Paxson, E. S. (1899). Custer’s Last Stand (detail). Cropped section of the original painting, focusing on the central figures to fit the format of this post. Image courtesy of the Buffalo Bill Center of the West via Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.
No Last Stand at the Little Bighorn
Despite the story, this was no last stand.
Before I ever set foot on the Little Bighorn battlefield, I thought I understood George Armstrong Custer. I’d followed his Civil War record—his charge at Gettysburg, his pursuit at Trevilian Station—and saw in him the qualities of a bold, fast-moving commander. That interest stayed with me. In August 2016, I came to this place for the first time. Not to challenge the legend, but to see where it ended. Like many, my early understanding was shaped by a narrative told from one side. Only on the ground did I start to see what had been omitted—and what had been deliberately concealed.
Today, the landscape has changed very little. It looks much the same as it would have in 1876—except for the visitor center, the markers on Last Stand Hill, and a distant glimpse of I-90. From the ridges, you can see for miles. No fences to hold anything in—just open range. The hills roll out in every direction—open, uneven, cut by coulees, and shaped by wind. The grass moves constantly, a steady rustle that doesn’t stop. Wild horses graze in the distance, scattered across the high points and edges of the draws. Everything feels exposed out here—no shelter, no cover—just the land laid bare. The wind pushes across an ever-expanding sky, carrying an emptiness that stays with you. It’s a hard, stripped-down kind of wilderness, where nothing grows tall and the horizon always feels just out of reach. What happened here on Sunday, June 25, 1876, is part of the land now—unfiltered and unchanged.
The story I thought I understood didn’t hold up. The version I knew—the soldier’s version—wasn’t just incomplete; it was misleading. It left out perspectives that mattered. It reduced the village to a backdrop and framed Native resistance as aggression. On the ground, those omissions stood out. The land itself seemed to hold what the monuments left unsaid. Back then, I was staying in Hardin, about twenty miles away, and had planned for three days—enough, I thought, to photograph the battlefield and attend the Crow Fair. But by the time the powwow began, I was still looking for answers. I left with images, but not understanding. Not yet. So I came back—with ten days this time, and a clearer focus on the story I’d missed before: the role Native people played in what happened here.
In the shadow of the Little Bighorn River, a dark and complex chapter of American history unfolded. What followed became known as Custer’s Last Stand—a moment of chaos, confusion, and violence. War cries and gunfire echoed through the valley. But the full story wouldn’t surface until years later. For decades, the battle was told through myth: noble soldiers, savage warriors, a doomed final stand. Only with time did historians begin to examine accounts from Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Crow participants—voices long dismissed. Their words stripped away the legend’s clean lines, revealing a fight that was disorganized, desperate, and far from noble. What really happened here? How did it unravel so completely? And why has the memory of that day been shaped more by fiction than fact? Despite the story, this was no last stand.
The silence here can feel respectful, but it leaves too much unsaid. The story has been told and retold so many times, it’s hard to separate the battlefield from the narrative built around it. Most people today still call it Custer’s Last Stand—even though it wasn’t just about Custer. That phrase compresses everything into a single storyline: the valiant 7th Cavalry, outnumbered and overrun, fighting to the last man. It’s the kind of version that goes down easy—the fallen leader, the vanishing warrior, the final collision of worlds. But that framing erases what truly took place. The soldiers were individuals, each with a story, just as the Native fighters came from different communities, united by a single purpose—to protect what remained of a way of life. There’s more to understand—far more—than a single clash and what followed. And that’s where the deeper history begins to shift, turning from legend toward something harder to face—especially when it comes to the Crow, whose role is too often ignored.
McConnell, S. (2025). View of Last Stand Hill from the river approach. This photograph shows the aftermath. Taken from the slope leading up from the Little Bighorn River, it captures the final resting place of Custer’s command. The scattered markers trace a collapse, not a formation—each stone placed where a body was found after the fighting ended. At the crest stands the 7th Cavalry monument, fenced now, surrounded by prairie grass and silence. But in June 1876, this hill was overrun. The line broke, the circle closed, and the soldiers died here—layered on the ground they had tried to hold. Photograph taken by the author.
The Crow Scouts’ War
The Battle of the Little Bighorn wasn’t just a clash between Custer and the Lakota and Cheyenne. It was also a moment of reckoning for the Crow. For years, they had watched the Lakota expand westward into their territory—claiming hunting grounds, raiding villages, and pushing them further toward the mountains. The Crow had once ranged widely across what is now Montana and Wyoming, but by the 1870s, their land had shrunk drastically. When the U.S. Army arrived in force, the Crow faced an impossible decision: stand aside and watch their enemies grow stronger, or align with the military in hopes of preserving what was left of their homeland. It was a hard, pragmatic choice, rooted in survival. The Army wasn’t trusted, but the Lakota and Cheyenne were a more immediate threat. This wasn’t about loyalty to Washington—it was about defending their last piece of ground.
Several young Crow men signed on as scouts: Curly, White Man Runs Him, Hairy Moccasin, and Goes Ahead. All knew the land intimately and understood what was at stake. They were joined by Mitch Bouyer, a man of mixed French and Santee Sioux heritage who had long lived among the Crow and spoke several Plains languages. As Custer’s personal interpreter, Bouyer played a key role in bridging the gap between the Army and its Native scouts—translating orders, tracking movements, and navigating cultural fault lines in the middle of a volatile campaign. For the Crow, the decision to fight alongside the Army carried consequences that lasted long after the smoke cleared. In the years that followed, some were treated with suspicion by other tribes, while their role in the campaign was mostly ignored by the country they had helped. Their names faded from the official narrative. But they never stopped telling their version of what happened, and that thread continues today—in their families, in the land they helped defend, and in the songs still heard every August at the Crow Fair.
Unknown photographer. (c. 1870s). Mitch Bouyer, interpreter and guide for the 7th Cavalry. Of mixed French and Santee Sioux heritage, Bouyer lived among the Crow, spoke several Plains languages, and served as Custer’s personal interpreter. He led a team of Crow scouts at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Based on a historical photograph widely attributed to Bouyer, though its authenticity is disputed. Image adapted using AI-assisted compositing for educational and documentary purposes. Public domain source.
McConnell, S. (2025). Marker for Mitch Boyer, Crow Scout. This headstone marks the approximate location where Mitch Boyer fell during the battle. According to accounts, he strongly opposed Custer’s decision to divide the regiment and warned of the size of the Native encampment ahead. His death, alongside the rest of Custer’s battalion, left a lasting silence in the record—no firsthand account survived. Today his marker stands in tall grass below Last Stand Hill, one of only a few scout headstones placed among the soldiers. Photograph taken by the author. Courtesy of the National Park Service.
The Other Side of Surrender: Life on the Reservation
Behind polished desks and closed doors, they called it policy. The reservation system wasn’t shaped in the West, but in Washington—drafted by bureaucrats, approved by lawmakers, and driven by donors who would never meet the people their decisions condemned. The Native presence was seen as a barrier to national expansion. Treaties were altered or ignored. Land was reassigned. Resources were rationed. The objective wasn’t partnership—it was suppression. The reservation system wasn’t designed to support Native life; it was built to restrict it. The goal wasn’t coexistence. It was control. And on paper, it worked. But on the plains, the consequences were measured not in legislation, but in hunger, silence, and loss
Long before shots were fired along the Little Bighorn, many Native families had already made their decision. Life on the reservation meant confinement, surveillance, and control. The buffalo were gone—slaughtered not by accident, but by policy. With them went mobility, economy, and tradition. In their place came dependency: sacks of flour, spoiled beef, and ration rolls managed by corrupt Indian agents. Food became leverage.
