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  “Good morning, sir,” said Colonel Reynolds.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” replied the general. “Report.”

  “The men are mustered and prepared for the attack,” reported the colonel.

  “What is the status of our artillery?” asked the general.

  “The Hotchkiss gun batteries of the 1st and 2nd Artilleries are stationed on the southern plateau,” replied the colonel. “They are fully operational. Awaiting your orders, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  General Miles surveyed the dark landscape. To the left of his tent was the Missouri River. A glow over the river to the east signaled the approaching dawn, illuminating wisps of fog on the water. The river’s creek tributary, which separated the army camp from the Lakota village, was 100 yards directly in front of him. The general turned to his right. In the ascending pre-dawn light, the murky shapes of thousands of mounted cavalry soldiers, punctuated by hundreds of lanterns and torches, began to crystallize into sharper relief. Thousands more infantrymen stood at the rear of the cavalry. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, it threw its first beams of yellow light on the flags of the United States and the cavalry regiments, flapping gently in a light river breeze. Beyond the soldiers stood hundreds of tents.

  The bucolic morning sounds of the peaceful river were oppressed by a legion of snare drums, peppered with bugle calls.

  The general, Hollingsworth, and Reynolds strode toward the creek. A dozen men, the general’s senior staff, waited on the creek shore. Four of the men examined the village across the creek through brass scopes. The general noticed orange flames erupting from the barricades on the opposing shore he had observed the previous day. His staff turned and saluted. General Miles returned the salute.

  As the sun rose, the men could see that the fires belched black and white smoke into the sky. They could scarcely see the distant village tipis through the thick smoke.

  “Good morning, General,” said Colonel William Munroe.

  “Report, Colonel,” said General Miles. “What are the savages up to this morning?”

  “As you can see, sir, they’ve set fires to the timber barricades surrounding the village,” replied Colonel Munroe. “As reported yesterday, the Indians have relocated their tipis to the southeast, where the Grand River meets the Missouri River—approximately 2,000 yards south of our camp.

  “From what we can observe, the barricades are a series, set in parallel, between our forces and the village,” Colonel Munroe continued. “Indians may be hiding behind them. We have not observed any other activity. The village appears quiet.”

  “Madness,” replied General Miles. “This man Mason claims to be an army colonel, and yet he’s backed his army against the junction of two rivers with no means of retreat.”

  “Yes sir, I concur,” replied Colonel Munroe.

  At that moment, they saw a plume burst from the western edge of the village smoke bank. The officers trained their scopes on the hurdling object at the head of the smoke trail. It was a decorated warrior on a painted bay horse, galloping at high speed. The equine comet was on a trajectory toward the plateau, where the Hotchkiss gun batteries prepared to fire on the village.

  “What the devil is he up to?” asked the general.

  The men watched warily as the warrior closed on the plateau.

  “Your orders, sir?” asked the colonel.

  “Signal the gun battery,” the general commanded. “Artillery commence fire.”

  “Yes sir, artillery commence fire.”

  The colonel turned to a lieutenant, who ran to a nearby campfire. He pulled a torch out of the fire and began to wave it in the air.

  Two miles to the southwest, atop a 1,700-foot plateau, Major James Franklin stood with a company of soldiers from his artillery regiment. Before him, four Hotchkiss gun cannons oversaw the village from half a mile away. Hundreds of village tipis were packed into the corner formed by the intersection of the Grand River to the south and the Missouri River to the east.

  Major Franklin observed that the plain between North Creek and the huddled tipis had erupted in flame and dense smoke. A series of parallel barricades belched fire and smoke into the dawn. Smoke also poured from the tipis, obscuring the battlefield with a thick haze.

  The major shifted his gaze to the left, scanning the thousands of assembled cavalry and infantry with awe. It was probably the largest assembly of soldiers he would witness in his lifetime. A pang of guilt tugged at him. He knew he was about to witness a slaughter. The natives stood no chance.

