Bad Day at the Greasy Grass

***** We wintered in the Cheyenne village. That was because, I was NOT interested in staying in Bozeman itself. That was motivated by an incident that occurred the day after we arrived.

The Cheyenne had no problem putting the two of us up for the night. Hospitality to strangers is part of their culture. But, we needed another horse and so Anovoo'o and I went into town to buy one.

They had a livery stable that was really just a lean-to shed and a corral. They kept a herd of horses there. Most of them had come up on the cattle drives as spares. I found a likely looking chestnut. It was big and sound and on the respectable side of young. I walked in to see what the man wanted for it.

He was an older fellow, just sitting there on a barrel. He was holding forth to two other guys who looked like they might be sons. All of them were dirty, unshaven and grubby. I said, "How much for the chestnut?"

The man looked at Anovoo'o with pure contempt and said, "Get that squaw out of here. We don't allow savages in this place of business."

My Irish temper went through the roof. But I needed a horse. So, I looked around skeptically at the collection of boards, that he called a "business," and said mildly, "I'll give you fifty dollars gold for it, saddle and all."

The guy got off the barrel, both of the other guys came up next to him. He said, "We don't sell to Indians, or Indian lovers."

I took the bag of gold pieces that I had brought with me and said, "Good, then we have a deal," and tossed it at him." He instinctively grabbed it. The sale was complete. So, I hit him with a hard left-hook to his stomach.

He emitted a loud, "Ooooooof!!!" As he doubled over, I brought an uppercut off the floor. It caught him full on the point of his chin. I heard a satisfying crack and he literally flipped backwards. He lay there looking dead. But then, I imagine a creature that primitive was never very conscious.

The other two just stood there looking astonished. I pulled out my .44 and said, "Now which one of you fellas wants to write me up the bill of sale?" They could see that I would have gladly shot both of them. So, they were more than eager to get me out of the place.

I was even happier to put that town behind me. I didn't need anybody in my life but Anovoo'o. So, parting from that collection of ignorant, low-life scum was no hardship.

I bought some canvas at the Fort and a few of the Cheyenne helped set up a tepee. Anovoo'o proceeded to make it into a warm and comfortable habitation for the winter. The snow had come, and we were quickly a part of life in that village.

For the first time in four years I was happy and contented, living with the woman I loved. Anovoo'o pampered me in the same dedicated and dutiful way that every Indian woman takes care of her man, and our regular bouts of sex were extraordinary.

Anovoo'o's physical beauty made us the talk of the Cheyenne encampment. As a result, a warrior would occasionally drop by to ask me how much I wanted for her.

It was laughable really. The Indians didn't have the slightest concept of western tenets about marriage and adultery. In fact, it was considered simple hospitality to offer an overnight visitor your wife.

I never feared losing Anovoo'o. First, she was devoted to me and I was devoted to her. So, whatever the cultural norms, we were exclusively bonded to each other. In fact, Anovoo'o got very uneasy if I left her alone.

I think that was a consequence of her bleak life growing up. She was terrified that I would leave her for a white woman. Of course, that was totally preposterous. Anovoo'o was the sweetest, most intelligent and best-looking woman I had ever known, white, red, or any other color of the rainbow.

So, we were rarely apart. But I DO recall an incident that winter. It served to reinforce her absolute commitment to me.

I had gone into town to finish buying a Conestoga and team. As I arrived back, I saw Anovoo'o and a Brave having a heated discussion. I didn't have to understand Cheyenne to recognize what was going on.

He had tried to do what was common in that village, which was spend a winter's afternoon fucking her. She, on the other hand, was trying to stick my Bowie knife in him. I arrived just as she was reaching for the Sharps.

The poor guy just wanted to let bygones-be-bygones. I explained that to her. She was still wild with rage. She spluttered, "He tried to have sex with me!! I told him I was your woman and that you were the only one who had the right to my body. He accused me of adopting White-Man's ways."

She chambered a round in the Sharps and said, "I told him that I didn't care about White-Men, or Indians. I was going to kill him!!!" My response was to laugh as I relieved her of the weapon.

Anovoo'o was still spluttering like an angry wildcat. She looked so brave and feisty that I wanted to fuck her right there in front of the tepee. I waved to the guy to get lost. He took off running. Then I steered my intrepid and beautiful wife into our home and helped her work out her anger issues. That was in a number of interesting positions. In fact, getting her riled up nearly killed ME. The woman had boundless passion and amazing stamina.