Permission was required to leave, often enforced through a pass system. Sacred lands were cut off. Some reservations were fenced, others patrolled, but the outcome was the same—a people who had once followed the seasons were now bound to paper and schedules, watched by missionaries and Indian police. This wasn’t coexistence. It was containment.
Children were taken to distant boarding schools—for indoctrination. On the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, St. Labre Indian School was founded in 1884 by Catholic missionaries to erase traditional beliefs and replace them with Christian doctrine. Native languages were forbidden. Hair was cut. Names were changed. Students were punished for speaking their own words or practicing ceremony. Across the country, dozens of Catholic-run schools followed the same framework: obedience, silence, submission. Education was not the aim—assimilation was. On the reservation, tribal leadership was replaced by government-appointed councils. Even prayer became suspect. Survival required silence.
And yet, people still left. Some escaped under cover of darkness. Others simply walked away. Not all left to fight. Many left just to feel whole again—to hunt without a permit, to speak their own words, to gather and be human—beyond the reach of Washington. What happened in the valley wasn’t an isolated uprising. It was a return. A refusal. A final step taken by people who had already endured the slow violence of erasure—and chose not to be erased.
The Man Behind the Myth
While this article isn’t about Custer specifically, it’s impossible to avoid the shadow he casts. To understand how he became the central figure in a legend that overshadowed others—especially the Native nations who fought against him and the Crow scouts who fought alongside him—we need to look at the man behind the myth.
At West Point, Custer accumulated 726 demerits and graduated last in his class, earning the infamous designation of “the goat.” He had enough intellect, but he used it to evade responsibility rather than build on it. His time at the academy was shaped less by discipline than by mischief, impulse, and a knack for avoiding consequences. Under normal conditions, that should have ended his career. But the Civil War intervened. The Army needed officers, and Custer found himself in the right place at the right time. His conduct at the First Battle of Bull Run caught the attention of General George B. McClellan, who brought him onto his staff. Later, his battlefield aggression impressed General Philip H. Sheridan, who became his most powerful backer.
Custer’s documented behavior closely aligns with traits now recognized as Narcissistic Personality Disorder, with elements of Antisocial Personality Disorder. He projected an inflated sense of self-importance, demanded admiration, and consistently sought the spotlight. His decisions were often impulsive and reckless, with little regard for rules or consequences. He courted favor with superiors while showing open contempt for peers. Whatever we call it today, his personality was central to both his rise and downfall.
At 23, with Sheridan’s support, he was promoted to brigadier general and given command of the Michigan Volunteer Cavalry Brigade. Bold to the point of recklessness, he often charged into battle with little concern for consequence. His units suffered high casualties, but Custer escaped harm—even having had eleven horses shot out from under him—a pattern that fed the myth of “Custer’s Luck.” He embraced celebrity status, posed for the press, and cultivated a flamboyant image. But behind the bravado was a man willing to gamble lives for attention.
His postwar career showed no improvement. After the Civil War, Custer—like many brevet officers—reverted to his permanent rank of captain in the regular Army. In 1866, he was promoted to lieutenant colonel and given command of the newly formed 7th Cavalry. His wartime title of “General” had been honorary—granted during emergencies, not a permanent commission. The distinction was widely misunderstood, and the title stuck in the public imagination. But officially, at the time of the Little Bighorn, he was Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer. Soon after receiving that command, he was court-martialed for abandoning his post to visit his wife and suspended without pay. Sheridan again had him reinstated.
In 1868, Custer led the 7th in a winter attack on a Cheyenne village at Washita. It was hailed as a triumph—but women, children, and elders were among the dead. Many now call it a massacre. During the fighting, Custer left behind a detachment under Major Joel Elliott, who had pursued fleeing warriors and was later found dead alongside his men. Custer’s decision not to turn back sparked bitter criticism from within the regiment. That moment marked the beginning of deep mistrust between Custer and several of his officers—especially Captain Frederick Benteen and Major Marcus Reno—whose actions at Little Bighorn would raise lasting questions.
That year, Custer testified before Congress about fraud in the Indian Bureau, implicating figures close to President Ulysses S. Grant. The fallout was swift. Grant removed him from command, and it took pressure from Sheridan to have him reinstated. Even then, Custer returned to the field under supervision and with something to prove. Determined to reclaim his standing, he ignored warnings, underestimated his enemy, and split his regiment in the face of overwhelming numbers. He died believing in his own legend. Peel back the layers and what remains isn’t a martyred hero—it’s a man whose ambition outpaced his ability and left others to pay the price.
That myth didn’t just survive—it thrived. Books, newspapers, and Hollywood cast Custer as a gallant martyr—a betrayed commander rather than a reckless one. He was immortalized in two films: first in 1940, when future President Ronald Reagan played him in Santa Fe Trail, and again in 1941, when Errol Flynn portrayed him in They Died with Their Boots On. The brutal record of the 7th Cavalry, particularly at Washita, was conveniently left out. So were the stories of those around him. The Crow scouts who rode with him were mostly erased. Their names, their warnings, their role—lost in the legend built around the man who didn’t listen.
Library of Congress. [Photographed January 3, 1865]. George Armstrong Custer, in uniform, seated with his wife, Elizabeth “Libbie” Bacon Custer, and his brother, Thomas W. Custer, standing. Thomas, the youngest of the three, would later die alongside George at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876. Libbie, who outlived them both by over fifty years, became the central figure in preserving and shaping Custer’s public legacy. Image cropped and digitally restored by the author to remove dust and scratches from the original glass plate negative. Photograph in the public domain. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, LC-USZ62-114798.
Illingworth, W. H. (1874, August 7). Lt. Col. George A. Custer with Bloody Knife, Pvt. John Noonan, and Capt. William Ludlow after grizzly bear hunt during the Black Hills Expedition. Taken during the 1874 expedition, this photograph captures a moment of rest following a bear hunt led by Custer. From left to right: Bloody Knife, an Arikara scout who would be killed beside Major Reno in 1876; Custer, seated and unaware of the fate ahead; Private John Noonan, Custer’s former orderly, who died by suicide in 1878; and Captain William Ludlow, chief engineer and cartographer of the expedition. Photograph by William H. Illingworth. Courtesy of the South Dakota State Historical Society. Public domain.
The Day the 7th Cavalry Fell
The Battle of the Little Bighorn, fought over two days—25 and 26 June 1876—was the result of a series of misjudgments that began long before the shooting started. Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer, eager for a swift and decisive victory, ignored clear intelligence about the size and readiness of the Native encampment along the Little Bighorn River. His Crow scouts—traditional enemies of the Lakota and Cheyenne—warned that the village was far larger than expected, possibly housing over 5,000 people and as many as 2,000 warriors. Mitch Bouyer, speaking for the scouts, told him plainly: this was the largest Native camp they had ever seen. The encampment included bands from across the Plains—Hunkpapa, Oglala, Brulé, Miniconjou, Sans Arc, Blackfoot, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho—gathered under leaders like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. As Custer laid out his plan to divide the regiment, the scouts watched in disbelief. They had seen the village. They knew what was coming. But he pressed ahead.
Custer’s official orders were to locate the village and wait for the larger column under General Alfred Terry. But he chose to take the initiative, fearing the camp might break up and vanish before reinforcements arrived. The decision wasn’t just tactical—it was personal, rooted in recent political fallout. He was still under pressure from the consequences of his testimony in Washington and had only just regained his command. General Philip Sheridan had pushed to get him reinstated for the campaign, but Custer entered the field with something to prove. A dramatic victory, he believed, would restore his standing. He counted on speed and aggression to carry the day. That decision set the final disaster in motion.
