1882: Custer in Chains

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The spent bullet slammed into Custer’s shoulder, spinning him and dropping him face down on the ground where he tasted dirt and blood through split lips. He staggered to his knees. Blood streamed from a cut in his scalp, which, he thought ruefully, might not be his for very much longer. At least the red-skinned savages would have a difficult time lifting it. He’d cut his hair short in anticipation of the fight, although not his death. His long golden locks, now graying slightly, had been thrown away and were blowing around the Dakotas. The Indians would never get them.

Custer snapped an order and Sergeant Haney helped him to his feet. If he had to die, Custer thought, he would do so standing up. “What the devil are they waiting for, Haney?” The blood from the cut was dripping into his eyes and he couldn’t see very clearly. Being blind, however, was the least of his problems.

“Fucked if I know, general dearest,” the short, stocky sergeant who’d been with him since the Civil War muttered. Custer usually yelled at him when Haney referred to him as general dearest, but it didn’t seem to matter this sunny day of June 25, 1876. And the hell with him if it did, Haney thought. He’d been wounded several times this day and the next could finish him. Custer, the stupid bastard who commanded the Seventh Cavalry had just gone and gotten all of them killed. Why the hell hadn’t Custer waited for General Terry and the rest of the army to come up before attacking? Because he wanted the glory of victory and he was afraid that the Indians would flee before he could be reinforced.

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