Why must we be perpetually harassed by these literal, stupid killers? What is it that compels these disordered creatures to leave their own families behind and ride these many miles to attack us? They are humans in appearance, yet their minds seem to function not in human fashion but with the selfish shortsightedness of animals. They resemble pigs in their coloration and attitudes. These clothed pigs have come, mounted on horses, into the tender skeleton of the village, sputum in their unkempt beards, wild looks in their bloodshot eyes, as at the Washita (she was there; two of her brothers died there), where they took many women and children hostage, later making use of the women, some of whom have now drifted back, broken.

It is a good day to die, the warriors shout as they ride toward the white invaders, and they try to believe it, though their throats are dry and their hearts are pounding and the dear ones they may never see again are rapidly receding behind them; it is a good day to die, they shout, and must believe it, so that they will be able to do whatever is required of them in the terrible moments ahead, unimpeded by any longing to remain in this sweet, still-opening-to-them world.

I sneak a look at Mr. U. He is pure concentration. Are we doing well? We are. He knows it. He has them. He has Company. It is a different sort of sweat on him now: the sweat of a man bent on bringing a thing to glorious conclusion after many years of humiliation.

I sneak a look out at Company. Company is rapt. No one is examining their programs or longing to fly up through the ceiling. A wife gives her and her husband’s conjoined hand a single shake, as in: Good, right? He gives a shake back: Yes, so glad we came.

Mrs. U., in the back row, is standing, as if at attention, as if something inside is urging her to take fresh notice of this man she has, all of these years, underestimated. He is, in Performance, manifesting an energetic verve, a focused attention that, one feels, he has, all these years, been denying her.

Adult son Mike appears in the doorway, steps out, then steps back in, as if waiting for someone to arrive.

Perhaps adult son Mike has invited a date? This would be good. Perhaps, to become nicer, all adult son Mike needs is a little companionship. After all, his parents are super nice.

And, of all the nights on which adult son Mike might have invited a date, this is the best.

Because we are absolutely killing it and everyone in here knows it.

A silence falls across the valley of the Little Bighorn. Reno’s men, still pinned down, hear only the sound of their own shallow breathing. Around them, in ravines and washes, warriors move stealthily forward on hands and knees, watching for any movement from the hillside. They are young, many of them, and nervous, but this is a chance they have long dreamed of: the enemy is well and truly theirs.