Part 4 ~ Reno

[The Sound of the Firing Guns] Twelve different people, twelve different viewpoints. The thing that links them is one battle.

PART 4

Major Reno kept one hand on his pistol and one on his flask as he made his way on unsure feet over uncertain ground down to the bluffs. The grass was stiff in the heat, petrified in the sun, and the soil was baked hard beneath their steps, but there were holes, prairie dog holes, all over the hillside and his legs kept buckling like a newborn foal’s would as he found each one. Dr Porter tried to steady him. He found another way to dodge him.

They could hear the river and it was the same sound as it had always been, even on that day of unrest. The constancy behind all the fickle tunes and melodies echoing upstream. Reno thought that sounded terribly romantic in his mind and he wanted to laugh. His mind was fuzzy, warm, numb. He was safe as long as he had his hand on his flask.

They reached the water and Reno stopped. The troopers �" his troopers �" hadn’t kept up with him and they were now struggling behind through the trees, voices loud as though they thought the major couldn’t hear them. He waited for them, his eyes finding a man staring back at him in the clear, strangely slow current of the stream. He looked very much like the man who should have been on the hill at that moment. He had the same eyes, sore with the dust, the same beaten, scarred face, the same way of biting his bottom lip. It was bleeding, all the way down his chin and now down his throat and his jacket and his hands, staining them all red.

Reno panicked and stepped back into Dr Porter. The blood was pooling in the water below, blossoming and tainting it’s purity. A hand went to his mouth and it came away shaking. But still white.

So he looked downstream.

And there he was.

The Indians hadn’t touched him and he was just lying there as if sleeping. The hole in his chest and the blank stare in his eyes spoke of a different story. Yet Reno still approached tentatively, stopping at the lieutenant’s side to peer almost curiously down at his pale face. He expected him to blink, just once even. He didn’t.

Reno looked at him, from head to foot, petrified there in the sun and painting the grass and river, and felt his knees hit the damp ground. He raised Hodgson’s hand, found his class ring, opened his jacket, found his pocket watch, found his paper and pen. All red with blood.

He wondered what Captain Benteen would say if they came back with him.

He didn’t care what Captain Benteen would say.

He was in command. This was his wing.

They tried to lift him, three privates picking him from the wet ground and moving a few steps. His eyes were still open, watching them carrying him. The sudden popping of shots startled them all and the bluffs were suddenly alive, spitting out arrows and bullets at the unprepared soldiers. Hodgson slipped from their hands and hit the ground, falling back onto his bed of leaves and vines. They had no choice but to leave him there, head tilted back and water lapping at his hair, cleansing the sticky blood from it.

Reno could hear the arrows hissing above his head as he stooped back down to close his friend’s eyes.

He didn’t realise everyone else had disappeared back through the trees and he had to run to catch up with them, his back to the enemy. Captain Benteen had scolded someone for that only a half hour or so ago.

He would be waiting for them on the hill.

Major Reno wondered what he would say.