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admirably, but I doubt if any steamer could move faster than Kenner ’ s murderous spirit. I could have fled the boat this morning at the Powder River Depot, hoping for safety. But that would not save me: not even the massive stockade of Fort Pease had stopped the demon that Kenner has become from shredding Darby like confetti.
    So I wait, awake in the darkness on the Far West , knowing that I have not run far enough or fast enough. Tomorro w, perhaps, the steamer will reach Bismarck and civilization… but by then my body will have been torn apart by obsidian claws.
    I sit back and watch the stars through stinging tears.
    And Kenner is coming.
    ³
    The following text regarding the events on Reno Hi ll and Ge n eral Custer ’ s defeat was submitted to the Montana State Hi s torical Society by Lieutenant Edgerton. Ultimately rejected, August 1896, “ due to obvious implausibility.”
     
    “ God, I ’ m thirsty!”
    Three hundred and fifty beaten men huddled in the darkness atop Reno Hill, waiting in baffled terror and wondering when the thousands of Sioux warriors would swoop down to co m plete the massacre.
    “ Goddamn Indian cowards!” Kenner cursed, digging his knife into the baked ground. He probably would have spat in disgust , as was his habit, if his throat hadn ’ t been so parched.
    Murderous shadows hid in the wicked moonlight; huge bonfires burned in the village below, and capering warriors shouted and danced their victory over the white soldiers.
    “ If they ’ d come here one at a time, I ’ d take them all on, man to man. Then we ’ d see who ’ s the better fighter!” He stuck his knife up to its hilt into the ground.
    “ They don ’ t have to.” Barrett sounded more calm than any of them felt. “ They can just wait us out. We ’ re almost out of a m munition. Definitely out of water. All the Sioux have to do is watch the creek. With this heat, we ’ ll be dead in a few days.”
    “ God, I ’ m thirsty,” Walter Tucker whined. His thin and skittish voice matched his physical build exactly.
    “ Shut up, Tucker!” Kenn er growled at him. At least Tucker wasn ’ t talking about the wife and two babies he had left behind at Fort Abraham Lincoln; he had given up on ever seeing them again.
    “ You ’ re only making it worse.” Edgerton spoke with compa s sion to make up for Kenner ’ s ang er. “ Maybe Custer ’ ll still come.”
    Kenner laughed at the suggestion. Barrett gave a skeptical frown, but Tucker didn ’ t seem to hear. Darby, once so proud of the tomahawk he had taken from a dead warrior, now sat in s i lence, hammering the tomahawk at the gro und as if he could kill a Sioux with each blow to Sioux land.
    General Custer had charged off with his own battalion early in the afternoon, ordering Reno to attack the Indian village which turned out to be ten times larger than any of them had suspec t ed. R eno had charged into the howling hornet ’ s nest of Indians, expecting aid from Custer… aid that never arrived. Custer had disappeared.
    Reno fell back into the forest beside the creek, and, when that proved untenable, he had led his men in a desperate charge across the creek to the dubious safety of the bluffs on the other side. A costly retreat, leaving many fallen soldiers behind. But they had reached the bluffs, a defensible position.
    Now, at night, the outnumbered survivors cringed like animals waiting to be slaughtered, each man dealing with the terror in his own way. Some wailed, some prayed to God, some cursed Him for allowing this to happen, some curled up on the ground and did nothing.
    “ Wilson ’ s dead by now.” Edgerton said flatly, letting the words ha ng in the air. “ When Weir retreated, I left him wounded and hidden in a gully. I promised we ’ d organize a skirmish to come back and get him. I promised . We never did. And I promised .” The silence sobbed around him for a moment. “ We were su p posed to be the Romans, bringing civilization to this