WHERE CUSTER MET DEATH

September 5, 1877—Cherokee Advocate—Custer’s Battlefield, Little Big Horn River, 
M. T. July 25—The ignorance of army officers, scouts, and guides is demonstrated 
in their pretended knowledge of this historical battle ground, which knowledge, 
from my own experience and investigation I find to be greatly at variance with 
the facts.  In nothing were they further at sea than concerning its locality.  
Some held that the distance from Tongue river, near the mountains, did not exceed 
twenty-five miles; other estimated it a thirty, and none exceeded thirty-five; 
but we, after two long days ride from the hand of the Little Horn in the mountains 
(a point much nearer than the tongue River at the present cantonment of the Fifth 
Cavalry), Carefully compute the distance to be at least forty-five miles.
	From an eminence which we reached on the second day, a scene or rarest 
beauty was beheld.  Beginning with the noble table upon which we stood the ground 
fell gently away toward the river, straightening out into a bottom as level as a 
floor and with sides clearly defined by the shaded stream and the bluffs.  Beyond 
the water appeared the rugged embankment, extending from Reno’s position to on the 
south to the limit of vision on the north, standing perpendicular save as 
occasional gap through the general volume of the Little Horn, or through which 
entrance to fords are made.  Still further back, toward the Rosebud, the silent 
timberless, sand Wolf Mountain loomed high casting a mild and pleasing shadows 
over the landscape, which at either extremity of the valley gradually divides, 
rich with vendure and bright hued with full blown flowers, completed the scenic 
display.
	At last we entered the old village, in attacking which Custer and his men 
fell.  This temporary Indian camp was about four miles long, a half mile wide and 
located by the river side, upon a depressed tableland, considerably lower than the 
valley proper.  Its borders are fringed with a thin growth of timber, which at one 
time extended all over the bottom, but the felling of trees by Indians to secure 
bark food for their ponies, left the central portion of the strip almost barren.  
At the southern side, we passed through a dense copse covering three or four acres, 
where, the squaws and papooses were concealed when Custer approached and until the 
cavalry were securely entrapped in the canon of death.  Beyond this, the ground 
presented a curious spectacle, tepee and medicine poles were a thick as they could 
stand, while camp equipage of every kind was scattered all around.  One noticeable 
feature consisted of the great quantity of leggings lying about and is explainable 
only by the presumption (amounting to almost positive knowledge) that the Indians 
discarded them for clothing taken from the soldiery. Further own we saw six burial 
scaffolds and beneath them (where they had fallen), the bones of as many Indians—the 
skull of one punctured by and containing a bullet.
	 It was nearly dark when we reached the lower ford, about half way through 
the village; we encamped for the night, wet, cold, hungry and greatly fatigued.  A 
hasty supper was speedily devoured, our soaking blankets were spread out upon the 
ground and all hands turned in for a good night’s sleep; but all hands were grievously 
disappointed, for scarcely had Jack Healy dropped his head upon his saddle pillow 
when a “something cold, slimy and wiggly” passed over his face.  With a bound that 
carried him at least ten feet and a yell of “Snakes!” fiercer than ever Sioux uttered, 
he aroused the camp in a jiffy.  The boys grabbed and pulled on their pants and boots, 
stirred up the dying fire, and by its light instituted a careful search with sticks 
for the loathsome reptiles.  No snake was found, but lizards by the dozen—great 
green slimy things—were upturned everywhere.  The ground fairly swarmed with them 
and a slaughter resulted that did no cease until every lizard found was s killed. 
Then we tired our beds again, but with a lurking fear of a second attack. And it 
soon came. Bob Snodgrass being the first victim, your correspondent the second.  
Camp was again stirred; another battle followed, another slaughter and for the 
third time we sought rest, but with an experience as before, save it culminated in 
our remaining up and awake the remainder to the night.
