Ghosts of the Little Bighorn

Marrow

The long blades of prairie grass rolled against the breeze coming from somewhere in the Bighorn Mountains.  It rustled as it rolled, creating a faint swooshing sound.  All other sounds had died away as I lay there.  The sounds of battle, the cry of death, the tearing sound of a scalp as it was separated from a soldier nearby.  The nerve shattering, shrill cry of an attacking brave.  The deep pummel of horse hooves as they galloped by – some in flight, some in pursuit.  It was over before it started.  We were lost.

DSCN1780fullsizeoutput_2662

I was too tired to feel fear now.  My wounds didn’t pain me despite hearing the sounds of others nearby crying out from both injury and fear.  It was too late for that.  Now was the time for peace as death walked this place, taking one victim at a time.  It would soon consume us all…

View original post 217 more words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: