Into the Greasy Grass: During the Battle of Little Big Horn on the Crow Reservation in the Montana Territory, June 25, 1876

George Armstrong Custer, 36, Lieutenant Colonel of the US Seventh Cavalry

I am the leader of men, driving Victory through the river, urging my boys to follow, when a whole horde of the heathen rise from the brush of the banks and train their rifles and arrows on us, so I fire my carbine till the barrel tip glows and my cheek burns and my ear becomes a ringing hollowed bell and one shot hits my trunk and carries me off my mount and when I hit the water my breath quits me and all I can see is the face of Grant—his general stars taken out and polished by some black man servant; his swollen fingers wrapped 'round the stem of the champagne flute he hoists, muttering a toast to our nation's centennial; his yellowed eyes steadfast upon the bottle—and I rise from the water, rivulets streaming behind my ears, my twin English Bulldog pistols come up barking in my hands and in an instant I unleash handfuls of shot and I am enshrouded in hot white smoke, thick as the bouquet of Queen Anne's lace I gave Libbie on our wedding day—I should be the one standing before the assembled Congress, entreating our Lord to protect our nation, my adoring Libbie by my side, silk spilling over her bustle, as an artist makes our portrait for the White House walls—and why did Grant really send me here, to avenge his foolish in-law who was ambushed, killed, and scalped?—and because I always looked good in the press, I acquiesced, It shall be my honor, Mr. President, to serve this post and clear the way for peace and progress, but you, sir, shall know my cavalier genius and pin all four stars to my blue coat that Libbie will clean and press with her own hands—but now the guns' ivory handles lie cool against my skin and before me stands my assassin, the man I have missed with each damn shot—he levels his rifle and all I have left is this one prayer: perhaps a single bullet lies hidden in the guts of these guns. So heave-chested and steely-eyed as the morning sun, I aim my sidearms and charge, high-stepping through the water, the wind cooling my skin as I squeeze the triggers on these empty chambers, squeeze them as gentle as if they were Libbie's pale hands.

His last bullet, Lord, has found its mark and passes through every folding drape of my brain and I fall back again and see the sky one final time before the cold water clouds my eyes but it does not hurt a bit, Libbie, I swear, not a bit compared to never having you sew epaulettes square on my shoulders again.

Ptebloka Ska (AKA, White Cow Bull), 28, Oglala Sioux Warrior

I had soaped myself in bull lard against the cool waters of the Greasy Grass where I swam this morning ahead of battle with the bluecoats and I was lying naked to the loin cloth in yucca and sage grasses when like a hawk they bushwhacked us—crossing the coulee upstream unannounced and raiding our camp—so I crawl behind the rocks where I had stood my weapons, wanting only the head of their leader, Long Locks, who years ago kidnapped fair Monahseetah and forced his baby in her and though I have only spoken to her through the open flaps of her teepee, I love her and have wished in my best heart to walk with her under a courting blanket and make her my wife but she has rejected me because I said I would even welcome her bastard blonde boy, the one they say twins Long Locks' likeness, so last night I sang the suicide song and danced till the drums and my heart were one and I came out here to war with no belief I would ever return alive to my tribe and since...