Free In the Footsteps of Crazy Horse by Joseph Marshall

hill
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    He was a young Lakota warrior Crazy Horse recognized. In his hand was an eagle-bone whistle. It had a high-pitched sound. The young man was agitated
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    â€œUncle!” he said to Crazy Horse. “Long Knives at the crossing! They tried to ride across the river into the village! They were stopped!”
    â€œHow many?” Gall asked, looking toward the north
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    â€œI do not know,” replied the young warrior. “Many of them, I think.”
    Crazy Horse looked at Gall and Black Moon. “We will leave a small number of warriors to keep the barricaded soldiers from leaving. All other warriors should ride fast to meet the new attack.”

    â€œSo there was another attack?” Jimmy said.
    â€œThere was,” Grandpa Nyles said. “The Battle of the Little Bighorn was not one battle. It was really three. The attack that the young warrior told Crazy Horse about was the second—Custer himself trying to cross the river into the north end of the village.”
    â€œHe was stopped, right?”
    â€œSure was, by a group of old men and boys. They delayed those Long Knives long enough for the warriors sent by Gall and Crazy Horse to get to the crossing.” Grandpa Nyles pointed to the truck in the parking lot. “What do you say we go and pick up the story from there?”
    After a drive of a few miles, they came to a wide, flat gully. It was known as Medicine Tail Coulee. They pulled over near a historical marker with a picture on it. Grandpa Nyles pointed toward the river.
    â€œThe soldiers could see the village,” he said. “They thought it would be easy. Custer thought that Major Reno and his men were coming from the other side. He didn’t know that Reno had been chased across the river and up the hill. Custer didn’t know that Reno couldn’t help him.
    â€œThose old men and boys stopped the Long Knives before they could cross. Not long after that, warriors came from the south. Custer had to turn and go that way”—Grandpa Nyles pointed up a slope going north. “He had no choice. Warriors came from behind him, and then on both sides of his column. North was the only way he could go. So let’s go again and trace their path.”
    He put the truck in gear and drove back onto the paved road. In a few minutes they were at the top of the hill. After driving through a cattle gate, he stopped at another set of historical markers.
    They stepped down from the truck. They were now on a ridge that led to Last Stand Hill, which was about a mile to the north.
    â€œSomewhere here,” Grandpa Nyles began, resuming thestory, “one company of the Long Knives stopped. One company stopped twice or two companies did the same thing. Anyway, they stopped, dismounted, and faced the oncoming mounted warriors. It was a good attempt, but it didn’t work. Our warriors were coming, and they were angry. The gunfire they directed at the soldiers was too much. The soldiers got back on their horses and rode north. From this point on, Custer’s soldiers, his five companies, began to suffer casualties. That is, soldiers were being hit by bullets and falling.”
    Grandpa Nyles pointed across the meadows to the north. “Remember those white markers? They start right over there. Each one shows where a soldier was found, where he fell.”
    Jimmy was silent for a moment. “There are a lot of markers,” he said somberly.
    â€œYeah, there sure are,” Grandpa Nyles agreed. “Custer had, oh, about two hundred and thirty men with him. He and only thirty or so made it to Last Stand Hill. So if you do subtraction, how many soldiers fell between here and Last Stand Hill?”
    Jimmy said, “Two hundred.”
    â€œYeah,” Grandpa Nyles agreed. “That’s about right. And if we do a division to figure out percentage—divide thirty by two hundred and thirty—the answer is about fifteen percent. So Custer had lost about