BLACK HILLS, DAKOTA TERRITORY, JULY 1874

Every man who lacked fortune, and who would rather by scalped than remain poor, saw in the vision of the Black Hills, El Dorado.

—John Finerty, Chicago Times

For days they rode through the badlands, poisoned by alkaline water at each stop, until they began the ascent into the Paha Sapa, the sacred Black Hills, promised to the Sioux in perpetuity, in this case defined as until the government had other ideas for its use. They were not allowed to be there. Custer felt the thrill of the explorer. He had been given sole command of an expedition explicitly in violation of the Fort Laramie Treaty.

This was the territory of the fiercest Sioux tribe, the Lakota, a group composed of seven tribes—Hunkpapa, Oglala, Brulé, Miniconjou, Two Kettles, Sans Arc, and Sihasapa—that shared not only geography but language and customs, often intermarrying, so war on one was war on all. Golden Buffalo explained that “Lakota” was their self-given name, meaning friend or ally. The army always used “Sioux,” which meant enemy.

The official object was to find a passage from the Missouri River agencies to the Yellowstone River and to locate a site for a possible fort between them. They also were looking for minerals, timber, or arable land, and found all three in abundance. The unofficial expectation was of course centered on gold. It was the magic word, which once unleashed would bring a flood of prospectors. Although illegal they would be protected by the military, thus breaking yet another treaty.

The mob was waiting with pick, axe, and shovel, eager for the next gold rush and its promise of quick wealth. The government, worried about the faltering economy, did not want to say no to this spoiled child. The newspapers were impatient for a yea. Only a figurehead was needed, and Custer had been chosen for the dubious honor, his likeness in the newspapers promising riches in the wilderness. If not him, it would be someone else. More and more, he felt a puppet to the machinations of Washington.

The expedition included twelve companies of cavalry and infantry, guides, scouts, interpreters, teamsters, a cannon, three Gatling guns (which regularly delayed even such a leisured march), and more than a hundred wagons. There was a scattering of scientists, geologists, miners, and journalists. An epic journey that would be recorded as it unfolded, an exploration with a foregone conclusion.

The journey itself was everything he desired. Sacred, edenic country. He wrote to a friend that such a trip “would do more to strengthen your energies physical and mental than anything you might do.” It did such for him, and except for missing Libbie he would gladly have it go on for twice as long.

They rode through a petrified forest, traversing the ruin of a long-vanished nature, trunks and branches preserved as in their living prime. It was an eerie, sublime sight, and he longed to stay to view it in the moonlight. What, he wondered, would the wind sound like strung through such stony harps?

When they first entered the hills, Custer watched as Golden Buffalo dismounted and kneeled. He burned a bundle of herbs, waving it back and forth while chanting. His face was so serious, Custer couldn’t help but tease him.

—Didn’t know you went in for this hocus-pocus.

Golden Buffalo looked up at him.

—These hills are the spirit of the Lakota soul. They will destroy nonbelievers who enter them.

—We’ll see about that.

They entered lush valleys, meadow grass so high one had to stand in the stirrups to see beyond the end of a horse’s head. A great white crane glided down from the hills over the green-treed canopy like a feathered angel, its wingspan as wide as a man’s arms outstretched. Custer stopped the column and signaled for quiet as he went forward stealthily through the tall grasses. In awe of its beauty, he shot the bird as it stood in the river’s streambed searching for breakfast.

Each night they camped along rivers as fresh and crystalline as the ones in the badlands had been stagnant and clouded. Flowing freely over rocks, the water was so pure and delicious he had barrels of it stored to bring back to Libbie. They rode through fields carpeted by flowers that gave off intoxicating perfumes as they were crushed under the horses’ hooves. Each trooper leaned down and plucked his own bouquet, and looking back Custer saw an endless May Day line of cavaliers. Men had woven flowers into their horses’ manes as they rode along. Some had tucked blossoms in their hatbands or in the buttonholes of their uniforms. Luckily, the more scientifically minded pressed specimens between pages of books to later prove that the place was not a delusion but indeed an enchantment.

Custer would make this an enjoyable ride if he could help it. Since he did not believe in the aim of the expedition, he chose to ignore it, instead trying to re-create the feeling of the picnics with Libbie in Kansas. He commissioned a sixteen-piece brass band, the impressions of each day heightened by musical accompaniment: a serenade to rise in the morning, and a lullaby to send one off to sleep at night. The column was so long as it wound about switchbacks in the Black Hills that the head came across its tail at various turnabouts. The soldiers would huzzah across the chasm to one another. The sound of the band, which periodically fired up, was diminished in the grand space, sounding small and tinny, a whistling into the void.

Golden Buffalo and he sat their horses and looked over the valleys and hills, some so steep they admitted little sunlight.

—What else can one do with such wilderness but conquer its riches?

—Revere it, pray to it.

Custer shook his head.

—That’s not our way. Many years from now there will be towns and cities, ranches and farms here. There will be no room for either you or me.

The boundaries between the two men had so dissolved that they could speak honestly of their own demise.

