THE STORY OF THE CUSTER FIGHT
"You know my bein' with Major Reno is why I'm able t' tell this story, 'cause all th' Old Man's outfit—'Old Man' bein' what we called General Custer—was wiped out.
"Us soldiers didn't know all th' ins an' outs o' what was goin' on, but we did know that th' Old Man was a whole lot dissatisfied. There'd bin a lot o' talk 'bout him havin' gone t' Washington, an' havin' a talk with President Grant, at which interview, so 'twas said, th' President'd told him th' first duty of a soldier was obedience, but we didn't know nothin' 'bout that—whether 'twas true or 'twasn't true. All we knowed was that he was away a long time, an' when he come back he sure had fire in his eye.
"General Terry was in command at old Fort Buford, an' when th' Injuns broke out, he was in command of all th' soldiers in that part of th' country. General Phil Sheridan was his chief, but we never seen him.
"Well, when the Injuns broke loose, Terry he thought as it was th' spring o' th' year, it was a good time t' get 'em. So 'bout th' first o' June, '76, all th' get-ready stuff was gone over, an' all th' good-byes was said with them as had famblies, an' we was loaded onto th' steamer Far West, an' headed down th' old Missouri.
"When we got to th' mouth o' th' Yellowstone it was June twenty-first. We unloaded. An' General Terry says t' our Old Man—don't forget we just called him that; General Custer was only thirty-eight years old—Terry says, 'You take your Seventh men an' scout ahead an' let Charlie Reynolds go ahead o' you.' 'Cause everybody knowed that Charlie Reynolds savvied Injuns an' Injun ways better'n any white man that ever lived—him that was known as 'Lonesome Charlie.'
"An' Terry he says t' Custer, our Old Man, 'When you get t' th' Little Big Horn country you wait for me, as I'm travelin' heavy. I'll be four days makin' it.'
"An' again says Terry t' our Old Man: 'If you see any Injuns in force, halt an' stay there till I come up, but don't start any fight unless they force it on you, an' if they do force it on you, fight on th' defensive'—which, as you all know, is backin' up. 'Fight on th' defensive till I come up with you, an' then we'll give 'em hell.'
"Our Old Man he said, 'You bet,' an' we left.
"General Custer he was in command, and Colonel Benteen an' Major Reno was his officers. After doin' twenty or thirty miles in th' saddle, we was sure a s'prised bunch o' rookies when we didn't stop. We didn't stop. No, siree! We kep' right on a-goin'. We didn't stop when we hit forty miles, nor sixty miles, nor eighty miles. It was ninety miles from where we left Terry when th' Old Man said, 'Coffee an' biscuits,' an' believe me, we wanted 'em bad.
"We'd bin in th' saddle for twenty-two hours, an' if you don't think that's ridin', try it sometime. The hosses was all in. My hoss—'Long Tom' I called him—he layed down as soon as I off-saddled him, an' stuck his face into his nose-bag an' eat layin' down. First time I ever seen a hoss do that.
"Charlie Reynolds, he was ahead, an' he come back an' had a pow-wow with th' Old Man an' Reno an' Benteen, an' we seen 'em workin' th' field glasses overtime. 'Course, we didn't know what was bein' said, or what was goin' on. All we c'd see was that they was mighty excited like. All except Charlie. He musta had his say an' then stopped—Injun like. 'Cause Charlie, he was just a white Injun.
"I got Lieutenant Hodgson to let me have a peep through his glasses. After a ride like that, in a Injun country, a regular c'n be quite on speakin' terms with his officers, an' when I looked through them glasses what I seed didn't mean much t' me. 'Way off, down by th' river, was some tepees an' stuff layin' 'round, just like it was a Injun camp. That's what it looked like t' me, an' that's what I found out afterwards was what it looked like t' th' Old Man.
"Benteen an' Reno, they wasn't expressin' much opinion, as they was expectin' t' stay right where they was an' wait devel'pments, like Terry said they was t' do, but th' Old Man, he said, 'Attack!' An' right there was where Charlie Reynolds come in.
