The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1896-09-20

s44.s
The most tragic battle that has been
fought with the Indians of this country
was that of the Little Big Horn, on
June 25, 1876 from which no trooper
of the United States escaped to tell
the tale.
Gen. Georke 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 tree nor any other
natural object to offer shelter. Fer
nearly a mile this gently rounded ridge
projected itself along the horizon be-
fore it became lost in that intermina-
bic array Of other bluffs and foothills
that seemed to march through this will
dernesS in a tirelesS and never-endlng
procession.
Less than an eighth Of a mile wide
at any point, this big billow among
these rolling foothills dissolved quick
W inf oil n 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, a
mile and half away, everything is
bleak, bare and gray, in the very pangS
Of thirsty desolation.
Over in the distant valley, cleaning
white in the glittering 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 in9 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
riors, skulk about IN every draw and
coulee surrounding this crest upon
which stand Custer and the remnants
of his Spartan band, looking out over
the broad plains and upon the distant
mountains for, the, last time.
The last time! What pathos lies buried
IN And do
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 OF. McDougal, that his
sun would soon set
It was a splendid sacrificial altar
hanging almost among the clouds, and
thus the heroic spirit seemingly a
remnant of that old chivalry which has
been well-nigh extinguished in these
prosaic days, went boldly, bravely and
with impetuous courage into the UNI
known. With utter disdain for these
skulzing savages, who outnumbered his
force ten to one. he refused to fly or
seek a hiding place among: the rocks
and stones whence he had come. But
fighting manfuIly in the open, with the
eternal hills bathed in the light of cen
turtles looking down upon him, he smiled
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 iye1iest
emotion. A dreamy desolation seems
to have settled down upon this bit Of