A frisson to their pleasure was the knowledge that they were being closely followed in their movements by the outraged Sioux. Golden Buffalo pointed out the wolves stationed on overhead peaks.

—They call you wasichus. Like flies or ants. Things you cannot rid yourself of.

No white man had ever penetrated those hills, or rather none had ever lived long enough to come out and tell of it. At the first word of the discovery of riches to be unearthed, an unstoppable deluge of opportunists would break the law to come. The Sioux would murder, and the army would retaliate. A simple equation: gold equaled war. It was not a question of if, but when.

The army kept climbing higher, the air growing cooler and more healthful, passing from one virginal valley to another of even more surpassing beauty. One was thick with wild berries, and the men glutted themselves on choke cherries, blackberries, raspberries, wild strawberries, and wild plums until they appeared intoxicated. Custer found Tom sleeping in the grass, his mouth and cheeks stained purple as when he was a boy. He, too, felt like a boy in this Eden. How tired he had become, mired in routine, until he felt ancient.

He could not help the desire to keep these riches to himself; it would be better not to share it with those who would despoil it. He did not fault the Indians their fierce attachment.

As they climbed an especially steep hillside the column stopped. Custer rode up to find the cause and saw the lead wagon stuck at a high switchback, hemmed in by trees on the narrow path so that it couldn’t be turned. His favorite, Bloody Knife, and another scout had been directing it.

—Whose fault is this? he demanded.

The scout pointed at Bloody Knife, figuring he would more easily be forgiven.

Custer’s anger flared, sure the two had been drinking, telling tall tales and not paying attention to driving the mules. Favorite or not, Bloody Knife regularly got out of hand. Custer drew out his pistol and shot at them both as they jumped off their horses, ran, and ducked behind trees.

When he’d emptied both his gun and his temper, Bloody Knife walked up to him, grabbing his horse’s reins so that he couldn’t maneuver his crop for a lash.

—You have the madness of a bull buffalo. If I were to act as you do, you would not see another day, Bloody Knife said.

—Then you are lucky I am such a poor shot.

Bloody Knife looked away, not amused.

—Forgive me, my friend. It will not happen again.

—It is forgotten, and we both know it will happen again. As a token, I will accept you speeding my ask of a new saddle.

Meek, Custer nodded and shook hands.

*   *   *

THE SIOUX WOLVES did not move closer, and Custer wondered at their restraint. Throughout the journey his guides would spot silhouettes on the faraway hills watching the army’s progress. When they stumbled on a recently vacated village, he worried it was an ambuscade. He sent Bloody Knife and the Arikara scouts to reconnaissance. They returned in double time, reporting the location of the Lakota and asking permission to attack their traditional enemy.

Custer shook his head.

—This is an exploratory mission. We aren’t here to kill if we can help it.

—Let us go alone. It is our right.

—I will not start a war to please you.

—We will go without the army.

—No! That is an order. Stand down. You are a soldier first, an Indian second, understand?

Bloody Knife stalked away and refused to speak with him.

Custer had to beg Golden Buffalo to come with him to approach the camp with a white flag. He wasn’t entirely pacifist, though, grabbing the Lakota chief One Stab as guide and hostage, ensuring safe passage until they left the hills. Bloody Knife and the Arikaras were forced to guard him. It was putting the foxes in charge of the henhouse.

—If anything happens, it will be your scalps, Custer told them.

*   *   *

A SCOUT LED THEM to a cave known to be a place of powerful medicine to the Sioux. Offerings were laid outside the entrance in the dirt: bracelets, beads, pipes, flints, as well as scalps, knife blades, pistols, and a human skull. The cave was rumored to wind for miles inside the hill. Strange, unearthly noises could be heard echoing deep inside its belly.

As the men walked in, their way lit by oil-rag torches, the noise of their voices and feet set off a cacophony of echoing sound. The walls showed drawings of animals, reptiles, and fish. Deeper in the cave the floor was crusted in guano, and the men ducked at the fluttering terror of bats loosing themselves from the ceiling to escape. Custer took a sideways glance at a spooked Tom, then snuck up behind his brother and grabbed his head in a lock. The two were immediately scuffling along the floor, their laughter gruesomely amplified through the deeper caverns. The other soldiers were annoyed at their hijinks.

The drinking started that night and continued till dawn. The absence of danger from the Sioux relaxed the men too much. If they were attacked the next morning, they likely would be slaughtered one and all in their stupor. It had been long since Custer had challenged the insubordination of drinking, instead choosing to turn a blind eye to win his men’s goodwill. He himself abstained, it being the easier of his sins to banish.

Unknown to him, a young private was suffering from diarrhea and pleurisy, but the doctors, too deep in their cups, overlooked treatment for two days until on the third a grave had to be dug instead. This was the freedom and lack of discipline that the men had been so bitter at being denied. Custer wrote to Libbie about the grizzly he killed, listening to band concerts, and playing the first baseball game ever in the Black Hills, but omitted mention of the private who had perished.

I am coming to the cross;

I am poor and weak and blind;

I am counting all but dross;

I shall full salvation find.