	I have just finished a ride over the battlefield and have beheld a condition 
of things that must make the judicious grieve.  Thirteen months today, 
General George A. Custer and over three hundred brave followers, while in the 
nation’s service, were mercilessly massacred by savages, not one of whom has ever 
been called to account for the crime.  Worse than this, the very chiefs--the head 
and front of the butchery, are today the pets and protégés of those who comrade
the paid employ of the people and the forces associates of the remnant of the 
gallant Seventh.  Is not this as pitiable as it well could be?  No, for while 
these murderers, arrayed in army blue, are enjoying the protection and generous 
hospitality of the country, or as scouts and guides are conducing Sherman, 
Sheridan, Crook and others to the massacre ground and pointing out the various 
points of interest, the bones of the martyred three hundred lie bleaching in the 
sun, or soaking in the rain that here falls so often in torrents!
	The remains have never been buried.  Thirteen months have passed, yet 
the little band, whose deed of heroism will ever occupy a place in history, 
have not received the insignificant recognition that a decent burial would 
accord. Their bones, divested of clothing by brutal savages and of flesh by 
famished wolves and howling coyotes, fingered by every curiosity hunter, or 
kicked by ever hostile who may chance over the field.  I write the truth and 
nothing but the truth and challenge Sherman, Sheridan, or Crook all of whom 
have recently visited the ground with force sufficient to have gathered and 
properly interred the poor remains, to contradict my statement. As they may 
insist that the bodies were buried, I will present the facts in the case. Two 
days after the massacre a force—a company, I think--was sent with two picks 
and shovel to bury the bodies. Wild animals had caused great havoc with the 
dead, tearing bodies asunder and scattering fragments over the ground, but 
these were collected as best they could, placed in piles upon the surface and 
so thinly covered with dirt that the first rain washed it all away.
	No further attention was given the matter until the first of this 
month, when Mike Sheridan and two companies of the Seventh Cavalry were sent 
in to secure the remains of all officers for removal to Leavenworth.  This 
officer did manifest a little feeling by covering the bodies again with dirt, 
but that night’s rain again undid the work and the fragments were once more 
scattered over the ground. A few days ago Generals Sheridan and Crook, escorted 
by four companies of the Fifth Cavalry and several Indian scouts (last year’s 
hostiles) came over the mountains on a pleasure trip, buffalo hunt, etc., and 
as they were obliged to pass near here on their way out, they naturally 
“took in” the battlefield, and with sufficiently detail to go through the 
ceremony of again recovering the bones.  The work was so shabbily preformed 
that scarily a single “grave” could be found, through which the contents did 
not protrude.  Today we had another terrific storm and at the present moment 
there is not a particle of earth upon a single bone of the entire three 
hundred skeletons, nor is it probable that there ever wild be unless placed 
there by the elements, or through the sympathetic efforts of some part of 
hunters.
	Five companies of cavalry have picnicked in this vicinity of week’s 
totally unemployed save in guarding themselves yet they have made no effort 
to cover up the bones of their dead comrades.  And now, as I write, Sheridan’s 
escort of four  companies, commanded by Major Hart, are encamping on the plain 
at my feet having shipped the Generals at the mouth of this river and are now 
on their return to comfort and full rations after their arduous four days march, 
and I am confident that they will neglect to offer even a shovel full of dirt 
as a tribute to the bravery of the dead.
	Great indignation is expressed by the citizens (prospectors) who are 
visiting the field in large numbers, and a Christian burial service would have 
been held today, with a few humanitarian miners officiating, had not Sheridan’s 
escort, of two hundred m
	Crossing Little Big Horn, or Custer River, to the east side, a well 
defined trail leads up a gradual slope a quarter of a mile in length.  The 
ground is covered with sage brush, prickly pears, and sparse, coarse grass 
and destitute of the rocks an timber that the uninformed fancy here and there 
upon the historic field.  The sun shone with full power as we slowly made the 
ascent, and the morning air, impure by association, seemed stagnant and dead. 
