Bad Day at the Greasy Grass

I found Keogh's marker. It indicated the spot where he fell. Keogh himself is buried out east. It was exactly where I recalled it, since I was standing next to him when I was wounded. I still feel it, even at age eighty-six.

There's a much more grandiose marker over on, "Last Stand Hill." It's next to where Custer was found. I was pretty sure he'd like that.

I remembered where the big village was. Looking down the bluff toward the Crow reservation, I could still visualize it there.

The weather in the fading light was hot and dry, just like it had been on that momentous day. The shrieks of the Indians, the shouts and cries of the dying troopers and the crash of the guns still echo up there; at least, for an old man.

It was quiet as death on that bluff, just the wind. It was getting dark. I turned and walked slowly down the back of the hill, to where my grandson's automobile was parked.

The only people left in the dirt parking area were my grandson and his wife. It was the spot where the Seventh Cavalry held its horses fifty-four years earlier.

My beloved Anovoo'o passed away a couple of weeks ago. She died an honored and cherished matriarch of a big and important family. It was what we built together.

Now it's my turn.

I just wanted one last visit to this place, to commemorate our eternal love. As the Indians say, "Today is a good day to die." And I have no desire to live without her. I have no fear of my body turning into spirit. My only desire is to come to her, like she came to me, on that fateful day at the Greasy Grass.