Southeastern Montana: A Grand and Peculiar Tale

Southeastern Montana: A Grand and Peculiar Tale

Now, some folks might reckon that history is a straightforward affair, a neat procession of dates and deeds, all laid out like Sunday best. But I, having seen a bit of this world and its inhabitants, can tell you it ain't so. Especially not in a place like southeastern Montana, where the wind whispers tales that often contradict the official pronouncements. It's a land where the grand pronouncements of progress often met the stubborn reality of human nature, and sometimes, a horse's hide was worth more than a general's reputation.

Back in 1806, after those intrepid fellows Lewis and Clark had their look-see, a different breed of adventurer drifted up the Yellowstone River. These fur trappers, a rough-and-tumble lot, left behind them not just pelts, but a generous helping of tall tales and a few trading posts. For a good long spell, this vast expanse remained Indian and buffalo country. A sensible arrangement, one might think, given the buffalo's preference for grass over barbed wire, and the Indians' knack for living in harmony with the land, a concept often lost on those who arrived later with surveys and shovels.

Then came March of 1876, a month that promised spring but delivered a blizzard of lead and a heap of trouble. Six companies of cavalry, under the command of one Colonel Joseph Reynolds, set out with a clear objective, or so they thought. Their mission, as Reynolds understood it from General Crook, was to "capture the Indian village, kill or capture as many Indians as possible, run off their pony herd, and do them as much damage as possible." A rather direct approach, wouldn't you say? They aimed for the village of the famed Northern Cheyenne leader, Two Moons, some thirty-six miles south of Broadus. It was, as they say, on like a dog to a root.

The march itself was a measure of human (and equine) endurance, or perhaps, folly. The night before the battle was "cold and long, trailing the Indian tracks through a harsh, howling blizzard and no moonlight with temperatures colder than 30 below zero." Their chief scout, a fellow named Frank Grouard, was a marvel to behold. He'd get down on all fours, squinting at the ground, picking up the faintest sign of a trail, losing it, then finding it again with what some might call "divine intervention." He estimated the village held "between 50 and 100 lodges with as many as 700 to 1,000 Indians." A considerable gathering, indeed.

Now, the soldiers, bless their hearts, were eager for a fight. Captain Moore, one of Reynolds' officers, declared he "wanted the opportunity to crawl close to the enemy and give them a blizzard of lead and get a bucketful of blood." Such enthusiasm! One might almost think they were going to a picnic. Grouard, in a moment of perhaps overzealous scouting, even claimed that "the whole caboodle was there--Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and all." Turns out, that wasn't quite accurate, but it certainly spiced up the anticipation.

The battle, when it finally commenced, was a rather messy affair, as battles often are. The cavalry charged, the Indians counterattacked, and the best-laid plans of colonels and men went oft astray. The soldiers managed to capture the pony herd and burn the tepees, many of which, rather inconveniently for the soldiers, were "filled with ammunition." But the Indians, being rather attached to their horses and their homes, didn't take kindly to this. They counterattacked, recaptured their ponies, and sent the soldiers packing. Two warriors and four soldiers were killed, a grim tally for a day's work. The skirmish, far from breaking the Indian spirit, only "strengthened the alliance between the Sioux and the Northern Cheyenne." It was, in fact, one of the opening acts of the Great Sioux War, a conflict that would prove to be a long and bloody drama.

By the early 1880s, the buffalo, those shaggy monarchs of the plains, had largely vanished, and the Indian Wars were fading into memory, replaced by a different kind of skirmish. The vast grasslands of southeastern Montana, once the domain of the buffalo and the Indian, now beckoned to the Texas-based Niobrara Cattle Company. They brought with them their longhorns and their cowboys, envisioning an endless open range. But even this vision was fleeting. Within a generation, the relentless march of progress, in the form of "homesteaders' plows and barbed wire," replaced the open range and the high-heeled boots of the cowboys. The land, it seems, was always destined for another transformation, another chapter in its peculiar history. And so it goes, the grand designs of men often yielding to the relentless, and sometimes ironic, currents of time.