Structured by facts, we feel a sense of urgency. This really happened, is really happening. How will it turn out? Will Private Neubauer live through the coming fight? Will Yellow Dog? Will Black Leg Doe? Are there not children in the village? What will become of them? Why are these mounted men so bent on attacking this peaceful gathering? We honestly do not know. Either Mr. U. has loaded only part of the Mod, or the Mod itself possesses a tight temporal confinement feature, i.e., reveals itself only gradually, i.e., is arranged into “chapters.” In any event, we are, so to speak, on the edge of our seats. We are still riffing somewhat on top of the facts (I have, for example, given the private a riding-related back injury not suggested by the Mod), but with so many facts at our disposal, there is less need, as well as less room within which, to riff.

Then our Singers join in.

And it is a wonderment.

Sometimes they will double, with their Singing, the words we are Speaking. Other times they arrange themselves into two-or three-Singer clusters, Singing the experiences of individuals peripheral to the main action (those proximate to Private Neubauer, Reno, Yellow Dog, or Black Leg Doe, for example). At one point, each Singer becomes a different Lakota youth racing along the banks of the river, back toward the village, sounding the alarm. In a truly startling moment, all eleven Singers break into a complex fugue representing the collective mindstate of Reno’s troops as they attack (their excitement, their longing for home, their anticipation of a quick, painless victory).

Even as we are part of it, are somewhat lost in it, we know it is amazing.

Mr. U. puts us on Pause.

“My gosh,” he says. “My goodness.”

We Speakers, we Singers stand there, out of breath, proud and beautiful in our exhaustion.

Like the horses of the Seventh, we think, like the ponies of the tribes.

· · ·

We Rehearse late into the night, running through it again and again, adding layers of detail with each Pass.

Warriors on horseback begin appearing on Reno’s flanks. He has been drinking whiskey from a flask all morning. Stricken by anxiety, fearing an ambush, he halts the charge, orders the men into a skirmish line. With this, all hope of a quick victory is lost. Hundreds of warriors materialize, as if from the dust. Among Reno’s troopers, order begins to break down. Men sneak away from the line, taking refuge in a grove of trees nearby. In the grove, Reno’s Arikara scout, Bloody Knife, is shot in the head. His brains splatter across Reno’s face. This traumatic event (marked by the Singers with a series of jarring, atonal chords) unhinges Reno. He calls for his men to dismount, then remount. Abruptly, he bolts away ahead of his troops without sounding the retreat. Later he will claim this was meant to be a charge through the Indian lines. In fact, badly frightened, he has forgotten entirely about his men, these men who have entrusted him with their lives. Many die now, ridden down like buffalo by warriors as they try to reach, and then cross, the river. Some who have lost their horses are killed as they scramble on hands and knees up what will evermore be known as Reno Hill.