"He says that th' Injun village was a decoy; that he c'd tell by th' stuff, th' buffalo robes an' all, that was layin' 'round; that there was eight thousand fightin' Injuns in that part of th' country, an' that it was a safe bet that seven thousand nine hundred an' ninety-nine was layin' right in behind them hog-backs—low hills—a-waitin' for us.
"But th' Old Man was mad. He was out t' do somethin' an' he was a-goin' t' do it. An' he says, 'You're all wrong, but we're goin' t' attack, anyhow.'
"An' Charlie he says somethin', an' walks away, an' I seen th' Old Man starin' an' glarin', an' I says t' m'self, 'When we git back t' th' Fort it's a court-martial for Charlie, sure.' An' then it all happened.
"Boots an' saddles, an' we that was so all-in we c'd just stretch out an' groan with tiredness, was up an' on th' move. My hoss, Long Tom,—an' he was as game a animal as ever lived,—just wavered an' swayed when I hit th' saddle. Gee, boys! we was sure an all-in bunch!
"Why did th' Old Man do it? How in thunder do I know? He just done it. I'm supposin' he was sort o' smartin' under them stay-back orders he had, an' such like, an' just nachally cut th' cable; same as Admiral Dewey done at Manila Bay, only Dewey, he won out, an' our Old Man—well, that's th' story.
"But just to digress or switch off, or whatever that big word is, for a minute. I want t' say that our Old Man, whatever his faults was,—an' I guess he had a-plenty,—he was game. He was a fighter. He said, 'Come ahead,' every time: he never said, 'Go ahead,' An' if all th' boys layin' out there on th' prairie in their graves c'd tell, I'm bettin' my six-shooter ag'in' what you all know about th' Rooshian langwidge that they'd say as how th' Old Man died with a sword in one hand an' a gun in th' other, a-lookin' right into th' sun.
"Well, we made a wide circle—a detower—an' come up ag'in 'way behind th' village, an' right there th' Old Man made his great mistake. I ain't blamin' him none, but it sure shows how a big man c'n lose his head just by bein' crazy mad an' wantin' t' fight. Even th' rookies, what had seen a lot o' service, knowed that he was makin' himself liable—an' him a general—t' be called up on a drumhead court-martial.
"There he was, a thousand miles from anywhere, dividin' his force in th' face of a superior enemy. An' that enemy th' greatest fighters that ever th' sun shined on. You know we men that fighted Injuns knows what they was made of. All this talk 'bout Injuns not bein' fighters, an' not bein' game, an' one white man bein' as good as ten Injuns, makes me feel like th' organ-grinder Dago what said, 'It makes me sick, an' makes th' monkey sick, too!'
"Well, to git back. Gee, you fellers'll think I'm a Williams J. Bryant runnin' f'r President. Notice I said runnin'! No, I ain't tryin' t' be funny. I just wish I could be. It'd sort o' take th' weight off th' awfulness of what I remember as what happened, an' what I can't tell right 'cause I ain't got eddication an' brains enough.
"Th' Old Man, he split us up, him takin' companies C, E, F, I, and L, givin' Benteen four companies an' Reno three companies. He ordered Reno t' go t' th' left an' cross th' Little Big Horn an' attack, th' Injuns from th' rear. Benteen he told t' go straight ahead, an' he himself took th' right. I was with Reno, an' I saw personal what he was up ag'inst. We crossed th' Little Big Horn an' went right into what seemed a million warriors.
"I was right alongside of Lieutenant Hodgson, Lieutenant McIntosh, an' Doctor De Wolf when they fell, an' I see Charlie Reynolds—he'd refused t' go with th' Old Man—put up a fight that if I was a artist, an' c'd draw pictures, I c'd make a fortune puttin' it on paper. He started with a Springfield, then went to his six-shooter, an' wound up with a knife before he went down with a bullet through his heart an' at least a dozen Injuns piled all 'round him. Suicide, I reck'n it was. He knowed he was right, but he also knowed he'd disobeyed orders, an' he just kept pilin' right in till he got his.
