Crow Warriors – Crow Reservation Click to see large version
It was a confusing day for everyone involved that fateful day of Jun 26th, 1876. The battle that was going to go down in history as the most devastating defeat for the American troops of the 7th cavalry they had ever faced, and the greatest victory for the massed Indian tribes gathered in the valley of the Greasy grass had just begun. It would be forever known as the Battle of the Little Bighorn.
The troops of the 7th cavalry had made contact and everyone on that side was gathering up their weapons and racing to get on their horses if they weren’t already mounted, while the Indians had already joined the various groups they were going to fight with and were heading out to different areas where they would meet their foe.
Some of the younger warriors were not affiliated with any warrior group yet but were determined not to be left out of the action. They formed their own small groups of family members and friends and against the advice of the older men were not going to be left out of the fighting. It was their time to become men and they were going to show what they were made of. They were going to battle, but first they had to find it.
As they raced out of the village the first challenge they ran into was, Which way, brothers. Which way to meet their destiny.
Bannack Montana was, and to a very limited amount still is, a mining town. Founded in 1862 due to a gold strike in Grasshopper creek it wasn’t long before hundreds of folks showed up with one simple thought in mind. To get as rich as possible in the shortest amount of time.
Grasshopper creek runs through the middle of town and joins the Beaverhead about 11 mile downstream which then joins the Big Hole river, and finally the Jefferson river which drains most of southwestern Montana. That’s the downstream picture of the Grasshopper creek. Upstream along Grasshopper creek the waterway narrows and runs faster. Lately there’s been some talk of decent strikes being found up there. The furthest reaches of the creek haven’t been searched thoroughly for gold but a few hardy souls have brought out some decent color.
The locals still walk over to the creek from Main street and pan for wages just steps from the hustle and bustle of the town. Yet there are always some that dream the big dream and want those nuggets the size of hen’s eggs. The fellow above is one and has his two mules, Nugget and Goldie, loaded for an extended stay some where up the creek. Maybe he’ll be back a rich man, maybe not. He’s guessing on being rich.
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.
Many times as you stroll amongst bears you will hear them singing or humming various melodies under their breath. This is especially true in Yellowstone National Park, a place where you can interact with bears on many different levels. At first you may not pick up on the fact that they are actually producing musical renditions of current musical selections as they go about their usual bear business, whether that business is eating road kill, or gently plucking flowers out the surrounding shrubbery, or simply rending a newborn elk calf down into its lowest common denominator. They are singing.
As with human people, bears like various types of music. Grizzlies for instance, are most fond of Gregorian chants and when they gather around a freshly killed buffalo you will almost certainly hear certain choral works such as Bach’s ‘Mass in B Minor’ or even Brahms’s ‘A German Requiem’. They can often be identified by the music they choose to sing when you can not see them, like you identify birds by their unique songs. For instance if you should perhaps be hiking near Mt. Mary’s trail and hear the refrains from Beethoven’s ‘Missa Solemnis’ or even Mozart’s ‘Mass in C minor K. 427 “The Great”, coming from somewhere in the nearby bush, stop immediately and ring the bejezus out of your bear deterrent bells very loudly, as loudly as you can, that is a Grizzly. As beautiful as the music is it might be prudent now to turn around and quickly leave the area as this music stirs great passion in these bears and it’s best to not speak to them even if you liked the music.
Then of course, you have the black bears. A bear of many colors ranging from jet black to red, brown, even a golden color, tho that is pretty rare. Black bears have different musical tastes entirely. These bears are fun bears, with a great sense of rhythm and style and a most pleasing tone when they sing. You can actually spend a little time with them as they appreciate an audience and will choose a piece of music that they know the listener will get into. Such as anything by Joe Cocker, Arron Neville or John Prine. Bonnie Raitt and Emmy Lou Harris are favorites for the lady bears. And of course Etta. Just don’t sing along with them. They don’t like that.
There is one truth about black bears and that is as a group down to the last hairy one, they love the Beatles. Perhaps that is too conservative a phrase. They absolutely without a doubt are obsessed with them. So much so that when you see newborn cubs recently out of the den they will be playing and gamboling while singing The Yellow Submarine at the top of their tiny little bear lungs. How is this possible? Genetics, that’s how.
Our friend in the image above just stumbled across some shrubbery that reminded him of one of his favorite songs, Strawberry Fields Forever. Let’s stop and listen for awhile, shall we?
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.
Crow Warrior washing off his horse’s warpaint in the Little Bighorn river
The Crow and every other tribe that used horses in the 1800’s used them for battle as well as other aspects of their life. The horses were used for traveling, moving camp, as a measure of wealth, as dowries, to make it impervious to bullets and protect it’s rider from harm, and as a measure of their prowess as a warrior. The art of stealing horses from enemies was a constant effort and proved the worth and valor of the warrior that was successful in obtaining the most horses.
When they were used for war the horses were often painted with symbols important to its owner. Every mark placed on the horse had a special meaning to its owner and could be religious in nature, or derived from a dream, or to signify who the owner was as they sometimes used the same markings on both rider and horse.
After the battle the markings were removed to preserve their meaning and value, so a trip to the river was in order to remove the paint from both horse and rider. This rider is washing the paint off his mount while standing in The Little Bighorn river just downstream a bit from where the remains of the 7th lay on the hillside in the greasy grass.
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