Monthly Archives: February 2020

Ghost Child

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The battle at the Little Bighorn was a tremendous victory for the gathered tribes against the white soldiers of the United States Western Frontier Army entering their hallowed ground. There had been many smaller engagements between the two adversaries with the Indians normally realizing small victories if any. This time it was different. The overwhelming number of warriors engaged the soldiers and took the victory in fairly short order, handing a defeat to the cavalry unlike any they had ever seen before.

The number of the soldiers of the 7th cavalry killed in the battle at the Little Bighorn river is placed at approximately 260 killed and buried in place where they fell. The number of Indians that were also killed is not exactly known although they were far, far less than their adversaries numbering perhaps in the dozens if that many. Most if not all of the bodies of the slain warriors were removed from the field of battle immediately after the fight was over and taken back to the camp and their families.

The battlefield became a quiet eerie place where the only sounds were the rushing of the wind through the tall Montana grass where the dead had lain and the occasional call of a raven flying overhead. The gunshots, battle cries and the screaming of the victors over the moaning of those still alive after it was over were long gone. Silence reigned supreme over the Greasy Grass. It became a place where the spirits wandered over the low hills and along the riverside. It was a place of big medicine.

As time passed there were the occasional reports of things that couldn’t be explained occurring. A shadowy figure riding slowly in the near dark of impending dusk. The sound of hooves breaking the surface of the gently moving river. A pale rider just visible in the light of a full moon as he crossed slowly from one bank to another. It is unknown whether the young rider was a participant in the battle, becoming a casualty, or simply a dream produced by the medicine of the battle. In any case if you happened to be there now on that long ago battlefield, and by chance stayed until the river was illuminated by the light of a full moon, you might see the ghost child riding on his endless vigil. Remember there is big medicine there. And there are things that cannot be explained.

Crossing the Little Bighorn

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When on maneuvers the Quartermaster would pack up what was needed for the days activities such as ammunition, some medical supplies and whatever else might be useful and join the company on their march.

HIs usual position in the troops lineup was towards the rear of company where he was somewhat protected and could set up to dispense his wares as needed. HIs favorite mode of transport were his reliable mules who were steady and reliable under fire.

Being mobile and adaptable the Quartermaster was one of the most important members of the troop, bringing necessary supplies to wherever they were needed.

Open Late

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It was around mid-June, maybe the 14th or 15th of 1876 and General Alfred Terry of the United States Army had led one of the three Columns of troops heading toward the meadow known as the Greasy Grass where the Little Big Horn river flowed gently though the valley. The 7th cavalry was a part of this column under the command of General George Armstrong Custer. A large camp of Lakota and Cheyenne were known to be in the area and a huge battle was imminent.

After one of the three columns were met and turned back by the Indians General Terry halted his column and made camp. He then sent General George Armstrong Custer out with the 7th to gather intelligence on where the Indians might be camped. While Custer was gone time was spent getting the troops and their gear ready for the forthcoming battle. The Quartermaster was in charge of a sort mobile general store filled with military items and it was his job to hand out whatever was needed to keep the troops ready for action. Missing gear was reissued, repairs were made to what ever was broken or damaged, saddle straps mended, rifle slings replaced if necessary, bullet pouches filled, all the necessary small items soldiers carried with them that needed to be ready and in good condition were reconditioned and made ready for the events to come.

The Quartermaster was the person to see for any extra parts and other sundries that might be needed. Since it wasn’t known when they might see action the Quartermaster’s tent was kept open late so everyone could get what they needed. At this time there had been no word back from Custer and the troops took the opportunity to rest and make sure they were as squared away as possible before they moved out. It was a chance to get a little rest, eat some food and get ready for what ever was next. As a result the Quartermaster kept his store open late.

Whiskey’s In

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It’d been a rough couple three days at the rendezvous. The whiskey ran out just when things were going strong and the boys faced a dry spell until the next wagon got there with a fresh supply. The trader, who went into hiding shortly after he found out the whiskey was gone in fear of his hair being lifted by his customers or worse, frantically sent his assistant out to see where the incoming wagon was. The Mountain men only had one chance to drink this season and their supply was gone. The boys were getting perturbed. Things could get real dicey if they didn’t replenish the supply before somebody brought out the Hawkins.

Turned out the wagon was near but unfortunately it was upside down in Little Cowfoot creek due to the inattentiveness of the driver and the whiskey barrels were halfway down to the Green river bobbing along without a care in the world. A rescue team was sent out immediately with strict instructions to save the inventory and bring it back to camp forthwith without breaching a single one of the barrels. However Mountain men being Mountain men those instructions only lasted until they got the first barrel located and then those instructions were immediately modified due to the prevailing theory that water may have infiltrated the kegs and ruined the whiskey by diluting it. There was nothing for it but to crack the keg and check it.

A second team including the trader himself was dispatched and they found the first team in need of rescue due to incapacitation. Some were laying half in and out of the creek, some just sitting there mumbling in tongues and some just lost. Finally amid much gnashing of teeth, and threats of great harm to those rescuers if they had busted into the barrels by those left in camp, the whiskey reached the trader’s tent amid great cries of huzzah, and jubilation rang in the air. Everyone rushed to the make shift bar set up in the trader’s tent and with only a small amount of disorderly shoving and knuckle busting and an infrequent bite to the ear or back of the neck if a line jumper dared to try and improve his chances of getting his drink first, their thirst was finally satisfied.

Night Terrors

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The herd had moved back into the low rolling hills surrounding the shallow water hole keeping just below the ridgeline and bunching up with the foals inside the outer ring for safety. They didn’t have many enemies but once in awhile a grey wolf down out of the McCullough Peaks range just to the North would take a run at a new foal so they were constantly on the alert. The wolves were over from the Yellowstone area to the West and although the pickings were good there once in a while an outcast or a young male looking for a mate would find his way over and young horse flesh was a real treat if he could manage it.

The herd stallions and there were three with this bunch were nervous, constantly checking the sky and smelling the air. Their ears forward, nostrils flared, seeking any sign of danger, constantly shifting and circling the mares who were bunched as tight as they could be, keeping them as centered as they could in case they had to be moved suddenly.

The skies had that leaden gray look, the clouds filled to the brim with water and pent up energy. Dry lightning had been flashing off in the distance and that made the herd nervous and skittish. Prairie fires racing along ahead of the wind had caught an unwary horse or colt before and the mares were concerned for the new foals who didn’t have the stamina to keep up if they had to run.

The storm had held off throughout the afternoon but suddenly broke with a furious violence right after darkness had set in. A lightning strike in the center of the herd was all it took for the herd to ignite into movement and scatter to the four corners, mares racing off into the darkness in all directions with their foals in tow, the stallions frantically trying to keep the group together, but it was a lost cause for the moment. Total fear and self preservation taking over all thoughts of herd discipline were gone. In its place was only the thought of getting away from the nearest dangers, a reaction to the night terrors that were a constant part of their lives on the open plains.

Searching The Shadows

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Caution is the best word to describe how to travel through hostile country. Any hasty wrong move on your part could be your last so the old adage “Hurry ahead slowly.” comes into play as you round every corner or crest every rise.

Having a traveling companion that was sure footed, intelligent, and aware of the dangers of the trail was paramount if you wanted to avoid trouble, or at least be ready for it if it was unavoidable. Here Pete the mule spotted something in the shadows down below that didn’t feel right or smell right and he’s alerted his rider with pitched forward ears and a steady stare. Always ready to err on the side of caution this mule and its rider won’t be moving until they’re sure it’s safe.