On the Little Big Horn

 Visualizing the Terrifying Scenes Enacted

in Big Horn County, Montana, on June 25, and 26, 1876

 

All America Will this Month Join

in Commemoration of Fiftieth Anniversary of Custer Disaster

 

(By Dan R. Conway)
Pageant to Commemorate 50th Anniversary of Battle of The Little Big Horn, June 25-27

The program for commemoration of the battle of the Little Big Horn in which General George A. Custer and every member of the five companies in his immediate command were annihilated by the Sioux, Cheyennes and other Indian tribes, has been completed by the general committee of the National Custer Memorial association which is sponsoring the observance of the semi-centennial anniversary.

The program calls for participation of the Seventh United States cavalry now stationed at Fort Bliss, Texas, and Sioux and Cheyenne Indians, descendants of those warriors who administered to Custer’s little command the most decisive defeat ever suffered by an American army unit in a hatchet burying pageant commemorative of 50 years of peace.

A program sponsored by the Crows and other Montana, Wyoming and Dakota Indian tribes depicting the customs, dances and life of the redskin of 50 years ago, together with all Indian rodeo, will start on the afternoon of June 26 at the conclusion of the ceremony at the Indian village two miles from the battlefield.

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Far roll the lines of battle, o’er swamp and vale and height,
And, far and near, the battle-flags toss in the morning light;
A brave array is spread today to joust with waiting Death
And fan the face of Destiny with sacrificial breath!
****

When the thousands of Americans (both white and red) have gathered together on the banks of the Little Big Horn river, on the twenty-fifth of this month, that gathering will be in marked contract to that which took place in that historic valley and on the hills which bound it, just fifty years ago.

It was just fifty years ago that General Crook had early in the month of June 1876 struck Sitting Bull (in the Battle of the Rosebud), and put him to flight after a severe thrashing. This so humiliated the Indian chief that he sent runners to the Northern Cheyennes asking them to join him at once on the Little Big Horn, whose water were already rising from the melting snows.

Sitting Bull hated the white race. He was determined to strike at all of its products or representatives in his effort to stem the tide of an advancing white invasion. From his camp he sent out braves, across the plains and mountains to notify his fellow chiefs that the soldiers were coming to kill his people and confiscate their property. Ghost dances were then kept up until the Sioux nation was almost crazy with hate and lust of war. Daily new arrivals poured in to the aid of Sitting Bull. Presently the river was fringed with tepees for a space of six miles. Here were the warriors of the Sioux, Cheyennes, Minne-Conjoues, Orgolies, Uncapapas, Bloods, Piegans, and others, whose lodges numbered more than eighteen hundred.

Generals Terry and Custer had been sent by the war department to subdue Sitting Bull and force him and his followers onto a reservation there to remain. The command of Terry halted at the mouth of the Rosebud and held a council, with the result that General Custer was sent forward to strike the red warriors at a certain point while he would attack them by way of the Big Horn at the same time and follow up the Little Big Horn. Custer arrived at his point ahead of schedule. On June 25th, after sending Major Reno and part of the command to strike the head of the camp, he made his attack. The remainder of the story is common knowledge to all Americans.

To Bury the Hatchet

The throng that will amass on the Little Big Horn this month will have a different motive in view. The days of 1876 were days of misunderstanding and a time of race hatred. Today, advanced civilization has brought both white and red to common ground with common ideals. And, it is fitting, in deed that the main feature of the Custer Memorial pageant will be the “burying of the hatchet.” Representatives of both races will thus make manifest their confidence one in the other and symbolize their regret of the horrible incident of fifty years ago.

On Custer Hill

On two different occasions, it has been my privilege to visit the Custer battleground, the latest of these being at the time of the exercises and maneuvers which marked the forty-fifth anniversary of the battle, in June, 1921. On both trips to the historical site, with others, I was guided over the contours of the famous hill that rises from the bank of the Little Big Horn; old-timers and aged Indian chiefs explained the positions of the combating forces; the battle in all its gruesome detail was re-enacted.
Giving full leash to imagination, a terrible picture of terrific action passed in panorama before my mind. I could vision this yellow-haired hero - General George A. Custer - calling his men together and telling them of the hard fight ahead, at the same time assuring them that if each man would stand by his post, their efforts would be crowned with victory. Imagination pictured absolute confidence on the countenance of that military leader. He had sent Major Reno to attack the Indian camp at the head of the creek, and with the remainder of his command, he was himself, to strike the village at its lower end. He was not aware of the fact that Reno had crossed the river with part of his command, but had been forced back by the Indians, nor that Reno was compelled to recross the stream and throw up breast-works, acting more on the defensive than the attack.

Indians Surround Custer

Then, I could see this warrior, Chief Gall, with all his braves flanking Custer on the east, and closing in on his rear, while Two Moon and his Cheyennes were moving up the north dry-gulch, and Sitting Bull and his Uncapapa Sioux in menacing numbers swarming along under the river banks, entirely surrounding the soldiers. All this in almost less time than it takes to tell it for it was to be a battle to the finish so far as the red man was concerned. It was the final test of his strength as matched against that of the threatening forces of an advancing civilization.
As these Indian leaders - Gaul, Two Moon, Sitting Bull, Crow King, Crazy Horse and the others - advanced up the slight rise, far enough to see the soldiers when they stood erect, dismounted, they rose, fired, emitting a blood-curdling war whoop. Then I could picture the hopelessness of the situation for these brave troopers; for, although they were fighting unflinchingly to the very last, they could not hope to be able to cope with the horde of mounted warriors who, en masse, giving whip to their ponies, rushed upon the Custer forces. The firing was intense. Even the small boys of the tribesmen were riding unsaddled ponies at maddening pace through the edges of the battle-riddled hillside shooting at the troopers already fallen. It was a maddening din with the whoops from savage throats vying with the carbines. Then, presently all is over on Custer Hill, and it was a horrible sight to behold. Each soldier, who with Custer had sacrificed his life, lay where he had fallen in that ill-fated expedition. Every move was plain, and none could deny that they had fought bravely and well.

 

After the Battle

When the dust and smoke had risen, there were the soldiers - some of them with not a vestige of clothing left - their scalps torn from them - heads and bodies savagely crushed - mutilated beyond recognition. What a terrifying picture it must have been that greeted General Terry and his battalion when they arrived the following day.
Far in the distance, I imagined I could see “Comanche,” the wonderful mount of Captain Keogh, galloping away from the scene, the sole living thing that was a part of Custer’s command, to survive the death-dealing red charge. And, on down in the valley, somewhere hastening toward the steamer “Far West,” must be that Crow scout, “Curley,” anxious to get his message to General Terry in the vain hope that reinforcements might yet save some of the command.
As I halted spell-bound not far from where the monument and markers now stand, I could hear in fancy the terrible war whoop from six thousand throats reverberating through the hills; I could see the mad rush of these savage, the bloody scalps, and the ghoulish throng plundering the bodies of the fallen foe of every article of value, and their later return to the camp that extended for six miles along the bank of the Little Big Horn river. I could seem to hear the hoarse voice of Sitting Bull giving orders to gather the dead Indian warriors and lay them to rest in their blankets. Then the wail of the mourning squaws and children; the doleful funeral dirge that is being sung by relatives and friends of the fallen tribesmen, as these are buried, according to the Indian rites in trees - a long, last wail of lamentation, resembling more the cry of wild animals, dies on the sighing winds. (Published in the Hysham Echo Newspaper June 3, 1926)
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