Colonel Brackett and a few of his boys finally came over to discuss the incident at the corral. I presented the bill of sale, which showed that I'd paid a fair price for the horse. I told him that the man had insulted my wife so what else did he expect? I mentioned my service with the Mounted Rifles. Then, I offered him a hundred of O'Brien's gold eagles to let me set up a sutler's business at the Fort.

The Colonel decided that I was indeed a credit to the Second Cavalry, while he discreetly took my little bag of coins under advisement. Now all I had to do was arrange the rest of the enterprise. Nothing was ever heard of my friends from the livery. Maybe it was because I told them I'd kill them if I ever saw them again. And they knew I meant it.

The Great Northern had a spur down to Bismarck and the Far West hauled supplies from there up the Yellowstone to Fort Ellis. So, it was a matter of making the right connections in Chicago and Minneapolis and I was in business.

The only dark cloud on our horizon was the news that in the prior November, Custer had caught Black Kettle's village on the banks of the Washita River in Indian Territory. He'd used cannon and his entire regiment to wipe out all 250 of its residents.

I'd never served under Custer, thank God!!! He didn't care what happened to the rest of his command, as long as he got good mentions in the newspaper. But all of us knew that he was a vainglorious fool. So, what he'd done wasn't a surprise. His "victory" made him a big hero in Bozeman and Billings. The Cheyenne just dealt with the news stoically. They didn't expect mercy at that point.

Naturally, Anovoo'o was devastated; even though it had happened months earlier and miles away, Black Kettle had been like a father to her.

For three days, she did all of the Indian mourning rituals. She daubed her face with red paint and ashes, fasted and sang funerary songs as she rocked back and forth in a little tepee, which she had built to signify her grief. She sacrificed to the Great Spirit at sunrise, and sunset each day.

I didn't comment or try to interfere, nor did any of the other Cheyenne. They understood that this was personal between Anovoo'o, her father, and the Great Spirit. She emerged after three days looking haggard.

She slept for almost a day and a half after that. Then she quickly returned to her devoted self. It was as if she had made her peace with Black Kettle's spirit and was ready to move on. She had confirmed that her father was in a better place. In many ways it was reminiscent of the way we Irish see off our dead.

***** By 1876, my sutler business was paying off handsomely. I had built an actual commissary inside Fort Ellis and we had another set up at Fort Parker.

The proceeds from that business let me construct a big, sturdy, log house on 300 acres of land, which I had bought on Pitcher Creek. It was, about ten miles due east of the Fort, toward the Yellowstone. I wasn't going to farm that land. I just wanted a lot of distance between us and our neighbors.

I needed the space because, in those short eight years the love of my life had already produced a healthy and hearty boy and two beautiful, and spirited girls. We baptized them at the little Catholic church, which had sprung up in Livingston, down by where the Great West docked. There were a lot Irish moving west and a bunch of them worked for me in the sutler's business.

Father McCarthy married us. I wanted to make sure that my fortune went to my partner and helpmate. That is, if anything untimely befell me. A small fee persuaded him that the marriage of a White man and an Indian woman was acceptable in God's eyes.

The fact that he had hesitations convinced ME that he hadn't read the bible. John 7:24, and Galatians 3:28, are more than clear about what God thinks about skin color.

We gave our children Christian names. But of course, each of them also had a spirit animal and name granted by the Cheyenne priest of Maheo. We didn't want to lose their ties to that culture either.

Anovoo'o was a devoted mother and a superb wife. She made it her duty to satisfy my every need. She denied me nothing. Every night, her exquisite body was mine to explore. More importantly her wisdom and guidance was the rock that our family was founded on.

Her beauty was legendary in the area. So, we had occasional visitors. I wasn't as stupid as some of those guys thought. I knew that they were there to confirm the stories, and maybe try their luck with the sutler's wife. But then again, Anovoo'o was also very smart. She used her exceptional looks and charm to help us expand our business.

It wasn't like she didn't know what was going on. Indian women learn about men very early in life; and unlike Molly, she never had any illusions about the male mind. Anovoo'o was hospitable to all of them. But she never allowed the slightest impropriety.