"Reno done th' only thing he could do. He retreated back across th' river, an' got up ag'in a bluff 'bout three hunderd feet high. Reno Hill, they call it now. An' there we fought for five or six hours, when Benteen, who'd bin fightin' in th' center, heard heavy firin' over on his right where Custer was. An' Benteen, he bein' a honest-t'-God Injun fighter, he knowed that Custer was gone, so he fought his way through to us, knowin' that we had th' hill behind us.
"An' for three days we kept goin'—not runnin', just standin' an' layin' down there fightin'. Sure, we stopped firin' at night, but we didn't stop work. We dug all night long, usin' knives, tin cups, an' plates instead o' spades an' picks, makin' breast-works; an' then we started fightin' all over ag'in in th' mornin'.
"Say, boys, I ain't strong f'r prohibition. It'd take me ten years t' git up nerve enough t' put my foot on a brass rail an' order sody-water in a drug store, but let me tell you somethin'. On th' afternoon o' that second day's fightin' there was nothin' on earth to us like water. Th' wounded was beggin' for it. Oh, boys, they was beggin' for it somethin' pitiful, an' we that wasn't wounded, our tongues was all swollen an' our lips was parched till they cracked open. So some of th' boys volunteered t' go to th' river, an' we took canteens an' camp kettles an' started.
"One of us never come back, an' a lot of us got shot up, but we got water. Not much, but we got water. I never will forget how I wanted t' wet my hoss, Long Tom's, tongue, but a wounded bunkie he needed it. That night we went ag'in an' got some for th' stock, an' it was just in time, for they sure was dyin' for it.
"Th' fightin' opened ag'in next mornin', an' kept goin' till th' afternoon. It was th' twenty-seventh o' June, when all at once we seen a panic start among th' Injuns, an' they began t' stampede, leavin' their dead all over th' hills. An' Terry come into sight, an' strong men cried on each other's necks—an' I ain't a bit ashamed t' say that I was one of 'em.
"When Terry got in, an' congratulatin' an' hand-shakin' was all over, Lieutenant Bradley he come in, sayin' he'd found Custer, an' we all dragged ourselves to th' spot.
"There they was, all dead, two hunderd an' sixty-one of 'em. Not one lived t' tell th' tale. Them that'd bin deployed as skirmishers lay as they fell, havin' bin entirely surrounded in an open plain. The men in th' companies fell in platoons, an', like them on th' skirmish line, lay just as they fell, with their officers behind 'em in th' right places.
"Th' Old Man, General Custer, was in th' middle, an' round him lay th' bodies of Captain Tom Custer an' Boston Custer, his brothers, Colonel Calhoun, his brother-in-law, an' young Reed, his nephew. An' right near was Mark Kellogg, th' Bismarck Tribune's newspaper man. He wasn't scalped or touched; just lay as he fell.
"Kellogg savvied Injuns, an' used t' say in his paper, 'Hold on a minute, let's talk this over,' when all th' long-whiskered grangers, what had come in from Illinois, would raise a holler, an' want th' United States soldiers t' kick th' Injuns off th' land what they owned. An' th' Injuns remembered, even when they was crazy with fightin'. An' just th' same as they didn't touch th' White Chief, Custer, just th' same they didn't touch th' feller what shoved a lead pencil an' once in a while said, 'Give 'em a chance.'
"Did they ever find out how many Injuns was there? Not def'nite, but near enough. On th' tenth annivers'ry of th' fight th' survivors held a reunion on th' battle-field, an' bein' as I was line-ridin' for Tracy's Tumble H outfit at th' time, I sneaked off an' went over.
"They'd done a wonderful thing; somethin' that'd never bin done before, an' most likely never'll be done ag'in. Dave Barry—him as th' Injuns called 'th' Shadow Catcher'—was a great friend o' Charlie Reynolds, Barry speakin' Injun talk, an' bein' adopted into th' tribe, an' savvyin' Injun ways just th' same as Charlie did. An' Dave wanted t' get the real dope on th' fight on Charlie's account, an' him bein' also a close friend of old John Gall, th' chief what led th' Injuns in th' big fight.