  Crews stood by each of the four Hotchkiss guns. Soldiers stood nearby with crates of ammunition, canisters of grapeshot shrapnel that would shred the village and its inhabitants in a matter of minutes. With such awesome firepower, the major knew there would be nothing left for the massive cavalry and infantry to do except count the dead.

  A blinding sun peaked over the Missouri River to the east and slightly to the left of their line of fire. The major noticed a trail of dust and smoke approaching the plateau. He picked up his scope. A lone warrior had emerged from the sea of smoke. He was riding toward the plateau at breakneck speed—within 200 yards and closing rapidly.

  “The signal, sir!” shouted a lieutenant as he saw the waving torch from camp. “Your orders?”

  “Gun crew one,” replied the major, “load grapeshot canister. Make that bad Indian into a good Indian. Commence fire.”

  “Yes sir,” replied the gunnery soldier as his crew opened the breach of their Hotchkiss gun and loaded a metal canister. Once secure, the men stepped away.

  The warrior closed within 100 yards of the plateau. Major Franklin noticed that the tribesman appeared to be wearing a bowler hat.

  “Ready,” shouted the gunnery soldier.

  “Fire!”

  The soldier pulled the gun lanyard. A sharp blast blew from the gun as it recoiled back, rocketing a spray of lead balls toward the approaching warrior. The major watched the warrior as he and his horse were cut down in midstride. The force of the shrapnel blew the warrior off the horse’s back. He tumbled to the ground before coming to a dead stop.

  At the base of the plateau, Takoda’s body shrieked with pain from the shrapnel. Blood gushed from multiple wounds. A piece of grapeshot had smashed his left cheekbone. His bay horse lay on his side, kicking and squealing from the pain of his wounds. Gushing blood mixed with the brilliant yellow, red, and blue paint on his bay skin.

  In his hand, Takoda held the wireless detonator he had taken from Ogaleesha.

  “Padma, wah-shday che la ke,” he said as he pressed the detonator button.

  The plateau erupted into a fireball as C4 charges and dynamite planted beneath the soldiers’ feet detonated in an explosion that rattled the countryside. Men, guns, wagons, and horses were blown high into the air, then rained off the plateau. Kyle and Annika had correctly guessed where General Miles would park his big guns.

  Takoda laughed through his excruciating pain as he watched the massive explosion light up the dawn sky. He was overjoyed that his dying sight had permitted him this vision—a knife thrust deep into the invincible white army.

  As fragments of smoking artillery, ammunition, and body parts rained down around him, Takoda crawled to his suffering horse. He cradled the animal’s head with one arm, and drew his knife with the other. He looked into his horse’s eyes, wide with pain and fear. With a quick stroke, he slit his horse’s throat. His horse squealed, then quickly bled out. He noticed his bowler hat lying next to him. He reached for it, pulled it on, then rested his head on his horse’s warm belly. Satisfied with his life, he closed his eyes, released his final breath, and died.

  The percussion of the plateau explosion hit the army camp with a thunderclap. Startled cavalry horses jerked and snorted in reaction to the blast.

  General Miles and his s
enior staff were aghast. Like Major Franklin, they had assumed the artillery gun crews would obliterate the village, leaving little for the cavalry and infantry to mop up.

  The general’s shock turned to rage with the realization that his primitive opponents had managed to land a serious blow to his massive army.

  “Score one for you, Colonel Mason,” said General Miles. “You should enjoy your moment while you can.”

  “Beg your pardon, General?” asked Colonel Munroe.

  “Order your regiments to attack,” commanded the general. “Give no quarter. Kill them all.”

  “Attack. Yes sir!” replied the colonel. He turned to a lieutenant and ordered the attack. Bugle calls signaled the order to the troops. Roars rose from the regiments as their commanders exhorted their soldiers to wage a battle that was a certain victory.

