The Way They Saw It
By editor
Decker, Big Horn County
Dawn had not yet broken, but the camp stirred. Low fires flickered, casting nervous shadows. Men moved like ghosts, their breath pluming in the cool air. The clatter of saddles, the murmur of commands, the soft thud of hooves on earth. Corporal James Ramer, a cog in the vast machine, felt the familiar ache in his bones. He was in that engagement, he would later recall, from nine in the morning until two or three in the afternoon. A long day. A day that would blur into a red haze.
Joseph F. Finerty, correspondent for the Chicago Times, watched. He saw the preparations, the quiet efficiency. He noted the Crow’s reluctance, the Shoshone’s “martial alacrity.” The cavalry, then the infantry, moved out. The Rosebud flowed sluggishly, a ribbon of green in the valley. The morning was quiet, too quiet. A deceptive peace. Then, the shots. A few at first, like distant thunder. Then more. A rising and falling chorus. Not buffalo, Finerty knew. Not buffalo at all.
“Saddle up, there - saddle up, there, quick!” Colonel Mills’ voice cut through the air. The words were a jolt. The world tilted. A score of Indian scouts, Crow and Snake, appeared on the northern crest. They rode down the slopes with incredible speed, their faces etched with a wild, primal fear. “Heap Sioux! Heap Sioux!” they shrieked, gesticulating wildly. The bluffs, moments before empty, now teemed with figures. Dark shapes against the sky. The singing of bullets began. A high, thin whine. It was business, Finerty thought, grimly.
General Crook, a distant, almost mythical figure, ordered the infantry to deploy as skirmishers. The ground trembled. Mills shouted the charge. Troops A, E, I, and M surged forward, a wave of blue against the rising tide of the enemy. The Sioux line broke, then reformed. Another line, on another height. The battle was a series of charges, retreats, and desperate stands. Captain Anson Mills, observing the enemy, would later concede, “The Indians proved then and there that they were the best cavalry on earth.” They rode low, firing and lancing from beneath their horses’ necks. They were shadows, elusive, deadly.
White Bull, a Lakota Sioux warrior, saw it differently. “It was a big fight. Warriors and enemies of all sorts were there.” Crow, Ogalala, Miniconjous, San Arcs, Hunkpapas. All fighting together. He lived up to his good name, he boasted, counting five coups. For him, it was a test of honor, a display of courage. Frank Grouard, a scout for the Third Cavalry, remembered the Crow. They met the first charge, he believed, saving half the command. The Sioux came charging down over the hills, a torrent of motion and sound.
Amidst the chaos, a legend was born. Comes-In-Sight, a Cheyenne warrior, found his horse shot from under him. He was exposed, vulnerable. A target. His sister, Mutsemiuna, known as Buffalo Calf Road Woman, saw it. A flash of red, a surge of courage. She mounted a horse, galloped through the storm of bullets. Friend and foe watched. A tableau of desperate heroism. Comes-In-Sight leaped onto her mount. Together, they escaped. The Cheyenne would remember it as “The Fight Where The Girl Saved Her Brother.” Emily Walks Alone, a descendent, would say in 2005, “As a Cheyenne woman, I am proud to know that our Cheyenne women also fought to protect our land, culture and children.”
Finerty, ever the observer, noted the “Indian” fight. The two bodies of savages, stripped to breech-clout and war bonnet, met in the valley. A most exciting encounter. The regulars held their fire, fearing to hit their allies. He found it strange, the small number of casualties, perhaps no more than twenty-five. Yet the war cries were constant. A fight for war honors, he speculated, counting coup. Two Moons, Northern Cheyenne, remembered whipping General Crook. Wooden Leg, also Northern Cheyenne, recalled the feasts and dances after. They had beaten the white men soldiers. They did not know of any other soldiers hunting for them. The future, a dark and uncertain thing, waited just beyond the horizon.
