Nothing lives long. Only the earth. And the mountains.
So sang the Cheyenne chief, standing in front of his lodge, watching Chivington’s soldiers ride their horses around the camp, shooting and killing.
The men. The women. The children. The old.
One soldier tore open the belly of a pregnant woman and chopped up the unborn baby.
Grant called the massacre nothing less than murder.
But none faced trial. None faced justice.
You can still hear the screams in the wind.
You can still hear the Cheyenne death song.
You can still hear the gunfire, the dust, the evil, and fear.