The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1896-09-20
THE CUSTER BATTLE FIELD AS / IS TODAY,
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The most tragic battle that has been
fought with the Indians Of this country
was that of, the Little Big Horn, on
June %, 1876, from which no trooper
of the United States escaped to tell
the tale.
Gen. George A. Custer, the most
brilliant victim ever offered up on the
altar of savage warfare, fell upon that
ensanguined day with 260 officers and
soldiers of his command, and a wave
OF mourning such as the country had
not known since the rebellion swept
over the land when the awful reality
became known.
The other day | stood upon the spot
where Custer rallied his men for the
last struggle on that fateful occasion,
when all the demons of hell seemed
to have been Embossed for his destruc-
ton.
High up above the slumbering val
ley OF the Little Big Horn, whose sin
uous folds seemed to encircle the
scene, was spread out a long mountain
ridge in all the dreary desolatiOn of
sun-dried grass, with parched draws
and gullies running off in every direc-
ton, and neither a tree nor any other
natural object to offer shelter. For
nearly mile this gently rounded ridge
projected itself along the horizon be-
fore it became lost in that intermina-
BILE array Of other bluffs and foothills
that seemed to march through this will
dernesS in a tirelesS and ending
procession.
Less than an eighth Of a mile wide
at any point, this big billOw among
these rolling foothills dissolved quick
ly into other and smaller pillows of
yellow clay and dismal sage brush that
rolled away in the distance until lost
in the shadows of the rugged feet of
distant mountains.
Save for the faint line of foliage
along the little river in the valley,
mile and a half away, everything is
bleak, bare and gray, in the very pangs
of thirsty desOlatiOn.
over in the distant valley cleaning
white in the Slittering rays of the
Western sun, are a score of WigWams
belonging to the Grow Indians, whose
reservation is just across the Little
Big Horn. Half a dozen Indians, re
splendent in barbaric colors, scurry
across the plain below on their tire
less ponies, and, fred by such a char
acteristic note Of aboriginal life, the
imagination readily peoples this scene
again with the ensanguined hosts who
overwhelmed these dun hills twenty
years ago.
The valley becomes alive with cir
cling SaVageS. War bOnnetS, flaming
above the painted bodies of red war
cOulee surrounding this crest upon
which stand Custer and the remnants
of his Spartan band looking cut over
the broad plains and upon the distant
mountains for the last time.
The last time, What pathos lies buried
in those words. And yet the dashing
Custer, whose helmet, like the white
plumes of Henry Of Navarro, had been
seen in the fore front of many a stir
ring fight, must have known as the
moments passed, bringing no aid from
Reno, Benteen or McDougal, that his
sun would soon set.
It was a splendid sacriticial altar
hanging almost among the clouds, and
thus the heroic spirit, seemingly a
remnant of that old chivairy which has
been WelI-nigh exinguished in these
prosaic days, went boldly, bravely and
with impetuOus courage into the I'M
known. With utter disdain for these
skulking savages, who outnumbercd his
force ten to one, he refused to fly or
seek a hiding place among the rocks
and stones whence he had come. But
lighting manfulIy in the open, with the
eternal hills bathed in the light of cen
lures IOOkIng GOWN upon MN, ne SuHIeu
good-by to the sweet daytime, and
with Yates, Van Reilly, Smith, Tom
Custer and two score brave men all
about him in death, as they had been
in life, lay down to the dreamless sleep
Of eternity.
1t is difficult when standing upon this
battle-ground even now, after two de-
cades have faded away since the fight,
to look about and realize the silent
pathos Of the scene without the live1lest
emotion. a dreamy desOlatiOn seems
to have settled down upon this bit of