The Native force gathered at Little Bighorn had not come together by chance. It was the result of broken promises—specifically, the U.S. government’s betrayal of the 1868 Fort Laramie Treaty, which had guaranteed Lakota ownership of the Black Hills. After gold was discovered there in 1874, federal authorities failed to keep settlers out, then moved to seize the land outright. Conditions on the reservations worsened. A winter ultimatum demanded that all “hostile” bands return to agency lands or be treated as enemies. Many refused. Some had never left their hunting grounds. Others had tried to comply but were pushed too far. By the summer of 1876, thousands had gathered in resistance—families, hunters, and warriors—forming a loose but purposeful alliance determined to defend their sovereignty, their hunting grounds, and their way of life before it disappeared.
On the morning of 25 June, Custer divided the 7th Cavalry into three battalions. Major Marcus Reno was ordered to strike the southern end of the village with his detachment (Companies A, G, and M), hoping to provoke confusion and force the camp into motion. Captain Frederick Benteen was sent to scout the left flank and block escape to the south and west (Companies D, H, and K). Custer retained the main body (Companies C, E, F, I, and L), planning to circle north and attack from the upper end of the village—pinning the Native force between converging elements. The plan relied on surprise, tight coordination, and speed. But it was based on faulty assumptions: that the village was smaller, less organized, and more likely to flee. It was none of those things.
Once the regiment was in motion, the flaws in Custer’s thinking became unavoidable. His plan depended on speed, coordination, and surprise—but the terrain and intelligence he had received pointed in the opposite direction. His enemy was not a fixed line, but a mobile force fighting on familiar ground. The landscape—broken, steep, and cut through with ravines—made coordination nearly impossible. His scouts had warned him. The intelligence was clear, but Custer chose to ignore it—trusting instead in his own invincibility. That belief had served him in the past. But this time, the plan unraveled the moment it met resistance.
From a military standpoint, the risks Custer accepted were staggering. The regiment was split across ground that could scatter formations and cripple cavalry. There was no line of sight between battalions, no way to signal, and no practical hope of reinforcement once engaged. The pack train, carrying extra ammunition, was left far behind. Each trooper carried about 100 rounds for a single-shot Springfield carbine and 24 for a revolver. Against a force of thousands—many with faster-firing Winchesters—those loads wouldn’t last long. Once the fighting started, the 7th Cavalry was already out of time.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive sign outside Custer Battlefield Museum. A simplified map showing where Custer and Reno split during the Battle of the Little Bighorn. The sign highlights the Little Bighorn River, the surrounding high ground, and the approximate location of the Native encampment. It stands outside the now-closed Custer Battlefield Museum in Garryowen, Montana, just off Interstate 90 at Exit 514. Although the museum shut down due to financial difficulties, the sign remains as a fixed reference point for visitors. Photograph taken by the author.
Reno: The Attack That Unraveled
Three battalions moved out in separate directions. Reno was ordered to strike first, riding into the valley with just over 130 men to engage the village head-on. His battalion reached the edge of the bluffs just after 13:50. From there, the descent was no easy ride. The slope was steep, uneven, and choked with loose rock and sage—ill-suited for mounted movement. Horses had to be picked down slowly, step by step, to avoid laming them. By the time they reached the flat near the ford, the advantage of speed was already lost.
Reno crossed the Little Bighorn around 14:00 at a ford near the mouth of what’s now called Reno Creek. The low riverbank and cottonwood fringe gave partial cover, but as his column emerged into open ground, the reality of the village became clear. It was much closer than expected—spread in a vast crescent along the west bank, with herds of ponies grazing nearby and smoke rising from cook fires. Reno halted and ordered a dismount into a skirmish line. Every fourth man was assigned to hold horses, reducing the number of rifles on the firing line. At approximately 14:10, the line advanced and opened fire on what appeared to be an unguarded camp.
The first to fall were women, children, and the elderly—some gathering wood, others tending ponies or taking down lodges. From Reno’s position, no warriors were visible at the southern end of the village when the first volley was fired. The camp appeared largely unarmed. But by 14:15, armed resistance had begun. Warriors—some mounted, others on foot—emerged from behind thickets, lodges, and the folds of terrain. They moved quickly through gullies and brush, using the ground to draw fire away from the village and press Reno’s left flank. It was an urgent defense, not a coordinated counterattack.
Chief Gall, returning from the river, found his wives and children dead. His grief turned instantly to rage. Resistance along the village edge intensified. Warriors surged forward with growing coordination. By 14:25, Reno’s skirmish line began to collapse. The right flank gave way first, then the left. Officers shouted conflicting orders. Arikara and Crow scouts urged immediate withdrawal. Reno pulled the line back into a shallow stand of cottonwoods along the river, hoping to regroup and establish a defensive position. It was approximately 14:30.
The timberline offered temporary concealment, but little structure. This was untamed growth—dense cottonwoods, tangled underbrush, and uneven ground. Soldiers had to push through narrow animal trails and thick foliage to get in, which broke up the formation and limited lines of fire. Some took cover behind willows or fallen logs. Gunfire came from multiple directions—along the riverbank, through the brush, and from low ground flanking the timber. The attackers carried a wide mix of weapons—some had Winchesters, others used bows, muzzleloaders, hatchets, or war clubs. Moving in twos and threes, they pressed forward using speed, cover, and terrain to isolate scattered troopers. Close fighting broke out in the timber. Bullets splintered trees and ricocheted off stones. Smoke and shouting filled the air.
Around 14:35, Reno reportedly turned to his Arikara scout Bloody Knife for guidance. A bullet struck Bloody Knife in the head, spraying blood and brain matter across Reno’s face. The shock shattered his composure. What followed was not command—it was collapse. Popular dramatizations portray Reno giving conflicting orders—mount, dismount, mount again—culminating in the line, “All those who wish to make their escape, follow me.” But there is no documented evidence that he ever said this. The quote has no basis in sworn testimony or field reports. What is certain is that gunfire intensified, confusion spread, and warriors closed in from multiple sides. Some soldiers tried to remount; others stayed behind cover, unsure where the line was—or if there was one left. The timberline, once a fallback position, became a trap—choked with rifle smoke, hemmed in by undergrowth, and offering no clear way out. Somewhere in that chaos, movement began—whether by instinct or desperation—and others followed. The rhythm of the collapse quickened. By 14:40, the withdrawal was fully underway.
The retreat quickly unraveled. Panic set in. Men broke into small groups, afraid of being left behind. Forcing a way back through the dense thicket was slow and chaotic—branches and vines caught clothing and gear, tripping, dragging, and throwing men off balance as visibility collapsed. Some troopers were ambushed and overrun in the undergrowth. A few tried to move in pairs, but it quickly became every man for himself. Nearing the river, the retreat turned frantic. Mounted soldiers drove their horses into the current; others stumbled in on foot, holding reins or clutching saddles. Warriors with rifles aimed low, trying to bring down the horses. The river crossing became a frenzy—gunfire swept the ford, and some were dragged into hand-to-hand fighting in waist-deep water. Drowning, bullets, and blind confusion cut down dozens. Those still in the timber were overwhelmed. There was no plan left—only flight.
