Killing Custer by Margaret Coel Read Free Book Online Page A

of him as a kid, how he had wanted to be like Custer. Year after year, reenacting the Battle of the Little Bighorn, where Custer’s luck had run out. Now Garrett was dead.
    He read down the next page of Web sites and clicked on “Reenactments—Living History.” The text that popped up on the screen explained that hundreds of men and women participated in reenactments of famous military battles across the country. Most reenacted Civil War battles, such as Fredericksburg, the Battle of the Wilderness, Gettysburg. But reenactments were also staged of famous battles in World War I and World War II. The only reenactments on the plains, it seemed, were those of the Battle of the Little Bighorn.
    Those who dedicate time, energies, and money to reenactments do so out of a love of history and the desire to bring history alive. “We are educators,” explained Herb Finer, part of the reenactment of the Battle of Bull Run. “We are living interpreters of the past, and our goal is to help people understand major historical events that shaped the present. When you see a soldier shot from his horse, it is real. The image stays in your mind, and you never think of history again as dull, dry, and unimportant.”
    While it is true that reenactors portray battles in which many men died horrible deaths, the battles took place between armed combatants. The results might have gone either way because the combatants were equal. Civil War battles were fought between armed warriors, unlike the massacres of unarmed civilians by soldiers that occurred during the Indian Wars. Such massacres as Sand Creek and the Washita were hardly equal fights, and are unworthy of reenactment.
    Father John closed the site, then typed in a new search: “Battle of the Little Bighorn reenactment.” Dozens of sites appeared. He clicked on “Historical Interpretation Video.” A panoramic view of the Little Bighorn River Valley swept across the screen. Bluffs, narrow ravines, slopes of tall grass surrounding the blue-green river that twisted through a valley at the base of sandy cliffs. The sound of drums and the
Hi yi hi
cries of the Indians coming from a distance, moving closer. The faint outlines of white tipis materializing alongside the river, like ghosts. Dozens of tipis at first. Hundreds. Thousands.
    He tried to remember what he had once taught his American history classes about the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Fifteen years ago, a different lifetime, and even then, he remembered, Custer and the Bighorn had seemed remote, a footnote. Now he had the sense of watching the actual camp come alive. Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho under the leadership of Sitting Bull, the spiritual leader, and Crazy Horse, the war chief. The largest Indian camp ever assembled. Four thousand Indians. What a sight the village must have presented to Custer’s scouts when they topped a bluff high above the village.
    Cutting through the drums and the cries was the sound of a bugle playing the jaunty, familiar melody of “Garry Owen.” A column of troopers rode across the grassy slopes. Blue uniforms and a mixture of blue caps and gray wide-brimmed hats, rifles strapped on backs, metal harnesses and stirrups clanking with the music. Riding ahead were officers, Benteen and Reno. Father John recognized Osborne and Veraggi. Edward Garrett in the lead, blond hair almost hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, dressed in buckskin shirt and trousers with fringe running down the arms and legs.
    He shut down the video. It was like watching men riding to their deaths.

5
    ANGELA RUNNING BEAR concentrated on the man’s voice coming from the radio on the dashboard. The Honda shimmied. Engine humming, exhaust smells drifting. The news still seemed incredible. Edward Garrett shot to death at the rodeo parade yesterday while she had been curled on a lounge chair on the balcony of the condo in Jackson waiting for Skip to finish his meeting. They were going to