We read the summit and grazing around for some rocky cannon as our fancy had 
pictured. It—some narrow pass accessible only at it extremities and commanded 
by frowning cliffs overhanging either side, we saw instead a ravine with 
gently shopping sides, of slight depression, not a half mile in length and 
free from timber, rocks, or anything furnishing an ambuscade.  At our feet 
were the uncovered remains of eighteen men, in six piles, with a piece of 
tepee pole, denoting that once the farce of a burial had been performed.
 ;Upon one of these ‘tombstones’ hung a white sombrero, relic of a member 
of the seventh, with two bullet holes through it, a clean cut as if made 
by an axe, and clotted blood.  Near by were the carcasses of two horses; 
to the north, distant a few feet, were heaps of bones so mixed that it was 
impossible to count the number of persons represented. A little further on 
and another ‘grave,” containing the bones of three man, appears behind the 
skeleton of a horse evidently shot to be used as a breastwork.
	A heavy trail runs along the crest of the divide, separating the 
river and ravine and is strewn and flanked by whitened bones, equipments 
and clothing.  Three hundred yards up this trail we came upon the knoll 
where Custer and the remnant of his command made their last stand and 
perished.  The elevation is but little above that of the divide of which 
it is the terminus and is apparently a commanding position, but so powerful 
was the enemy and so weak the national forces when this point was finally 
gained, that the entire destruction of the troops became an easy matter.
	Upon the slope toward the river I counted twenty-eight heaps of 
bones and the skeletons of fourteen horses.  It was impossible to accurately 
determine how many soldiers were originally deposited in these promiscuous 
piles, but it is safe to compute the number at 100, among the number being 
tom Custer, brother of the General.  The “graves” are huddled together 
without regard to order and are apparently located where the several men 
fell.  On top of the hill where Custer was killed, there are four graves 
and the skeletons of twenty horses, among the latter being that ridden by 
Custer, and which is still recognizable
	Passing down to and up the canon, we met, first, the carcass of a 
horse, then several heaps of bones close together and in the center there 
of a rough, unplanned pine cross upon which is inscribed:
Col. Keogh
And 88
Soldiers
Of
Co. I 7th Cavalry,
Killed
Here
June 25th, 1876
	Upon a more unpretentious table are inscribed the words:
Wild
I Co. 7th
	To the right at intervals and forming a perfect line extending over 
the western slope, are ten mounds of bones, the regularity of “graves” indicating 
death upon the skirmish line.  Passing several scattering graves we reach the 
head of the canon and upon the high ground a “cross-shaped monument, made of 
rough boards and present the following inscription:
J. J. Crittenden
Lieut. 20th Inf.

	Bones are scattered everywhere and tepee poles by the score mark the 
spots where, once upon a time they were dumped and covered with an inch or so 
of dirt.
	Such, in brief, is the condition of the field today.  Bad as it may 
seem in print, it is a thousand times worse in reality.
	Version after version of the battle has been laid before the public, 
no two alike and none authentic, because coming from hostile sources, colored 
to suit the designs of those in power.  From the teachings of the battle 
ground and the positions occupied by the remains that now encumber the field, 
I am forced to conclusions greatly at variance with the generally accepted 
stores.  I believe that Custer was ordered to attack this village, for surely 
no man with Custer’s sense would seek inevitable death and attack 6,000 warriors 
with a command of 300.  His command was divided, Reno, with three companies, 
moving to the south end of the village, while Custer, with seven companies, 
proceeded to the north and approached the for through the fatal canon.  Upon 
reaching the summit at the south end, overlooking the village, he discovered 
that the encampment extended considerable distance below him, where upon he 
wheeled about with the intention of crossing further down, but was immediately 
attacked upon all sides by the hostiles, who number at les 5,000 warriors and 
several hundred squaws. Retreat was attempted, and continued under a galling 
fire until the last man perished.
	I understand that Sherman has just passed over the field, but as my 
courier is in waiting to take this to Reno, I must hasten to finish.
	A twelve company post is being erected at the mouth of this stream.  
Several hundred men are now employed and more are taken on daily.  The post 
will be commanded by Major Buell and will be known as Fort Custer.
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