  Colonel James Forsyth sat on his quarter horse at the lead of the 7th Cavalry, commanding 12 companies totaling 1,000 men. Mounted flagbearers stood next to him, holding the cavalry’s colors as well as those of the United States and the companies on the regiment’s leading edge. Forsyth was a pudgy man of 55 years. His pasty face was easy for his troops to recognize, even in the faint dawn light. A graying brown mustache covered his upper lip, appearing unnatural on his face, as though it had been carelessly glued there.

  The men of the 7th had a special axe to grind against Sitting Bull, whom they held responsible for the slaughter of their cavalry’s Colonel George Armstrong Custer, along with 267 of his soldiers.

  “Gentlemen!” Colonel Forsyth shouted, pulling his sword and holding it high, “do you remember the Little Big Horn?”

  “Yes!” roared the soldiers.

  “Do you wish to avenge our fallen brothers?” he shouted.

  “Huzzah!” roared the troops.

  “Then follow me, men!” shouted Colonel Forsyth. “Follow me to victory!”

  The men cheered wildly as Colonel Forsyth galloped into North Creek, holding his sword aloft as thousands in his fellow cavalry regiments joined him in the charge.

  Upon reaching the opposite bank of the creek, the cavalry charged toward the first flaming barricade at full gallop, crossing the 2,000 yards of flat plain in minutes. Thousands of infantrymen ran behind the cavalry, roaring as they approached the enemy village.

  The leading edge of Colonel Forsyth’s cavalry reached the first of the series of flaming barricades. Forsyth observed something odd about it. The barricade wasn’t a solid wall. There were two openings in the wall, 100 yards apart. The gateways were 30 feet wide, allowing five cavalrymen through at a time. The cavalry split at the middle of the first barricade to drive through the two entrances. The soldiers pulled their pistols as they drove through the barricade, expecting an ambush on the other side.

  The first soldiers who cleared the barricade entrances scanned for trouble. There was none. They faced a second wall of flaming, smoking cottonwood tree branches and brush. The riders split their regiments again, trotting along the corridor between the two barricades to find openings in the second barricade. This one offered three gateways—one in the center and two at the outer edges.

  Colonel Forsyth grew increasingly concerned. The barricades were not designed to repel the army. They were intended to manage it.

  The army repeated the drill through an additional two barricades. The maze split the charging cavalry again and again, dissolving the orderly columns into increasing confusion. By the time the cavalry cleared the final barricade, it had devolved into an undisciplined mob of horses and men riding headlong into a thick, smoky fog.

  Through the heavy smoke, the leading riders could see the cone shapes of dozens of tipis in front of them. Smoke belched from tipi openings. The dense smoke and dim morning light blinded the soldiers. The first cavalry soldiers made out tribespeople standing by their tipis. They opened fire, shooting the tribespeople and their tipi homes. When the infantry soldiers caught up with the cavalry, they joined the melee, firing at anything standing. The stampeding horde of cavalry riders and infantry soldiers drove deeper into the village, approaching the tipis that bordered the Grand River to the south. The rush of confident exhilaration the soldiers had felt as they rode into battle mutated to a chilling fear in the blinding smoke as they heard the first screams of wounded soldiers.

  The cries of the wounded, hit by gunfire, punctuated the yells of officers and soldiers attempting to establish order in the chaos. Soldiers panicked in the murderous fog, shooting indiscriminately. A chorus of thousands of gunshots and wounded, terrified, screaming soldiers gave a voice to the ocean of smoke, now blindingly bright in the piercing dawn light.

  As Colonel Forsyth and the leading edge of his cavalry emerged from the village on its far edge by the Grand River, something tripped their horses, pitching hundreds of riders onto the ground. Forsyth flew over his horse’s head, crashing to the ground on his right shoulder. He pulled himself to his feet. His right shoulder was dislocated. Around him were hundreds of fallen cavalrymen. Riderless horses bolted, snorting with fear as they galloped through the village. Colonel Forsyth pulled his Colt revolver with his left hand as his right arm hung useless at his side. He noticed that something strange was happening to the tipis—their buffalo hides were sliding off their wooden frames. The horses had snagged tripwires, throwing their riders while simultaneously releasing the tipi covers, which fell to the ground. Spooked, thousands of soldiers fired into the skeletons of the animated tipis. Hundreds more soldiers fell to the ground, wounded by crossfire. Individual soldiers, realizing their slaughter was the result of the Messiah’s sorcery, began calling her name. The chilling epiphany metastasized throughout the mob into a collective terror.

