Way back in pre-quarantine days you could go places and see things and do stuff. I’m talking about actually getting in your car and going to a place and hanging out with other folks without fear of getting some horrible disease that could kill you before you got back home. I’m only going on like this because I like talking about things nostalgic. You know, the good old days.
This event was the wonderful, not to mention beautiful, Christmas Festival held at Bent’s Old Fort located not too far from La Junta on the Arkansas river. It was on the mountain branch of the Santa Fe trail and was a trading post catering to the Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes for buffalo robes. It soon became a headquarters for all the trappers and pilgrims using the Santa Fe trail.
My self-imposed assignment was to attend the Christmas Festival held at the fort a week or so before Christmas and photograph the historical reenactors, decorations, instructive demonstrations of needed skills of the era, and anything else that looked interesting, which turned out to be everything.
The historical reenactors who represented every notable character of the time were particularly interesting. They dressed the part, knew just about everything about the character that were portraying, and actually stayed as residents in the fort the entire time of the festival. They slept in the different areas of the fort and as the temperature at the time was 16 degrees that showed the kind of dedication these folks had. The fort does not have central heating.
One of the great things about this event is that they didn’t just focus on the really well known celebrities of the time but had people who represented the more common folks to give you a more accurate view of the every day workings of the fort and its inhabitants.
The fellow in the image above looked like El Patron an important Spanish title that normally meant he was a huge landowner somewhere nearby the fort, or perhaps he was simply stopping over for the holidays before heading back to his hacienda and family.
The event itself was an incredible achievement for the U.S. National Park service and if there is any justice in the world we may see it again.
This faded hand-tinted photograph hung on the back wall of Johan Ostrom’s office in his Bannack Funeral home for years. It was taken at the death viewing of one of the town’s most notorious characters, Belligerent Bob McDickle. The photo has seen the worst for wear but it shows one of the largest historical events in the towns checkered history. The information below was gleaned from old newspaper articles and oral history from some of the older residents in Bannack Montana.
Here lies the remains of Belligerent Bob McDickle, well I guess it can be said here stands the remains of Belligerent Bob McDickle, as he is leaning against the Ostrom Funeral Parlor and ice house in his new forever home. The other men in the photo were instrumental in finally bringing justice to a very bad man as they helped drag Bob’s body down to the funeral parlor behind the deputy’s horse. It wasn’t much involvement but they made the best of it anyway claiming that they coulda got shot if he’d a twitched or something. They included left to right, the town deputy Jess Clanton on the horse in the left of the picture, the assistant deputy Bill who tied the knot around Bob’s foot for easy dragging, Belligerent Bob McDickle in the casket, the U.S. Marshal in town for the week holding old Bess his double barrel shotgun, a guy that just liked to hang out with everybody whose name is not listed on the back of the photo, and J.T. Suttleman, a wealthy rancher, who stopped by to see if Bob was as dead as everyone said he was.
There is a large window in the front of the funeral parlor where normally the deceased would be placed behind the window for viewing by the townsfolk. This was to allow the citizens to view the dead man but not touch him as there were often souvenir hunters who would lop off a trigger finger or an ear thereby gaining free drinks at the saloon for showing off their new found bragging rights. One of the ways the funeral director would enhance his income was by allowing any curious citizen to come in and have a close up look at the deceased for a dime or small pinch of gold. Macabre as this may seem to us today it was a popular thing to do back in the 1800’s. For an extra 25 cents a lock of his hair could be purchased as long as said hair held out. The dead man was stuck in the window until interest died down or he became too intense to have inside anymore. He was then carted off to Boot hill to be interred. The expectation was that he would eventually sink down thru the earth until he came to his final hot but well deserved resting place. This was a somewhat dubious honor reserved for the worst that society could produce and not how regular good god-fearing citizens were treated when it was their time to shuffle of this mortal coil. As there were plenty of bad men at this time in history the window became known as the window full of dead men.