"Now, Barry he persuaded—nobody knows how he done it—he persuaded John Gall t' go along t' this reunion. An' then, as if one miracle wasn't enough, he pulled another. By golly, he got th' old man t' make a talk. Boys, it sure was some picture, on that June evenin', t' see that Injun when th' blanket fell off his shoulders, standin' like one o' them bronze statutes, with th' settin' sun a-hittin' him. I sure never will forget it. Old Gall, he pointed here an' there, showin' where Rain-in-th'-Face was, an' where Crazy Hoss was, an' where Crow King was—an' all th' rest of th' other chiefs.
"An' then Barry, who was interpretin' for th' old Injun, asked him quiet-like, in th' Injun lingo, 'How many of you was there, John?' An' th' old Injun he paused like, while every one waited t' hear, an' then he pointed to th' ground, an' said some Injun words. An' Barry, he said in that quiet, firm, even voice o' his'n, 'We were like the blades of grass on the ground.' So you see what th' old Seventh was up ag'inst, boys.
"A mighty funny thing happened after th' talk. You all know Will Curley. He's s'posed t' be th' only survivor of Custer's men. No, I ain't sure he is. How should I know? I wasn't there, I was with Reno, two miles away. Well, th' bunch sorta interduced, or tried t' interduce, Old John t' Will Curley.
"Will Curley had somehow got himself a brand-new Stetson, in celebration of th' occasion, an' when Barry said, in Injun talk, 'John, this is Will Curley,' Old John he never moved a muscle, but his eyes looked like forked lightnin'. You know, Curley is a Crow—th' perpetual enemy of th' Sioux—an' in addition t' that, Curley he was a scout for th' whites. Old Gall he walked slowly over t' Curley, with a walk that made me think o' nothin' else on earth but a painter, an' when he got t' Will he paused, with everybody holdin' their breath t' see what'd happen, an' then it did happen!
"Th' old man reached out an' took that brand-new Stetson off Will Curley's head, an' shook it an' knocked it on all sides, an' put it on his own head an' walked away. Insultin'!—all I c'n say is, if it ever happened t' me, it'd be my dyin' wish that I'd have a gun in each hand."
A few moments of silence followed the old cow-puncher's story. In reciting this page from the book of his life he had lost thought of his surroundings, but now he remembered, and seemed startled at having talked so much. He retired within himself, his eyes taking on an introspective look as though, as one of the boys expressed it, "he was tellin' stories t' himself."
He paid no heed to the comments the men made on his story of the Custer fight. It had impressed them because it had rung true. The comments were made in murmurs or whispers. As Injun had sat during the tale he sat now; stolid, expressionless. Now and then Whitey stole a look at him. In his mind Whitey was connecting the old puncher's story with the one Injun had told in the bunk house at the Bar O, and with what Bill Jordan had said afterwards; that Injun had revealed the start or source of the greatest Indian fight the country ever knew.
It had been a hard day, and one by one the men dropped off to sleep, until only Whitey and the old puncher were left, he rolling an occasional cigarette, and living in that past which the events of the night had brought back to him. Whitey realized this, and had to admit that it was a pretty exciting place in which to live. And he wondered if the old puncher would like to have another page in his book of life; a sort of explanatory page, like the key in an arithmetic.
It was almost dark in the tent. Only one lighted lantern hung from a pole. And in low tones, so as not to disturb the sleepers, Whitey told the old man the story of Injun's mamma's brother and his friend the scout; and of the White Chief, and the dance, and the arrest and the escape; and of Injun's father's resolve that "we fight heap!"
The old puncher didn't know who these Indians were of whom Whitey was talking, but he listened politely at first and interestedly at last. And when Whitey had finished the story, he added, "Injun's uncle was old Rain-in-the-Face, and he was a great friend of Charlie Reynolds, the scout."
Then Whitey crept off to bed, and allowed the old man to figure out in his mind—as Bill Jordan had done—the start of "the doggonedest Injun fight this country ever knowed!" And far into the night the old cowpuncher thought of this other page, added to the book that was to entertain him as he went down the steeper side of the hill of life.