  Forsyth was dazed in a maelstrom of smoke, gunfire, and the screams of the wounded. His disorientation was compounded by the pain of his dislocated shoulder. He walked aimlessly in the smoke, trying to avoid being shot by fellow soldiers or trampled by panicked horses.

  In the haze, Forsyth tripped on something at his feet—it was the body of a fallen Lakota brave. He kicked it. Something was wrong. The body was light. He heard the crunch of grass hay. He looked more closely—it was a scarecrow!

  Through the smoke, the colonel saw other bodies scattered around the tipis. He ran to one and kicked it—another strawman!

  “Cease fire!” he shouted. “Cease fire!”

  Only the closest soldiers could hear the colonel through the gunfire, screams, and shouts. Other soldiers and officers began to repeat the colonel’s order through the regiments. The gunfire died down, then ceased. Only the cries of wounded soldiers could be heard through the fog.

  Forsyth smelled an odd scent in the air. It was familiar—the smell of almonds. He felt his pulse quicken. His breathing accelerated with his heart. He assumed the excitement of battle and the shock of his injury propelled his heartbeat. He approached one of the denuded tipis to take a closer look. A smoke fire burned inside the tipi frame. Through the smoke, he saw the shards of a large broken clay jug, which had been shattered by the gunfire. The jug had been suspended by twine from the tipi’s apex. Beneath the clay fragments was a large wooden bucket partially buried in the ground. When the jug was shattered, whatever it contained had spilled into the bucket, producing a bubbling slurry when it reacted with the bucket’s contents.

  “Colonel!” shouted a soldier.

  Forsyth spun around. The terrified face of the soldier who stood before him was beet red. The soldier fell to Forsyth’s feet. Forsyth looked around. Hundreds of soldiers and horses lay on the ground, convulsing. In moments, Forsyth’s vision went dark as he too fell to the ground, unconscious.

  Across the creek, General Miles and his staff scanned the smoke-filled battlefield through their scopes with growing alarm. Though they couldn’t see anything through the smoke bank, they heard the roar of gunfire and screams crescendo, then rapidly diminish to
complete silence. All the men could hear was the rustling of cottonwood leaves as a breeze blew through them from the south. The senior officers looked at each other, feeling a chill of fear. In their many years of military experience, they had never known a battlefield to go completely silent so quickly.

  They scanned the village through their scopes.

  “I see something,” said Colonel Munroe.

  They could make out the shape of a cavalry horse in the clearing smoke. The horse was motionless on the ground. As the smoke receded, it revealed the shapes of dozens of bodies—human and equine—scattered on the ground. The body count grew to hundreds, then thousands.

  “Good God!” the general said.

  The officers were horrified. Their army, one of the world’s mightiest, had been wiped out in minutes. They had never witnessed a massacre of this proportion.

  The officers felt the breeze wafting north from the battlefield on their faces. They sniffed the almond scent of the hydrogen cyanide gas cloud that washed over them. The two common agents used in the Homestake mine to process gold ore, sulfuric acid and potassium cyanide, had been combined into the world’s most lethal weapon of mass destruction in 1890. The soldiers had sealed their fate when they fired into the tipis, shattering the jugs that released the acid into the buckets of potassium cyanide. The gas rendered its victims into a convulsing unconsciousness in seconds, bringing death in minutes.

  The officers looked at each other’s beet red faces in terror. They instinctively looked to their general for help in their final moments. The general, wide-eyed in shock and disbelief, had few words for his men.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He fell to the ground, unconscious, convulsing. Within minutes, the general, his staff, and every remaining human and animal lay dead on the ground, thus concluding the historic Massacre of Grand River.