One afternoon he was distracted while writing by the sound of church hymns being sung, only to discover it was from a group of Indian scouts who had sung in choir on the reservation and had taken a liking to the music. For the length of the song Custer’s heart was at peace, which showed how much it was otherwise most times. He prayed for the first time in his life sincerely that maybe, just maybe, this glimpse of assimilation could be the answer to the Indians’ dilemma.

Golden Buffalo looked into his tent and saw him in prayer.

—Hi’es’tzie is okay?

—’Course I am. Doing God’s work.

*   *   *

AT NIGHT HE BEGGED OFF joining the men in their revelries with the excuse of writing his reports and letters home. It was past time sending the fateful report of gold. If not him, others would announce it, but if he refused at least that particular sin wouldn’t land on his conscience. He delayed.

Instead he climbed away from camp, scaling a large rock to enjoy a quiet place to see the stars. A large comet scraped the bottom of the sky and cheers came from the camp below, guns fired into the air—lucky he wasn’t accidentally shot by his own. The Indian scouts declared it was either a good omen or a bad one, which seemed to cover just about every eventuality.

To the extent that anyone chose to set store on such nonsense, the comet put him in mind of the sighting of the morning star before the battle on the Washita, so he chose to find in it a prophecy of success. Thirty-three was a ripe old age in the cavalry; not promoted, it wore even more roughly. This band of Sioux was among the last rebellious, and then what? The old girl would not be able to pretend cheerfulness many years longer at staying a military wife. Resounding success must come and come soon to land them a comfortable civilian existence. He had been rebuffed soundly at every business venture. The truth was he couldn’t imagine a life he wanted to live outside the army, but soon he would have no choice. Domestic life had always felt like a coffin being built around him one board at a time.

*   *   *

HIS FIRST SIGHTING of a comet, he had been but a boy, out with Tom and a group of other scoundrels on a hunting trip. A bobcat had come at him and Tom, scaring his young brother so much that he had peed his pants. Custer shot the cat and then ordered Tom to grab it and dunk himself in the river. When the other boys came at the sound of gunfire, he claimed that Tom had stolen up on the cat, grabbed it, and jumped in the river to drown it, otherwise it would have torn Custer in half. The boys had hoisted Tom on their shoulders and paraded him around the campfire, much to his mortification. He looked young and afraid up on those shoulders, and Custer sensed his brother did not belong there above other men.

That night, the boys had all been mesmerized by the shooting fireball of a comet. They hooted and shouted much like the men below Custer now.

—What does it mean? Tom had whispered all those years ago.

—It means I will always be there to protect you.

Now Tom sat below in camp, his head probably doused in a bucket of whiskey. Chasing after whores and cowed by Libbie, he was a brave, fearless soldier who was yet afraid to be a husband.

When the brothers had dinner privately in his tent the night before, Custer had egged his brother for losing the hand of yet another pretty girl who had come visiting at Fort Lincoln, and was set to marry one of the officers on their return. Libbie was deep in preparations for the celebration.

—So how’d you manage to bungle that one?

—Didn’t want her.

—She was good-looking. Practically threw herself at you. Tom, teach me to ride. Tom, teach me to shoot. Lots of opportunities to steal a kiss.

Tom said nothing.

—Are you stewed?

—Nope.

—Lulie would have never come out here. You know that?

—I figured.

Custer slammed his cup down. Tom had been this way since boyhood, so silent and self-effacing he melted into the rug.

—Damn it, man! It’s good to grow old with someone.

Tom nodded.

—I have you and Libbie.

*   *   *

IF CUSTER WAS HONEST, he himself did not understand much except war. The Custers were not what one would call well rounded. He did not understand the passing of time, did not know why his loved ones, even while underfoot, grew distant and changed. He did not understand why he ended up spending the least amount of time with those he loved the most, and despite his best intentions he also ended up hurting those very same ones. In his mind he had prepared long ago to die among strangers on a battlefield, but why should he also live as among strangers? He had a gift for making friends yet still felt alone most of the time. During the War he could have just as well fought for the Confederate cause; he had as many friends on both sides. Now he did not know why he fought the Indians, some of whom he also counted as friends, except that he was told to do so.

The hills, so vast, so lovely, made him melancholy. Around him on the rock came his usual spectral companions, grown in number, the Indians fair equaling the Confederates now. If only Libbie was at his side. She could make sense of everything, give him confidence in his endeavor. Only she had the power to make the ghosts go away.

Procrastination was fruitless. He would write the report that was expected of him, sending it post-haste by courier.

As he noted, almost every corner of the earth yielded gold if enough effort was used in its extraction. It was simply a determination of whether the effort was worth the gain. Insisting on invading sacred land and igniting a war was a steep price.

He would not much exaggerate the small find, but anything would be enough to ignite the next rush.

The newspapers would make him famous again, waxing on about the riches to be found, even though the geologist on the trip said he said seen gold in only the smallest amounts; that man was reviled in the papers, declared unpatriotic.

Unlike the previous Yellowstone expedition, here in the Black Hills Custer felt keenly the violation of expansion. He sympathized against the duplicity of the government. It stung when he later found that the Sioux named the route he took back to Fort Lincoln “Thieves’ Road.”