Then the peace had come and the great demobilization. Custer, although still a major general in brevet-a basically honorary title-was reduced in rank to captain in the regular Army. He managed to crawl back up from that, and when the Army was reorganized in 1866, he was appointed lieutenant colonel of the Seventh Cavalry. There was a colonel who by letter commanded the Seventh; Bouyer had actually met Colonel Sturgis when he had visited St. Louis with Bridger the previous winter.
General Sherman, who commanded the Western Department, had lashed Sturgis to a desk in Mounted Recruiting Command in St. Louis and turned the Seventh over to Custer. Bouyer knew that Sturgis, at fifty-four, would not have been able to push the regiment like Custer had the last several days in this harsh weather. The bottom line was that everyone felt Custer was the great Indian fighter, at least by reputation. Half the regiment thought Custer walked on water, the first sergeant one of them. The other half despised him, which wasn’t good for morale.
They reached the top of the bluff overlooking the village. The men deployed, many still wrapped in rough wool blankets, trying to stay warm in the bone-chilling air. No alarm had been given. Bouyer was surprised there were no guards about, even just to watch the pony herd from thievery.
Custer climbed onto his horse, the other cavalrymen doing the same. Bouyer was surprised when Custer turned to his hand and deployed them, instruments ready, along the top of the bluff. Custer nudged his horse forward and began to descend toward the village, the line of troops to his left and right following suit.
Crazy Horse was as still as the stunted tree he stood next to. Black Kettle’s village lay to the east and below. He could see the line of blue coats descending the bluff across from his location. No guards-Black Kettle deserved what was coming. Crazy Horse glanced to the east. Dawn was close, as he could make out a red glow on the horizon.
Bouyer followed the wave of troopers down the bluff, sweeping toward the village. As the troopers increased speed to a gallop, the band broke into music, playing “Garry Owen,” the Seventh Cavalry’s song. A shot rang out as a brave burst out of his lodge, firing wildly. A ragged volley came from the charging troopers in response, several bullets striking the warrior and knocking him back against the lodge.
Bouyer pulled back on his horse’s reins, halting at the edge of the village. The scene was surreal as cavalrymen charged through the village, firing at point-blank range at anything that moved while the sound of the band playing floated overhead.
To his right one of Custer’s officers was hit, a bullet ripping through his heart and out his back. The man stayed in his stirrups for several more strides of the horse before toppling off, landing in the snow with a puff of white powder. It was pandemonium in the village as soldiers raced to and fro, firing at anything that moved, including dogs. There was no coordinated defense, just warriors using whatever weapon was handy to fight back. There was no distinction between those who fought and those who tried to run, between men and women or even children.
A bullet whizzed by Bouyer’s face, and he realized he also was being shown no distinction by the warriors. He swung off his horse, drawing his rifle. Two years ago he’d reluctantly traded in his muzzle-loading Hawkins for a Henry repeating rifle, giving up bullet caliber for speed of firing.
Bouyer rested the barrel of the rifle over his saddle but didn’t shoot. The camp was bedlam, with no hope for the braves to mount an effective defense as they were tom between fighting and saving their families. Bouyer saw Black kettle mount a horse, grab one of his wives, placing her in front of him on the horse, and gallop toward the river. Several soldiers also saw the chief. Bullets peppered the old man’s back, passing through him and killing his wife also. Both boodles toppled into the water.
A young Cheyenne girl ran out of a lodge that had been set on fire. A mounted soldier rode by and slashed at her with his saber, opening a bloody wound along the top of her skull. But the girl kept running. The soldier wheeled his mount and came back for a second try. Bouyer fixed the soldier in his sights and his finger caressed the trigger.
He didn’t fire.
The saber hit the girl’s left shoulder and sliced through her clavicle into her chest so deeply it was ripped out of the soldier’s hands as she fell to the ground mortally wounded. He halted his horse and dismounted. Putting a boot to the dead girl’s chest, he pulled the saber out, wiped the blood off on her clothes and reheated it. Then he drew a skinning knife and Proceeded to scalp the girl.
Scenes like this were playing out all over the camp. Bouyer pulled back his rifle, leaving it dangling at his side as he stood, as if in the eye of an insane hurricane, surrounded y death and barbarism. He saw two soldiers firing at a running boy, taking turns until finally one dropped the child, a round blowing off the top of his head. Lodges were being set ablaze, and the smoke added to the confusion. Still the band played on.
There was little resistance left, the survivors running or trying to hide in gullies or behind bushes. The top of the sun was showing on the horizon. Spelling doom for those who were hiding as soldiers tracked them down and executed them.
Bouyer tied off his horse to a sapling and slowly walked through the camp. He saw women and children being killed, some being used as sport by mounted soldiers with sabers. And where was Custer? Bouyer wondered. He spotted the regimental commander by the pony herd with a few of his officers. Bouyer walked over, eager to be away from the slaughter.
“I Want a count,” Custer was ordering. “Of everything. Ponies. Bodies. Weapons. Robes. Food. A written report. Then burn it all. Every single thing.” Custer had turned and was surveying the village. He pointed at a fine white lodge, not yet on fire, which Black Kettle had run out of. “I want that taken down and packed. · Mrs. Custer would appreciate it.”
He turned back to the large pony herd, about four hundred head, Bouyer estimated. “Officers and scouts may choose whatever they want. Kill the rest.”
One of the officers protested. “Sir, that’s a lot of horses to be-”
Custer spun on the man. “Damn it, do as I say.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general mounted his horse and rode off. leaving the officers debating how they should go about the gruesome task. Bouyer watched as they detailed soldiers to try to slit the ponies’ throats, but that proved difficult because as soon as a white man approached the tethered animals, they’d go wild, bucking and lashing out with their hooves.
Finally they settled on shooting them. Bouyer turned away as the slaughter began. The sound of wounded animals added to the insanity. As he made his way back through the village, he halted and slowly turned to the west. A warrior was standing a half-mile away on the bluff.
In his excitement and subsequent disgust at what he was witnessing, Bouyer had not listened to his inner voice.
Crazy Horse saw Bouyer amidst the death below him. He had yet to see his “brother” take part in the battle, but it did not matter-he was with the blue coats. Crazy Horse saw two soldiers run down a squaw, throwing her to the ground near the western edge of the village. He mounted his horse and rode, keeping to the cover of the brush.
He heard them before he saw them-one of the soldiers was grunting with pleasure. Crazy Horse came around a thick bush and fired, the round catching the standing soldier in the face and knocking him backward. The one on top of the woman looked up, pleasure mixed with shock on his face. Crazy Horse dismounted in one smooth movement, drawing his hatchet. As the soldier fumbled with his pants, Crazy Horse threw the hatchet, the edge burying itself in the man’s chest.