She adroitly avoided every circumstance where she would have to draw the line. I didn't have to say a word about that. The awareness and decision was solely my wife's. And, with one notable exception, I never had a reason to get my Irish up.

However, there was a particularly persistent fella. This guy wouldn't leave her alone. Sutton was an Indian Agent from back east. He was a "college man," with all the arrogance and condescension that implies.

He thought that Anovoo'o, being a Cheyenne, and me being an ignorant Mick; we should be honored to have him lavish his attention on her. Needless to say, he was a pest.

Then, when Anovoo'o wouldn't give him the time of day, he got aggressive. He had stopped by to supposedly discuss us setting up a post at the Crow reservation. That would be a nice piece of business for us. So, he got the royal welcome.

He must have mistaken our hospitality for permission to try-it-on with Anovoo'o. Maybe the other sutlers did business that way. But, not us.

It was early evening. He had been with us for almost a half day. I noticed that he couldn't take his eyes off Anovoo'o as she bustled around preparing dinner. But a lot of men did that. So, I didn't give it a second thought. That is, until I came back from our storehouse with some samples of our goods.

I found Anovoo'o squawking and struggling in the fellow's arms. She turned to me and said indignantly, "He tried to KISS me!!!"

I looked at Sutton. He glared contempt at me and said, "What's the matter with THAT? She's just an Indian?"

I don't get in fights much, anymore. But it doesn't mean that I don't still enjoy a little light exercise then the opportunity arises. I took the fellow out into the stable and "vigorously reasoned with him about his transgressions." He was crying and begging for mercy at the end.

I told him, "I'm going to be talking to General Gibbon tomorrow. And he isn't going to like what I'm going to say about you. So, get on that horse. I never want to see you again. If I do, I'll kill you." We put the man on his horse and he clip-clopped away, woozy and bleeding.

I talked to Gibbon like I said I would. He was at Fort Ellis, mustering troops for an expedition that the Army had in mind that summer.

By 1876, I was a reasonably influential member of the community. So, the day after my talk, Sutton found himself on a train headed back east. We got the commissary contract without a problem and all was well. But NOW I owed Gibbon a big favor.

That debt led to the adventure of a lifetime.

***** It was a hot and rainy June day when I decided to ride over to see why a shipment I was expecting hadn't arrived. I followed the Yellowstone looking for the Far West and found it sitting at Rosebud Creek. It didn't seem to be grounded there, like it occasionally was. Then I spotted a lot of horses and uniforms on the other bank.

I knew Grant Marsh well. He was the Captain and Pilot of the Far West, and a very smart guy. We had been doing business for almost four years. But his main source of income was the Army. And, it looked like he was hosting a gathering of military brass on his ship.

I saw Gibbon. I'd already given him some of my premium Virginia tobacco, as thanks for his help with Agent Sutton. He had been at Petersburg with us. And his Corps was the one that captured Fort Gregg. But he had always had higher command. So, I didn't have a feel for him as a military man.

But, I certainly knew the other fella. That was George Armstrong Custer. His friends called him, "Autie." The only thing that kept the rest of us from calling him a conceited clown, was his notable success in battle; nurtured by his relationship with the press.

Mostly, his fame was due to his willingness to risk other men's lives, as well as an incredible amount of "Custer's luck." He wasted a lot of good soldiers and nobody wanted to be posted to his brigade.

That was because, throughout the war Custer would charge, where anybody with common sense would wait for reinforcements. The Rebs nearly caught him at Trevilian Station. But Custer always escaped and with all his rash actions he, personally, never got a scratch.

I knew a lot of officers Like Custer. They were all brought up on florid Victorian tales about knights errant. And they ALL thought that they were the hero of the story. He sported long flowing locks.

Throughout the war he wore a gaudy velvet uniform; which, he had designed himself. It looked more like something out of a comic opera, rather than real military dress. But that was Autie Custer.

He was laughing and carrying-on with his superiors, like he was one of them. But the fact was that "General" Custer was actually, "Lieutenant Colonel Custer," Commander of the Seventh Cavalry.

The third man was the real person in charge. That was Alfred Terry. He had been down in the Carolinas for most of the war. But, I had heard he was a steady and reliable hand. He must have just loved being saddled with Custer. The one thing I was sure was that he wouldn't let Autie get far out of his reach.

