mayans.
“You’re good,” he said when he drove up in front of the Manley house just after dark. “Damned good. Where did you learn all that?”
She smiled wistfully. “I just read a lot and kept my ears open, I guess,” she said, neglecting to add that she’d climbed over Mayan temples where she and her parents had been assigned. The smile faded as the memories came back. “I had a good time, Gene. A really good time. Thank you.”
He drew her to him. “So