Reno reached the far bank around 14:45 and turned east, climbing the steep bluff under fire. The slope was open but uneven—cut with dry gullies and covered in tall, thick grass that tangled underfoot. Running was difficult. Men slipped, tripped, and got caught in the tangle, their pace slowed to a crawl. Horses were foaming at the mouth, snorting and struggling in panic, frightened by the noise. Some fell and had to be left behind. Troopers scrambled up the incline—exhausted, disarmed, and stunned. A few helped wounded comrades; others looked back, unsure who still followed. The timber was now out of sight, blocked by the rise of ground and the distance. There was no cohesion, no rearguard—just fragments of a broken command trying to reach the top.
Reno dismounted near the crest. His hands were shaking. His command was broken. Men were still straggling up the bluff—some on foot, others helping wounded comrades. Behind them, gunfire rolled through the haze. Moments later, around 15:00, Benteen appeared from the south, returning from his sweep of the left. He found Reno pale, bloodied, and frantic. The two spoke urgently. Reno, barely holding together, insisted they were being overrun and begged Benteen to halt and help hold the position. Whatever doubts Benteen had about Custer’s whereabouts, the situation in front of him left little choice. He ordered his men to dismount and began forming a perimeter.
McConnell, S. (2025). Reno’s Retreat: View from the Bluffs above the Little Bighorn. This photograph looks down from the ridgeline where Major Reno, Captain Benteen, and the pack train eventually regrouped and established a defensive perimeter. Below, through the broken terrain of coulees and ravines, Reno’s surviving troopers—many on foot and under heavy fire—fled back from the timber, forded the river, and made a desperate, disorganized climb toward the high ground. Pursued by Lakota and Cheyenne warriors, they barely reached this bluff, where they held out for nearly two days. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive sign: Reno’s Retreat. This interpretive panel overlooks the broken coulees and ravines where Major Reno’s command made a chaotic withdrawal from the timber below. The illustration depicts the moment when Reno’s remaining troopers, under pressure from Lakota and Cheyenne warriors, forded the river and scrambled up the bluffs to this position. Many were dismounted or wounded, and the retreat quickly unraveled into panic. This viewpoint helps clarify how terrain shaped the outcome—both as a barrier and a last refuge. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Monument marking the siege site of Reno, Benteen, and the pack train. This granite marker stands on the bluffs overlooking the Little Bighorn River, where troops under Majors Marcus Reno and Frederick Benteen—along with the pack train—were besieged by Sioux and Cheyenne forces on June 25–26, 1876. The inscription lists the companies present and identifies the location as the point of last resistance for the remnants of the 7th Cavalry. This area remained under continuous fire for nearly two days until relief forces arrived. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive map: The Reno–Benteen Defense. This bronze interpretive panel provides an overview of the defensive perimeter formed after Reno’s shattered command—soon reinforced by Benteen and the pack train—retreated to the high ground. The map outlines the key positions held by the 7th Cavalry companies across June 25–26, 1876, including rifle pits, the field hospital, and the water carriers’ ravine. While Custer’s battalion was being overwhelmed to the north, this hilltop became a last refuge. It also became the only sector where U.S. troops survived the battle. Photograph taken by the author.
Benteen: Orders and Delay
Captain Benteen was the first to move out, heading south along a broken ridgeline—he had the furthest distance to cover to reach his assigned flank before Reno launched the attack on the village’s southern end. Some twenty minutes later, Reno followed into the valley, and Custer turned north. The terrain was rough: dry, gullied, and scattered with rock. Benteen kept to the high ground for visibility but saw no movement—no dust trails, no sign of enemy presence, just silence and scrub. Around 13:00, finding nothing, he began to circle back toward the main trail. By roughly 14:15, he started to hear it—short bursts of gunfire drifting up from the valley floor. It was Reno’s attack, already in progress. Like Custer, Benteen could hear the fight but had no way to judge its direction, intensity, or outcome.
He continued north, retracing his route back toward the point where the regiment had split. Around 14:30, near a muddy waterhole known as the morass, Trumpeter John Martin arrived from Custer carrying a handwritten message: “Come on. Big village. Be quick. Bring packs. P.S. Bring packs.” The words were urgent, but by then the pack train—delayed by rough terrain and distance—was far behind.
Benteen reached the bluffs around 15:00. Reno’s men were still arriving—on foot, on horseback, some carrying the wounded. The slope was littered with gear and stragglers. Reno, visibly shaken, urged Benteen to halt and reinforce, warning they were being overrun. The scene on the bluff left little choice. Benteen ordered his men to dismount and began forming a perimeter. North of them, over broken ground, gunfire could be heard—distant, heavy, and unrelenting.
McConnell, S. (2025). Marker for Pvt. Thomas E. Meador, Company H. This headstone marks the approximate location where Private Thomas E. Meador of Company H was killed during the siege on June 26, 1876. The ground beyond falls away into one of several drainages surrounding Reno Hill and forms part of the commanding view from the cavalry’s defensive position on the bluff. From here, the 7th Cavalry could monitor and engage any approach from the valley below. Meador died holding that perimeter. Photograph taken by the author.
Custer: From Medicine Tail Coulee to the Last Stand
After the battalion split, Custer headed north with five companies, moving quickly along the high ground. He covered approximately four miles before turning west into the narrow draw known as Medicine Tail Coulee.
Around 14:10, the descent began in afternoon heat. The winding terrain forced the column into staggered files. With no wind, the coulee held the heat in—close, stifling, and dry. Horses snorted and shifted under strain, their hooves knocking loose gravel down the slope. Echoes bounced off the coulee walls, disorienting the senses—making it harder to judge distance or direction. The men had been in the saddle since before dawn, with only a brief halt in a ravine—around 10:30, about 4 to 5 miles from the point where the regiment had split—where they paused to water horses and make coffee. They had separated from Reno some four miles back, a gap that had widened steadily as Custer pushed ahead.
By approximately 14:15, as they descended, the sound of gunfire echoed faintly from the south. It was Reno’s attack. It was difficult to tell who held the upper hand—rifles cracked in both directions, and the rising terrain distorted the source. Still, the noise may have reassured some that Reno was fully engaged and that the attack was underway. There was no indication yet that his position had begun to collapse. Most of Custer’s men would have assumed the fight was going as planned. Ahead, the valley began to open. There was still no contact.
At the lower end of Medicine Tail Coulee, around 14:30, a detachment was sent ahead to reconnoiter the Little Bighorn River. Based on scout reports and the distant gunfire, Custer may have assumed that most of the warriors had been drawn off by Reno. Expecting only light resistance, the forward group came under fire from a few warriors concealed in brush on the far bank. In response, the soldiers dismounted and formed a skirmish line near the river, following standard procedure. Return fire followed, but more warriors quickly arrived, drawn by the sound of contact. From higher ground, the rest of the command would have seen the engagement intensify. Within minutes, the probing force began to fall back. What began as reconnaissance had become a running fight the column was unprepared for.
As the forward element withdrew, warriors crossed the river in waves—mounted and on foot—many armed with repeating rifles that outpaced the single-shot carbines of the 7th Cavalry. Fire from the advancing Lakota and Cheyenne grew heavier and more coordinated. The soldiers now faced sustained fire from multiple angles as they retreated upslope. On the exposed ridgelines, returning fire became difficult. There was little cover, and no time to entrench or regroup. The position began to collapse.
With the terrain against them, the retreat fractured. As warriors surged up from the river, groups of soldiers broke from their positions and fell back toward higher ground. The terrain worked against them—steep inclines, narrow gullies, and little cohesion. The volume of fire increased. Detachments moved in small clusters, trying to leapfrog uphill under pressure. Still, most of the fighting remained at range. A few soldiers were hit as they ran; others were pulled down where they stood, but the line as a whole fell back in stages. As more warriors gained the high ground, isolation set in. Units could no longer see or support each other. The collapse had begun in earnest.