I asked Marsh what was going on. He was leaning on the rail next to the pilot house, calmly smoking his pipe and surveying the hubbub on the deck below. He told me that the Sioux had been causing trouble in the Big Horn territory and the Army had decided to settle them once and for all.

They were going to send three powerful columns to trap the Indians and use force if necessary to get them back on the reservation. He said that George Crook's column was somewhere down the Rosebud. But, that Gibbon and Terry were meeting on the Far West to coordinate their efforts.

I gestured toward Autie. He was tricked out in a set of shiny new buckskins, which made him look like a store-bought version of Kit Carson. I said, "What about Custer?"

Marsh said, "He's doing the scouting for Terry. His cavalry can move faster than the infantry columns."

I said, "You mean they're going to let him go off on his own? They ought to send Gibbon and the Second Cavalry with him. At least Gibbon understands the situation."

Marsh said, "You know Custer. He wants the glory. He has Mitch Boyer and the Ree and Crow scouts to guide him. He won't get into any trouble.

I asked Marsh about my shipment. He said it was on-board and he would drop it at the Livingston docks once he dropped the Army shipment at the Big Horn confluence with the Yellowstone. He promised me no later than a week.

That was satisfactory. So, I bade him farewell. As I was starting down the boarding plank I heard a voice call, "You!! Riley!!! Can I speak with you for a minute?" I turned, and it was John Gibbon.

I knew that I owed him a favor, and I wasn't going to ignore the most important military man in the entire Montana Territory. So, of course I scurried back up the plank.

John Gibbon was a no-nonsense kind of guy. Unlike the rest of us he wore his hair cut short. But, he DID have the bushiest mustache I had ever beheld. He said, "You know this territory, don't you?"

I said, "Of course, my wife's Cheyenne, and I've been trading at Fort Ellis and Fort Parker, and on the Sioux and Crow reservations for the past five years. Why do you ask?"

Gibbon looked at me shrewdly, and said, "I want you to go on a little errand. It will pay back the favor I did for you with Sutton. I'm sending Custer off up the Rosebud to meet up with Crook. He has plenty of Indian scouts with him. But he's a reckless idiot. So, I want a trustworthy hand to go along with him and help him understand what he's getting into."

He saw what I was thinking and hastily added, "Custer's only job is to chase the hostiles toward Terry and me. The infantry and Gatlings will do the fighting. There's no risk. And, if you do that for me, then I'LL be in YOUR debt."

I knew what he was offering. Every Fort in the Montana territory would be mine for the plucking. I thought about it. Anovoo was expecting me back tomorrow, which was the 24th of June. I asked Gibbon, "How long do you want me with him?"

Gibbon considered for a second and said, "We're going to join back up with him on the 25th, or no later than the 26th. So, three days would be sufficient."

That wasn't a lot of time for such a big reward. I thought some more. There were a bunch of Indians lounging on the river bank. One of them looked to be a Crow in his teens. Anovoo'o speaks Crow so I told Gibbon, "I'm all yours, if I can get that boy down there to take a message to my wife."

The kid was a son of one of the Crow scouts. Both spoke some English. I handed him a note for Anovoo'o and a gold piece, which overpaid him. But, I wanted the message delivered.

Custer wouldn't leave until he had paraded the entire 7th Cavalry past the Generals. Like I said, he was a show-off. Then all 600 of us headed off down the Rosebud whistling Garryowen; while Terry and Gibbon took their infantry in the direction of the Big Horn.

Gibbon had made sure that Custer knew who I was. He had told Custer to listen to me. So of course, I was shunted to the back of the column; riding with the rest of the people Custer didn't want to listen to. I didn't care since I was going to make a lot of money, by just going on a simple three-day jaunt.

I rode with a pale-eyed killer named Benteen and Myles Keogh, who was truly Irish. Both hated Custer with a passion that was only rivaled by Custer's second in command Marcus Reno. Naturally, like most self-important fools, Custer had his acolytes. Yates, Weir, Calhoun and his brother Tom all rode in a little adoring pack around him. He even had a guy named Kellogg, who was his own pet newspaper reporter.

I hadn't been with that outfit for more than a half day and I could see that we would be in real trouble if we got into a fight. Because half the command structure wanted Custer dead.