Story: The Taurus at the Little Big Horn
A belated confession about a bonehead move made at the Little Big Horn in my mother's Ford Taurus.
It’s easy to forget history. Names and dates and details get mixed up. Memories and minds fade. And true accounts of incidents in the past become disputed, and then altered, and then fought over, and then ultimately forgotten.
Such is the destiny of this account, a tale that occurs during the 125th Little Big Horn Anniversary and Reenactment, held June 25th, 2001, near Hardin in south central Montana.
I had long wanted to attend this legendary battle reenactment. It so happened I had a business meeting scheduled in Salt Lake City, just a few days prior to the event. My mother was living in Salt Lake at the time, in an assisted living center on the outskirts of dementia.
I plotted a scheme where I would fly from Portland to Salt Lake for my meeting, and drive her to Billings in her Ford Taurus to see old friends. Then I would kidnap her car and drive sixty miles south to the Little Big Horn.
She didn’t put up a fight and forgot about my plan soon after I presented it. On June 24th, I picked her up, and we hit the road for the 500-mile drive to Billings.
As we drove, our conversation took some twists and turns. Old stories were revisited and we bickered over the details. She asked me several times where we were going, and to break the tedium I responded with fictional destinations.
“Cleveland,” I said.
She snorted back, “Why would we be going to Cleveland?”
“No, Greenland.”
“We’re not going to Greenland. I know that.”
“Hardin,” I said.
She turned my way, “Hardin, Montana? That sounds good.” She smiled and I could tell she recalled the name from when we used to live in Billings. She knew her faculties were fading but still carried a glint in her eye that said don’t get wise; I’m on to you.
For fun, I suggested a game. I would give her the first name of a famous movie actor or actress and she had to give me the last name.
I started with an easy one. “Humphrey,” I said.
“Bogart,” she laughed.
“Elizabeth,” I said.
“Taylor,” she huffed. I could tell her feelings for Liz were less than fond.
“Marlon,” I said. She thought for a moment. Through her glassy eyes I could see her mind turning like tumblers in a lock. They fell into place.
She tilted her head and said, “Monroe?”
I guffawed and slapped my knee. That’s genius, I thought. Marlon Monroe. She looked at me in confusion and then laughed too, not knowing why. Then I threw her a curveball.
“George Armstrong . . . ?”
She pondered it. “Burns?”
“Good guess, but wrong. Custer!” I said. “Remember him? He was a big star for a while.”
“He was a fool, but I can’t remember why,” she said. “He wasn’t in the movies though.”
I wish I could remember more of what we talked about that day. Someday I won’t remember the trip at all. As I tell my daughter, Jasmine, be prepared because as I get older I’ll tell certain stories over and over until I have just one left. We argue over what that last story will be. Maybe this is it. But I doubt it.
On the morning of June 25th, I got up early in Billings. Mom and I were staying with friends, the Bischkes. She knew I was taking her Taurus to the Little Big Horn and declined to accompany me. On the same morning 125 years earlier, Custer and his scouts had crept up to the crest of the hill overlooking the valley of the Little Big Horn. Custer couldn’t see how many Indians were gathered there. Scouts could, and they began singing their death song.
Although unsure what awaited him, Custer seized the moment and decided to attack early that day. I, too, was unsure. I wondered how many people would be at the reenactment and whether I could get a good seat. Like Custer, I decided to attack early.
I gassed up my mother’s Taurus and stocked up on sunflower seeds and gum. Before hitting the road, I called to check in on Chet, a pal from the past whom I had not seen for several years. He had disappeared for a while and nobody seemed to know what he was up to.
When I got him on the phone and told him where I was headed, he asked to go along. I usually travel solo (or with my mother) on roadtrips, but Chet always makes things interesting, so I swung by and picked him up.