A few words about Belligerent Bob McDickle. He wasn’t just a desperado, or a stone cold killer, he was, it was that he was just plain mean. It was said he would bite his ownself if there wasn’t nothing mean to do. He would walk down the street and shoot peoples chickens just to see the feathers fly, and if the owners came out to complain, he shot them too. Early on people used to ask him where he was from, a pretty common question in these parts, but as Bob would shoot them for asking they just quit asking.
Now in case some of you might have some misguided feelings that maybe Bob was a product of a poor childhood, or he was mistreated by the nuns in the Holy Order of Smacking Orphans School for Boys where Bob spent part of his youth, know this, once a cute little girl walked by with her new puppy on a leash and the puppy not knowing who he was approaching licked Bob’s boot. Bob shot that puppy right there in front of the towns ice cream parlor and when the little girl cried too hard, well.. I guess you can figure out what happened next. Bob was a mean man.
Now one would think that someone like Belligerent Bob McDickle would get his comeuppance in a spectacular shoot out, or killed by a posse, or some really cool western way but that wasn’t how he met his end. Instead one Miss Cassie LaPelt was shooting at a rat in her boudoir at the Rung Bell saloon and the errant bullet went thru the window and nailed Bob right between the eyes. Killed him in mid-step. Bob didn’t even know he was dead until he hit the boardwalk. She didn’t even know she did it until later when the sheriff said “Cassie, darling, good shot”. She received high praise for her providential accident and was even acknowledged by some of better townsfolk which was unusual given her social work as an employee of the Rung Bell saloon.
That was the end of Belligerent Bob McDickle, feared outlaw, rouge, and thoroughly bad man. The latest resident in the window full of dead men.
It was the usual warm day up in Montana that early morning of June 25th. The sun was out, bringing a sky so blue it hurt to look at it. A few big, bulging clouds made their towering way across the sky, like huge slow moving dreadnoughts under all the sail they had, billowing and straining, moving majestically from West to East.
The scuttlebut was that today was the day. Something big was going to happen and the tension was so thick it made the hair stand up on your arms. The enemy was close and everything felt like it was going to bust loose any second.
Like happens every day in Montana the weather changed. The slow moving clouds so white and pure the moment before began to turn into that dark ominous grayish black underbelly that foretold a storm was coming. A big one from the looks of it. Thunder and the occasional lightning strike was seen and heard across the low rolling hills to the West. That and the electricity of the moment had the horses on the picket lines spooked as the wind picked up.
Suddenly all hell broke loose as the advance group of troopers already mounted and riding along the picket lines, the bugler sounding “To Horse, to horse” on his bugle, let everyone know this is it, mount up. They were about to ride into the storm.
Crossing a Western creek can appear to be deceptively easy. After all it looks like it’s only hoof deep in most parts, and for the most part it is as seen in the image above. But note too how dark brown the water is from the silt being carried down stream. In places you cannot see the bottom due to the cloudiness of the water.
Also know that the creek can widen out and fill very quickly if it rains up stream or during the spring runoff. Its meandering course also causes deep holes to occur near sharp corners where the bank juts out into the stream and near and around large rocks in the streambed. These holes can be deep enough to swallow a horse and rider up to the saddle or higher.
Granted given the normal shallowness of the creekbed it’s unlikely to be that dangerous if you got throwed or worse yet, fell in, it’s unlikely that your companions would let you forget that for awhile, but the loss of a good Hawkins and the rest of the gear being carried can ruin your whole day. For example, right behind the rider on the paint horse the bank juts out into the river in the image above. Just off that point there is a deep hole that nearly swallowed that horse and rider when the horse accidentally stepped into it. See the image below.
Climbing out of the Widowmaker hole in Potter Creek
Whenever a river or creek crossing was necessary it was never taken for granted despite what you might in see in the movies. The routine to follow to have a safe crossing was to have one fellow who hopefully knew the crossing or was more experienced in fording would start out and the others, in single file, would carefully follow his lead. If the fellow ahead of you suddenly disappeared and all you saw were bubbles it was prudent to halt and backtrack to the bank behind you. If that didn’t happen then you continued across like you had good sense. That usually was the most successful way to make it across, and anytime you could win one it was a good day.
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.
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.
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.
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