Flight

Eight

HAPPINESS NEVER LASTS LONG, does it?

As my new father leads me through camp, I realize this cannot be Heaven.

All these old-time Indians are doomed. They’re going to die of disease. And they’ll be slaughtered by U.S. Cavalry soldiers. They’ll be packed into train cars and shipped off to reservations. And they’ll starve in winter camps near iced-over rivers.

The children are going to be kidnapped and sent off to boarding schools. Their hair will be cut short and they will be beaten for speaking their tribal languages. They’ll be beaten for dancing and singing the old-time Indian songs.

All of them are going to start drinking booze. And their children will drink booze. And their grandchildren and great-grandchildren will drink booze. And one of those great-grandchildren will grow up to be my real father, the one who decided that drinking booze was more important than being my father. The one who abandoned my mother and me.

That’s what is going to happen to all these old-time Indians. That’s what’s going to happen to me. This is what Justice was always talking about. Old-time Indians were so beautiful, and they were destroyed.

It makes me angry. I want to spit and kick and punch and slap. I want to cry and sing, but I cannot use my voice.

And then my father stops to talk to a funny-looking Indian guy. I listen to them talk Indian. I don’t know exactly what they’re saying, but I do know they’re arguing.

This new Indian guy is short, barely taller than I am. And he’s very pale, almost white-skinned. In fact, he’s got patches of skin peeling off his back, chest, and arms. This Indian is so white he gets sunburned.

His hair isn’t black at all. Nope, it’s light brown, and some strands of it are almost blond. He’s got a single eagle feather tied into his braid and white lightning bolts painted on his body.

Oh, my God! This pale little dude is Crazy Horse, the strange man of the Oglalas!

Yes, this is the famous mystical Indian warrior who killed hundreds of white people. This guy was the greatest warrior ever.

I am looking at Crazy Horse, the magical one. Bullets couldn’t hit him. He could never be photographed. He was a holy ghost, the Sioux Jesus. Well, sort of like Jesus. I mean, Jesus didn’t kill anybody, you know? So Crazy Horse was like Jesus, if Jesus had been a warrior.

I am standing right next to him. And his eyes are gold-colored.

I think the greatest warrior in Sioux history is a half-breed mystery. I think this legendary killer of white men is half white, like me.

I look around again at the Indian camp. Thousands of tepees. Tens of thousands of Indians. Hot summer day. Dusty hills surrounding us. The skinny river close by.

Crazy Horse is here. And that older Indian dude standing over there by the horses? He sure looks like Sitting Bull does in the history-book pictorials.

I realize this skinny river is the Little Bighorn, and I have been transported back to June 1876.

I grab my father’s leg and shake him.

I scream, Daddy! Daddy! This is the camp at the Little Bighorn! Custer is coming! Custer is coming! He’s bringing the Seventh Cavalry and they’re coming to kill us! But of course I cannot actually say anything because I don’t have a working voice box.

My father stares at me. I don’t need to speak his language to know he wants me to shut up, even if I’m not really making any noise.

And then I remember that the Indians at Little Bighorn already know that Custer is — was — coming. In fact, they set up this camp so that Custer would come for them. It’s a trap.

George Armstrong Custer and his Seventh Cavalry are marching here. There are only about seven hundred white soldiers riding with Custer. And waiting here in the camp for him are three or four or five thousand Indian warriors. Custer is marching toward his slaughter.

Custer is a crazy egomaniac who thinks he is going to be president of the United States. Custer is one of the top two or three dumb asses in American history.

I can’t believe I’m here. This is the Battle of the Little Bighorn. This is Custer’s Last Stand. I wonder when it’s going to start.

And then I hear gunfire in the distance. We all hear that gunfire. The Indian warriors race for their weapons and their horses.

Thousands of hot and angry Indian dudes ride out to meet Custer and his doomed soldiers.