The first major collapse occurred at Calhoun Hill, around 14:45. Warriors broke through the lines and swept among the defenders. Amid desperate formations, some struck heads with hatchets and smashed faces with stone hammers; others scalped the wounded. Soldiers were pulled down as they turned to run. Some tried to fire from the ground before being overrun. The command structure disintegrated here. Leadership faltered. Under sustained pressure from multiple angles, the position folded in on itself. Few made it out. Those who did retreated west toward the next rise—Finley Ridge—where the last fragments of Custer’s battalion would attempt once more to hold.
At Finley Ridge, remnants of the shattered command tried to regroup. Some came up from lower ground; others drifted in from broken skirmish lines, looking for elevation and a better field of fire. But the ridge offered little cover. Attempts to form a coherent line failed. Leadership was uncertain, communication nearly impossible. Warriors moved fast and in numbers, using terrain folds to flank and press the defenders. Under continued pressure, the position collapsed. Some soldiers were cut down while trying to hold; others were killed while running. Some of the dead were found with their trigger fingers cut off—an old practice meant to deny the enemy the ability to fight, even in death. Others had legs slashed or faces crushed by war clubs. Warriors moved quickly, pausing only to scalp or deliver a final blow. What had started as a firefight had become personal reckoning. A few survivors fled west toward the final rise—Last Stand Hill, the point where any hope of reorganization ended.
By around 15:20, the final fallback led to the high knoll now known as Last Stand Hill. This was the last defensible rise in the sector, offering a narrow perimeter with limited fields of fire. Survivors from Finley Ridge, scattered detachments from earlier positions, and stragglers from the collapsing line converged here. There was no organization left. Ammunition was nearly gone. The wounded lay among the living. From multiple directions—north, east, and south—warriors pressed in. There was no retreat. Encircled and outnumbered, the remaining soldiers formed a tight cluster. Some fired until their cartridges ran out. Others likely reloaded too late. When the final cartridges were spent, some clubbed their rifles until the barrels bent. Others turned their pistols on themselves. There was no line to hold—only a shrinking circle. When it ended, the dead lay layered across the knoll—some face down, others on their backs with mouths open and eyes burned dry in the sun.
McConnell, S. (2025). View across the Little Bighorn River from the base of Medicine Tail Coulee. This photograph looks eastward from the bottom of Medicine Tail Coulee across the Little Bighorn River. Beyond the river lies the flat plain where the Native village once stood. Traversing down Medicine Tail Coulee—with its steep terrain, dense brush, and limited visibility—contributed to the collapse of Custer’s attempted flanking maneuver. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Gravemarker for George Armstrong Custer at Last Stand Hill. Custer’s white marble marker stands among dozens of others scattered across Last Stand Hill, where his detachment of the 7th Cavalry was surrounded and destroyed on June 25, 1876. The markers were later placed at or near where bodies were found. Custer’s remains were reinterred at West Point in 1877, but his original battlefield marker remains a focal point of the site. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). 7th Cavalry Memorial Obelisk, Last Stand Hill. Erected in 1881 by the U.S. Army, this granite monument stands at the top of Last Stand Hill. The marble markers scattered around the slope indicate where individual bodies were originally found. The remains themselves were later reinterred beneath the obelisk in a single mass grave. This formal monument lists the names of officers and enlisted men who died with Custer. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive sign at Deep Ravine. This sign overlooks Deep Ravine, a steep-cut drainage just east of Last Stand Hill where a group of Custer’s men attempted a final retreat. The illustrated panel depicts the chaos of that moment—cavalrymen fleeing downhill under fire as warriors closed in from both flanks. Dozens of soldiers were killed in or near the ravine, and many of their bodies were initially left exposed before being buried after the battle. The depiction, based on Native accounts and later archaeological evidence, includes the names and likenesses of some who died here, along with a rendering of Lakota warrior White Bull, who is believed to have taken part in this phase of the fighting. While exact details remain contested, the ravine remains one of the most sobering features on the field—a natural funnel where movement ended and slaughter followed. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). 7th Cavalry Horse Cemetery, Little Bighorn Battlefield. This marker honors the hundreds of cavalry horses killed during Custer’s last stand on June 25, 1876. Their bodies, left where they fell, were later collected and buried at this site in July 1881 under the direction of Lt. Charles F. Roe of the 2nd Cavalry. The cemetery remains a seldom-noticed part of the battlefield, reflecting the scale of the loss and the role of horses in 19th-century warfare. Photograph taken by the author.
Reno and Benteen: Holding the Line
As the last man was dying on Last Stand Hill, Reno and Benteen held their position a few miles to the south, unaware that Custer’s battalion had already been wiped out. Their combined force, numbering roughly 350, had formed a defensive perimeter atop the bluffs, repelling probing attacks through the late afternoon and into the evening. The position was hard-won—exposed, fragile, and under threat. Many of the men were wounded, exhausted, and low on water. Casualties from Reno’s retreat were still being tended. Ammunition had run short during the collapse in the timber, though the pack train had since closed the gap. The terrain ahead was broken and uneven, offering no clear line of sight—only the sound of gunfire over the ridges. Custer’s location was uncertain, his condition unknown. Captain Weir had ridden forward but was forced back under pressure. No move was made toward Custer, but by then, no move was possible. Later criticism—especially from Libby Custer—shaped public perception, but the court of inquiry found no evidence of cowardice. Each man held his ground. The knoll had already fallen. The real reckoning would come later, not on the field, but in the stories that followed.
Battle Guidon of the 7th Cavalry Regiment, Recovered at Little Bighorn. This torn and bloodstained flag was found on the battlefield near the remains of Custer’s command. Its 35 stars are arranged in a double circle, a standard design for cavalry guidons at the time. The damage speaks to the violence of the fight and the fate of the men who carried it. Preserved today as a rare material witness to the 1876 battle. Public domain image via Wikimedia Commons.
Stripped, Cut, Left in the Sun
The fighting ended, but what followed was worse. The knoll fell silent, but the ground bore witness. Grass was soaked in blood. Human debris lay scattered—skull fragments, brain tissue, splintered bone, fingers, teeth. The air reeked of vomit, urine, and feces from punctured bowels. Some mutilation likely continued into the early evening, with accounts placing it as late as 17:30. For the Lakota and Cheyenne, stripping the dead was expected. The soldiers had valuables—guns, badges, tobacco, horses—and they would have done the same had the roles been reversed. Cheyenne warrior Brave Bear recalled warriors laughing over coffee and tobacco, calling out when a good rifle turned up, quarreling over horses. Bodies were stripped and left in the sun. Boots were cut off at the ankles. Scalps were taken from the dead—and from the dying. Then came mutilation. Warriors slashed faces, cut throats, disemboweled bodies. Eyes were gouged to prevent the dead from hunting in the spirit world. This was not chaos—it was message. Custer had brought war into their lodges. The response was ceremonial, final. The soldiers were being erased.
Native accounts describe Cheyenne women crossing the field in search of vengeance. Two women reportedly pushed awls [small pointed tools used for leatherwork] into Custer’s ears, so he might hear better in the afterlife. Someone forced an arrow into his anus—a violation so degrading the Army suppressed it to protect Libby Custer. Iron Hawk, a Lakota warrior, said some soldiers pretended to be dead. Women exposed them and finished them off. One naked man fought back against two old women before they killed him. Iron Hawk found it amusing. Sitting Bull did not. He warned that disturbing the dead would bring a curse—though later softened that message for white audiences. Other bodies were slashed open, genitals cut off and stuffed into mouths. Isaiah Dorman, the Black scout, was mutilated and left with a kettle of his own blood beside him.