He saluted me as he got in the car and said something about reporting for duty as my second in command. He began calling me Colonel, and though I detest Custer I liked the sound of it. I told him he could be Captain Benteen. He couldn’t be Major Reno, because Reno was supposedly downing whisky during the battle and Chet had quit the sauce several years ago. It wouldn’t be right.
Chet had gained some girth since I last saw him. “I’m trying to get over 200 pounds,” he explained. “I’ve gained about 20 and I’m close, but I can’t quite get there. I’ve hit a plateau.”
“It’s good to have goals, Benteen,” I said. Then added, “Soldiers should be husky, not slim.” He gave a salute and nodded.
As we drove toward Hardin, I gazed at the Pryor Mountains in the distance, a spiritual place and homeland of Chief Plenty Coups. I lowered the windows to see better and to let out Chet’s cigarette haze. Along with his weight, he had increased his tobacco intake, mostly, he claimed, because he looked so good with a cigarette.
An hour later we were perched on barstools in Hardin, watching a parade pass by outside. Indians, cowboys, and other assorted folks rode horses, motorcycles, beat-up bikes, and a fire truck. We downed two drinks each. I had a red beer and a Bloody Mary. Chet drank a Diet Pepsi, twice.
After the parade ended, we drove down the freeway a few miles to the Little Big Horn Battlefield, where the Indians won in a rout and went on their way. But the die was cast and over the next years their numbers dwindled fast.
Arriving a couple hours early, Chet and I toured the visitor center and Custer memorial site. Then we drove up the road that winds along the river, in essence following Custer’s route in reverse. We reached the Reno-Benteen Battlefield, then turned around and drove back down the road, the same path Custer took.
Custer, hubris shining, saw his glory on the horizon. He divided his troops into three commands to execute his epic victory.
Major Reno’s force attacked straight down the valley and were quickly turned on their heels, beaten back across the river and up the hill. Captain Benteen (the real one) circled south to prevent an escape in that direction, but then turned back to aid Reno. Custer led the main force at a high trot along the ridge above the river, hoping to come up behind the Indian camp, wipe it out and engrave his name in history as the mightiest Indian fighter ever.
Chet and I took the same route as Custer. Markers off the road indicated where soldiers were killed. We took our time exploring. It was hot and the sun was sharp, like a reflection off a knife. Same conditions as the day of the battle.
“These poor suckers,” Chet said. “What a far-off place to get an axe in the skull. And a sunburn.”
“You got that right, Benteen,” I said. “Long way from home. And you can’t blame the Indians for taking your clothes and leaving you to roast.”
“White skin turned red,” Chet said.
As it came time for the reenactment, we realized the grandstand was across the Little Big Horn River, and we’d have to drive back to the frontage road to cross the river and get to the viewing area. There would be traffic. A line getting in. Money for admission.
“Captain Benteen,” I said, “I have an idea of how to approach this battle.”
“What do ya’ got in mind, Colonel?” Chet said.
“I propose we find a way to the viewing area from this side of the river, instead of going around. I think we can get a good view from this side.”
Chet took a drag and blew out a hazy smoke ring. “Capital idea, Colonel.”
We slowly drove along the ridge road and soon came upon some dirt tire tracks that led down towards the river. I stopped in the road. No one was around. We turned onto the tracks and proceeded downhill through a swale.
Look at this, I thought. I’ll bet nobody has been so bold and brilliant to make this little gambit. Chet looked at me and we grinned, thinking the same thing. We’ll sneak up on the reenactment. From the backside.
We drove down the tracks a half mile and reached a flat, shaded area near a grove of trees. We could see the grandstand across the river. We were alone. Not another soul had been so inspired. As I turned off the car I said, “We’ll hide here, Benteen. This should give us a great view.” Chet saluted, digging in his pack for another smoke.
It was getting close to start time and the grandstands were full. I could see people crammed together and I pitied them. No imagination. No audacity. They were like sheep, being led to the reenactment of a slaughter and being told where to sit. Chet and I, on the other hand, were latter-day pioneers, unafraid to strike out on our own, off the beaten path.
