July 22nd, 2009

Elizabeth Custer is one of the most fascinating characters I’ve had the pleasure to write about. She was fiercely loyal to her husband, the boy General, and tough enough to withstand months in the field with George and the 7th Cavalry. “Instinct guided me always in detecting the general’s enemies,” Elizabeth wrote about George, “and when I found them out, a struggle began between us as to my manner of treating them.” Manner of treating them. I like that expression. It’s a very polite way of letting people know that she would deal harshly with anyone who threatened her family. Her method of taking down her enemies was much more refined than that of Wyatt Earp, but just as deadly. Her behavior peaked my interest today. My brother Rick’s ex-wife is going out her way to get in touch with members of my family again and thoughts of the manner which I’d like to treat her and her odious daughter play out in my mind. How satisfying it would all be if I could act out the last scene from the film the Quick and the Dead. All the evil that licks at my family’s heels like sick dogs would be taken out. Into all these vengeful thoughts a still soft voice whispers in my ear reminding me that Jesus loves them and that I want to serve him. So I can’t do any of those things I see Clint Eastwood or John Wayne do in the movies. Elizabeth Custer didn’t simply defend her husband’s actions at the Little Big Horn because she loved him, she collected reports that supported what happened the day he and 200 other men were killed in battle. I’ve done the same with my brother. I’ve spent five years investigating his case and gathering evidence. A month ago I learned much of the evidence the prosecuting attorney said they had was made up. They lied. I thought a lot about that when I left the federal prison two weeks ago after seeing my brother. Seeing him was very hard. I walked to the parking lot and sat in my car for a long time, weeping, unable to see enough through the torrent of tears to drive away. A piece of my heart stayed at the prison – a part I feel at times is vital for my heart to continue beating at all. Nothing about this journey is familiar, comfortable, or desired. It’s like a trip to another country – to a foreign land where my brother doesn’t belong. I want so much not feel this way, to go on like it doesn’t matter, to return to the way it was. But there is no going back. There was no going back for Elizabeth Custer either. What’s gone is gone.