When Benteen arrived two days later, the corpses had begun to rot. Flies blanketed the field. Some bodies could only be identified by uniform scraps or patches of hair. Others were too disfigured to be recognized. The dead were blackened with powder burns, their faces matted with blood. Lieutenant James Bradley, writing in a field journal later published by the Montana Historical Society, claimed there was little mutilation—blaming most wounds on finishing shots. But he lied, hoping to spare the families. Private Charles Windolph, who was there, said the mutilation was beyond words—faces smashed, limbs torn, guts slashed open. Many had been pierced with arrows long after death. Custer had been shot in the chest and the left temple. His body was not scalped but had been stripped. He was found by Private Jacob Adams, seated upright near the crest of Last Stand Hill, still in his socks, propped against the bodies of his men. His brother Tom lay nearby, mutilated beyond recognition, identified only by a tattoo on his arm. By the time General Terry and Colonel Gibbon arrived, the battlefield had already become legend. But the truth lay in the hills—a record of rage, desecration, and a reckoning no one had prepared for
McConnell, S. (2025). Young horse on open range, Little Bighorn Battlefield. Where soldiers once fell and lay unburied in the heat of June, horses now move quietly through open grass. Much of the Little Bighorn Battlefield remains unfenced, still part of active range land. The contrast between past and present is unspoken but visible. Photograph taken by the author.
Shifting the Blame: Accusations in the Aftermath
In the aftermath of this disaster, what followed remains one of the most scrutinized decisions of the battle. Despite hearing gunfire to the north, neither Reno nor Benteen advanced beyond a cautious probe. With warriors appearing on the ridgelines and no clear signs of Custer, Benteen ordered a fallback. The combined force entrenched and held their ground. By then, Custer’s command had already been overrun.
Custer had advanced into the Little Bighorn Valley under the false assumption that he could surprise and swiftly defeat a larger force. He ignored reliable scout reports of overwhelming numbers, divided his regiment into three isolated detachments, advanced without his pack train—leading his men into combat without resupply of essentials. Additionally, he declined Gatling guns and artillery in favor of speed. He also went against his initial orders to locate the village and wait for the main column led by General Alfred Terry. The result was tactical overreach: his men were exhausted, unfamiliar with the terrain, and up against a well-armed force fighting for a way of life. Over the course of roughly an hour, Custer’s battalion was scattered, outmaneuvered, and destroyed—falling in stages across ridgelines and ravines, each position collapsing under pressure. Yet in the aftermath, blame settled less on Custer’s judgment and more on the men who did not die with him.
Custer’s death did not end the debate; it only shifted the blame. In the weeks after the battle, attention turned from his choices to the actions of those who survived.
Major Marcus Reno has been the subject of harsh criticism ever since. His orders—to strike the southern end of the village with just three companies—amounted to a rushed assault against an unknown force. When overwhelming resistance surged from the brush and riverbank, Reno’s position collapsed into a close-quarters firefight. His Arikara scout Bloody Knife was indeed killed during this phase, and the psychological impact on Reno was real. But several oft-repeated details—including the sequence of mounting, dismounting, and mounting again under fire, and the dramatic order, “All those who wish to make their escape, follow me!”—have no basis in sworn testimony. These scenes appeared in the television dramatization Son of the Morning Star, a miniseries that aired in 1991 and was directed by Mike Robe, not in the 1879 Court of Inquiry or recorded testimony. What is officially documented is confusion followed by attempted reorganization—Reno “pulled back into the timber” under pressure and later, when he reached the bluff, implored Benteen: “For God’s sake, Benteen, halt your command and help me! I’ve lost half my men!” With heavy losses and no support in sight, they established a defensive position on the bluff. From there, they dug in and prepared for a second wave that never came. This was not an act of cowardice, nor a breakdown—just a defensive withdrawal; one carried out in utter confusion, across an unfamiliar landscape, with heavy losses and an overwhelming enemy. To demand more of Reno under these conditions is to ignore the scale of the mistake he was ordered into. He didn’t retreat from cowardice—he retreated from certainty of annihilation.
Benteen’s role has also been clouded by accusation. After scouting miles to the south, he received Custer’s hurried note: “Big village, be quick, bring packs.” What he found on arrival was chaos—Reno shaken, the command fragmented, and no clear route forward. He had roughly 120 men under his command and a few pack mules with ammunition. The idea that this small force could cut through four miles of hostile ground and rescue Custer’s position is implausible, even romantic. Captain Thomas Weir did advance briefly toward the sound of gunfire and reached what is now known as Weir Point, but he soon encountered heavy resistance and fell back. Later retellings portray a confrontation in which Weir challenges Benteen to advance and accuses him of abandoning Custer—but no such argument is recorded in contemporary accounts or sworn testimony. There’s no evidence the exchange ever occurred. Benteen didn’t fail to act—he made a decision: consolidate, fortify, and hold. In the aftermath, Libby Custer played a central role in shaping how the nation remembered the battle—portraying her husband as betrayed and elevating Reno and Benteen to scapegoat status. A deeper look at her influence appears later in this story. In the end, both men preserved what they could from an attack already broken by the man who designed it.
By the time Custer reached Medicine Tail Coulee, none of these men could change what was already in motion.
From the Ridge: A Crow Scout’s View
We saw it before he did. Early that morning, from a high rise east of the valley—what they now call the Crow’s Nest—we looked down and saw smoke rising from hundreds of lodges, and ponies scattered like ants across the flats. It was no small camp. Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho. Too many. Mitch Bouyer, who spoke for us, said it was the biggest camp he had ever seen. We all warned him [Custer], but he wouldn’t listen.
He was in a hurry. He said the people would run. He wanted to strike right away. He broke the column into pieces—sent Reno one way, Benteen another, and rode ahead with five companies toward the far end of the village. We watched. It made no sense to us. He was cutting his men apart before the fight had even begun.
When Reno attacked, they met him with force. We heard the gunfire rise, then fade. His men were retreating. Custer was still riding forward. Bouyer told us to fall back to the pack train—said our part was done. I turned back. Curly stayed. He found a place high on the ridge and watched.
Later, he told us what he saw. The fighting was fast. Warriors came from all sides, slipping through the cuts in the land, riding the gullies. Some carried fast-firing guns. The soldiers’ Springfields jammed easily—many after just one or two rounds. The men were spread out, trying to hold ground, but they were surrounded. Some tried to run. Many didn’t make it far.
We learned then that Mitch Bouyer had died with Custer, and his body was badly cut—scalped, torn up, hard to recognize. That hit us hard. He had spoken truth to Custer. No one listened.
We had seen what was coming. We tried to warn him. But he chose not to hear.
Note: This narrative is a composite account drawn from the testimonies of Crow scouts—especially White Man Runs Him, Hairy Moccasin, Curly, and Goes Ahead—who witnessed the events surrounding the Battle of the Little Bighorn.
Unknown photographer. Former Crow scouts at the Little Bighorn battlefield. (c. 1913). Taken decades after the 1876 battle, this image shows four men who once served as Army scouts under Custer—White Man Runs Him, Hairy Moccasin, Curly, and Goes Ahead—standing among the markers where the 7th Cavalry fell. Their presence is quiet but unmistakable: a return not in reenactment, but in memory. The photograph reflects the layered history of the site—complicated, unresolved, and still inhabited. Photographer unknown. Public domain. Image retouched for clarity by the author.