As I congratulated myself on our bravado, I noticed that near the grandstands stood a tripod that appeared to hold a movie camera. Standing next to it was a man waving his arm – but not as if to say hi. His arm was fully extended and had a wide sweeping motion, as if wiping snow off a windshield. He seemed upset. It dawned on me that this might be a signal for us. I looked at Chet, slack-jawed, and he looked at me, wide-eyed.
We both realized I had parked my mother’s Ford Taurus in the field of battle. And her tan sedan was about to be surrounded by a horde of angry and bewildered battle reenactors – Indians and soldiers both – all hostile to Chet and me.
I imagined arrows piercing all sides of the car, lances sticking into tires, rifle butts smashing cracks in windows. I wondered how I would explain this to my mother, in terms she could both understand and quickly forget.
Custer and his troops had traveled close to this very spot. Bent on surprising the Indians, his reception surprised him instead. He and his men reared up and reversed course, hoofing it back up the hill for their last stand.
Custer and I both recognized our situation had turned dire. “Holy shit,” I shouted to Chet. “We’re sitting in the middle of the goddamn battle site, Benteen!” Chet coughed and yelled, “Get us outta here, Colonel!” I saw the man by the tripod still waving, now jumping up and down. I fired up the Taurus, spun around, and hightailed it back up to the ridge road, checking my rearview for flying arrows.
We drove down to the frontage highway, across the river, and around to the grandstand area. By then, the reenactment had already begun. Eventually, the battle moved to the piece of land where earlier we had been so smugly parked. Dust swirled as the Indians and soldiers swept around each other, just like 125 years ago. I imagined my mother’s Taurus in the middle of it and what a thrill it would have been to be in the eye of the action – like being with Custer at the end, but without the hatchet through the head. I almost wished Chet and I had stayed where we were.
We walked over to the man with the tripod and camera. He told us he was making a documentary of the event.
“Did you see those morons who parked over there across the river?” I asked.
“Yeah, assholes almost ruined my film!”
“Probably from back east somewhere,” Chet added. Figured they could sneak up on us.”
After the reenactment, we walked down to the Little Big Horn River and waded in to cool off. It was a blistering day. Same as it was 125 years earlier when pale bodies bloated in the sun, just up the hill. I could imagine it all except the stench.
We talked with several reenactors from both sides, watering their horses in the stream. They were discussing their next reenactment. Some in Oklahoma, some in Nebraska. It was a lifestyle they enjoyed. Driving to historic battle sites and getting shot at and often killed on sunny afternoons. Then heading to the local watering hole. Keeping history alive.
As we stood in the stream, at the spot where Custer tried to cross before being chased back up the hill to his destiny, I pondered the idiocy of my forebears. How manifestly clueless we all can be. Full of bluster and bravado. I thought of my mother’s Ford Taurus pockmarked with hundreds of nicks, dents, and arrow holes. What would she say? What would a body shop say?
The next day, when I told my mother the tale of the lone Taurus, her eyebrows arched as they’d done so many times before and she said, “You ninny, I can’t leave you alone for a second. I should have gone with you.”
Looking back, I wish she had. Who knows what might have happened. It may have made a better story. Mother and son arrested sneaking into reenactment. Son confesses, mother confused.
In the end, George Armstrong got just what he deserved that bloodshed day. It’s sad he took all those poor souls down with him, including Indians and scouts and immigrant troopers who scarcely spoke a word of English.
Chet and I got what we deserved, too, a century and a quarter later. Chet got out from the shadows and enjoyed a few moments in the sun (no sunburn), and I got bucked off my high notion of myself.
And that is the tale of the Lone Taurus at the Little Big Horn. History reenacted in words. Soon to disappear into the dustbins of the mind. Another memory gone under.
🤣👏
It's no wonder this bit of prose got into the Montana Quarterly. It's a bit of writing genius!