Kate Bighead
Not every witness carried a rifle. Among the Cheyenne was a young woman named Kate Bighead, who followed the warriors from a distance, searching for her nephew and observing the fight as it unfolded. Her account doesn’t glorify the killing, nor does it dwell on grief. What she offers is something rarer: a steady eye amid the chaos, watching as soldiers broke apart under pressure they never expected.
“I found a pony and followed the warriors to watch the fighting as I often did since my nephew, Noisy Walking, expected me to watch and sing songs to give him courage. I rode around the outer fringes of the fighting, staying out of range of the bullets as I searched for Noisy Walking. In this way I could see what was happening. More and more soldiers were getting off their horses, preferring to hide or crawl along the ground. The ride by the river became a focal point as bands of warriors moved toward the waiting soldiers. Hundreds of Indians had begun to crawl toward them along crevices and gullies. Some soldiers mounted an attack off the ridge, galloping on their horses toward a group of Cheyennes and Oglalas. The Indians scattered to safety, and the white men dismounted again to hide along a second ridge.”
—Kate Bighead, Northern Cheyenne
As told to Thomas B. Marquis, c. 1920s
(From “A Warrior Who Fought Custer”)
What I Saw That Day: Black Elk’s Story
“I was just a boy, thirteen years old, when the soldiers came. That morning, I was helping my father graze the horses. He warned me to stay alert, to keep them close in case trouble came. The sun was hot by midday, so we went down to the river to swim. That’s when we heard the crier shouting: ‘The soldiers are coming! They are charging!’ Everything turned to dust and shouting. My brother galloped off without his pistol, and my father told me to bring it to him. I mounted my pony and rode toward the noise.
The Hunkpapas were gathering in the timber. Women and children were running. Bullets struck the trees above us. I remembered my vision and felt certain: misfortune was near, but my people were strong—we were thunder beings. Then someone shouted: ‘Crazy Horse is coming!’ and I heard the eagle bone whistles and the cries of ‘Hóka-hé!’ coming like the wind from the north.
In the thick dust, everything was confusion—horses screaming, guns cracking, warriors shouting. I saw a Lakota warrior charge a soldier and try to take his horse, but the soldier shot him. I couldn’t reach the soldiers myself, too many people in front of me. In the river, men and horses were tangled, and it sounded like hail falling. When we came out, a Lakota said, ‘Boy, get down and scalp him.’ I tried, but my knife was dull and his hair was short. He was still moving, grinding his teeth. I shot him in the forehead and took his scalp.
Later, I rode to find my mother. I passed a young woman singing: ‘Brothers, now your friends have come. Be brave! Do you wish to see me taken captive?’ I showed my mother the scalp, and she gave a tremolo just for me. I joined other boys and we crossed the Greasy Grass. Most soldiers were already dead. I saw one groaning, his arms raised. I shot an arrow into his forehead. Another soldier had something shiny on his belt—I took it. It ticked at first. I wore it as a necklace until I learned how to make it tick again.
That night, no one slept. The next day, we found a white man hiding in a bush. We shot arrows like we were hunting a rabbit. He cried out, ‘Ow!’ and ran when we set the grass on fire. Our warriors killed him. By evening, we moved camp into the Big Horn Mountains. I rode with my mother and younger brothers. We didn’t sleep—we had to keep putting puppies back into the pony drag. At dawn, we made camp and ate well. I felt no sorrow. The soldiers had come to harm us, but this was our land.”
—Black Elk (Hehaka Sapa), Oglala Lakota
As told to John Neihardt, 1931
(From “Black Elk Speaks”)
What Fell Here
Standing on this ridge, near the Seventh Cavalry monument, overlooking a cluster of tiny marble stones on a forward-sloping hill—it’s hard not to be moved. Custer’s portion of the Battle of the Little Bighorn—from Medicine Tail Coulee to Last Stand Hill—lasted no more than 90 minutes. Of the 268 men killed over the course of the battle, 210 were under Custer’s direct command. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. Even now, in the public imagination, this is where Custer and the last of his men made their gallant last stand. But the so-called Last Stand was not a heroic defense—it was a disorganized rout. The collapse of a shattered regiment—through the collapse of a shattered ego.
And while the 7th Cavalry fell here, so too did something greater—generations of freedom. Between sixty and one hundred Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors died here—alongside an unknown number of women, children, and elders—defending their right to self-government and the will to be free. Sitting Bull did not come here to make war. He came to protect a coalition of nations, repeatedly driven from their lands and hunted at every turn.
The Native victory was short-lived. The U.S. government responded with overwhelming force. The great encampments broke apart. The hunting grounds vanished. And never again would the Northern Plains tribes live with the freedom they carried into that battle.
What fell at Little Bighorn was more than a regiment. It was the beginning of the end of a way of life.
McConnell, S. (2025). Marker for A’Kavehe’ Onahe (“Limber Bones”), Cheyenne warrior. This red granite headstone commemorates A’Kavehe’ Onahe—also known as Limber Bones—a Cheyenne warrior who fell here on June 25, 1876, “while defending the Cheyenne way of life.” His marker stands among the grass and stones of Little Bighorn Battlefield, symbolizing the return of Indigenous presence to a site long defined by U.S. military narratives. By placing his name and the Cheyenne phrase “Limber Bones” in the landscape, the National Park Service acknowledges the warrior’s individual identity, tribal affiliation, and the collective losses sustained. Photograph taken by the author.
From the River to the Ridge
Standing here, surveying the battlefield today, one realizes it’s only a short distance from the river to the ridge. Yet in that short span—measured not just in elevation, but in culture, history, and intent—everything changed. In the valley below, a way of life was underway. Tipis stood in wide circles. Cooking fires were lit. Children moved between lodges. The Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho had not gathered for war. They had gathered to live as families—elders, hunters, and leaders—on land that had been theirs for generations. But they knew the pressure was building. Treaties had been broken. Settlers were crossing into protected territory. The Army was coming. If they didn’t hold together now, there would be nothing left to hold.
On the ridgeline, U.S. soldiers moved into position under orders to force compliance. Officially, they were upholding the law. In practice, the law had shifted to serve other interests—economic, territorial, political. The campaign was not about justice. It was about control. And riding ahead of them, but not truly among them, were Crow scouts. Their presence had nothing to do with loyalty to the U.S. Army. It was a choice made in the face of limited options. The Lakota and Cheyenne were old enemies, and now they were pressing into Crow territory. The Army was dangerous. But for the Crow, losing ground to the Lakota meant losing everything. That danger, however, came with a price of its own.
From the river to the ridge, three irreconcilable forces collided across a narrow span of earth. All believed they were right. All stood to lose something that could not be reclaimed.
The Crow had known these ridgelines for centuries. They had buried their dead here. They had hunted, camped, prayed, and fought along these valleys. To side with the U.S. Army meant standing against not just their historic enemies, but against other Native nations now united for survival. The decision didn’t come easily. It was not made on the battlefield. It was made among elders, families, and leaders who understood what would be lost either way. If they joined the fight against the Lakota and Cheyenne, they would be remembered as traitors by some. If they stayed out, they risked being pushed from their homeland altogether.
We don’t know what was said. No record survives of the conversation that led the Crow to align with the Army. But a decision like that would not have come in silence. Perhaps some argued that joining the U.S. would mean being used and discarded. Others may have pointed to the long memory of Lakota encroachment, and asked whether former enemies could be trusted not to claim even more when the dust settled. There may have been hope—however faint—that the Army, if victorious, would leave. Or at least that a deal could be made. What was clear is that the Crow were forced to choose between two dangers. The decision was not made lightly. It was made with the knowledge that aligning with a white army meant standing apart from their own. Whether it was the right choice is not ours to decide. But the cost is easier to see. The Crow didn’t walk into unity. They walked into isolation. And from the river to the ridge, that line was final.
Why They Ran
It’s very easy to stand here and imagine the peace and simplicity this valley once offered. These rolling hills still hold quiet today. The Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho had not assembled here as an aggressive force—this was a village, not a battlefield. A place of cooking pots, children, dogs, and ponies. Elders sat near the fires, passing on wisdom and memories to those old enough to understand. Grandmothers tended to small children, the lines of experience written deep into their faces. The smoke from campfires drifted between lodges. The sounds were ordinary—babies crying, dogs barking, ponies snorting, the steady movement of a running river. It was peace. A way of life wanted, and a way of life worth defending. This wasn’t a battlefield. It was a home.
Major Reno’s soldiers appeared without warning, advancing at the trot. They came around a bend in the river, partly concealed by trees. Some stood stunned. Others assumed it was just another forced relocation—another arrival meant to push them back onto the reservation. Dogs barked. People called out that the Army had arrived. Women stepped from their tipis to see what the commotion was. Children looked on. No one understood the intent. Then the soldiers fanned out into a skirmish line roughly 300 yards short of the village. And without warning, a single volley of approximately 100 Army rifles fired in unison—shattering the peace and smashing into the village, killing animals and people alike.
Campfire talk instantly turned to panic. Bullets tore through tipis, struck the ground, hit ponies. Screams followed—of animals, of children, of women trying to run. Dogs yelped as they were hit. People were shot in the back as they fled, the impact knocking the wind out of them. Rounds struck with a high crack and a dull thud. Cooking pots exploded. Water vessels shattered, spraying clay fragments into the air. There were screams—of pain, of confusion—as people scattered into the long grass, disoriented, not knowing where to run. Others, in desperation, ran back toward the line of fire searching for lost children—only to be shot themselves. Then came an eerie stillness—over the pain, through the moaning and the tears—not the quiet of resolution, but of shock. The village held still for just a moment—just long enough for the soldiers to reload. Then came the second volley.
According to some accounts, elders rose in those first seconds, calling for warriors and trying to give direction. But the moment had already collapsed. Panic had taken hold. There was no formation, no plan—only movement and noise. The confusion that followed was a violent contrast to the quiet crackle of the fires just minutes before.
What followed wasn’t a coordinated counterattack. It was reaction—fast, improvised, and focused on survival. Warriors rode out in small groups, many without time to paint their faces or prepare. There was no plan, only purpose: to pull the soldiers’ attention away from the village. Accounts describe them hitting Reno’s skirmish line hard and fast, firing from horseback, then circling back into cover. Some attacked from the river, others from the brush and trees. They weren’t trying to hold ground—they were trying to buy time. Time for the children to scatter. Time for the elders to escape. Time for the village to move before the next wave arrived.
As more warriors arrived, the pressure on the skirmish line grew. Reno began to lose control. His line broke, and the soldiers fell back in disarray toward the timberline along the river. It wasn’t an orderly retreat. The warriors could see it—they were gaining ground. The attack that had shattered the village was now being pushed back. But by then, the damage had already been done.
As the warriors pushed Reno’s men across the river, others arrived to find what had already been lost. Chief Gall, in an 1881 interview, recalled: “When Reno made his attack at the upper end, he killed my two squaws and three children, which made my heart bad. I then fought with the hatchet.” The full toll of Reno’s assault on the village is unknown. The number of women and children killed that day was never officially recorded—but it was not small. What is clear is that these were not battlefield casualties. These were noncombatants—families—cut down as they fled.
In recent years, forensic analysis of the battlefield has revealed the brutal toll of the weapons used. Skeletal remains of Native warriors show the catastrophic damage caused by the Springfield rifle. Bones were shattered. Internal injuries were severe. These were warriors struck in open combat. One can only imagine the carnage of those same rounds on women and children caught in a village with no warning, no protection, and nowhere to run.
The Return: Reclaiming the Story
In the aftermath of Custer’s death, the image of a gallant hero endured. His Civil War fame and flair for spectacle helped inflate his legacy into something larger than the facts supported. After the Little Bighorn, that inflation only grew. The defeat shocked the nation, and in the scramble for explanation, Custer was cast as both martyr and myth—remembered as a fallen commander overwhelmed by savage hordes, instead of an arrogant officer who split his forces, ignored warnings, and underestimated his enemy. That truth was buried almost immediately.
Much of the enduring image was crafted by his widow, Libbie Custer, who dedicated the rest of her life to shaping public memory. She wrote three popular memoirs—Boots and Saddles, Following the Guidon, and Tenting on the Plains—that painted her husband as a heroic, misunderstood figure. Through writing and lectures, she steered blame away from Custer and toward his subordinates, particularly Major Reno and Captain Benteen, reinforcing the idea that he was betrayed or abandoned.
Her efforts were not only public but personal. Libbie had lost not just a husband, but the central figure of a shared identity—one built on war, ambition, and the belief in a noble cause. In the aftermath, that loss hardened into purpose. Defending his memory became a lifelong mission, a way to impose order on chaos and to silence the doubts that history would inevitably raise.
Her grief, fused with conviction, helped elevate Custer’s death into legend and buried the real story beneath layers of sentiment, patriotism, and denial.
In 1879, Major Marcus Reno requested a formal Court of Inquiry to address growing accusations of cowardice and failure to support Custer. Though the Army cleared him of official wrongdoing, the trial left his reputation in question—and did little to slow the public shift toward myth. While Reno stood trial for what he did, others simply disappeared from the narrative.
That version of the story left little room for the Crow scouts who fought alongside him, or for the complex realities of the Native nations who resisted. Over time, the battlefield became a monument to the Seventh Cavalry, while the broader cast—the scouts, the Lakota and Cheyenne warriors, even Custer’s own officers—faded behind the glare of his legend. Even now, many visitors come seeking the story of Custer—not the story of the people who outlasted him. But Custer was never the tragic genius he was made out to be. He was a reckless man chasing glory at the cost of others’ lives. His name endured not because of what he achieved, but because so many others were left unnamed
That began to change in 1991, when Congress authorized the creation of a new memorial to honor the Native warriors who fought here. The Indian Memorial was added near Last Stand Hill, designed by Lakota artist Colleen Cutschall. In 2003, the Spirit Warriors sculpture was installed—metal outlines of mounted warriors. It wasn’t there to dramatize the fight. It was there to acknowledge that Native people fought and died on this ground, and had been left out of its telling.
Red granite markers now stand in scattered places across the field. Some are named. Many are not. They mark where Native remains were found. For years, only the cavalry had markers. Now, Native warriors stand beside them. Not as decoration, not as balance—but as correction. What was left out is slowly being restored.
Descendants visit now. Some come as families. Others walk alone. They bring children, offer tobacco, or just stand. They’re not reenactors or guests. They belong to this place. The battlefield is still federal land, and much of its framing is still military. But the presence of Native families—returning, walking, and remembering—has changed how the land is read. This ground no longer belongs to Custer alone.
McConnell, S. (2025). Spirit Warriors sculpture at the Indian Memorial. Located within the Indian Memorial at Little Bighorn Battlefield, this sculpture—titled Spirit Warriors—was designed by Oglala Lakota artist Colleen Cutschall. The wire-frame silhouettes represent Native warriors riding into battle, a tribute to the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho fighters who took part in the 1876 engagement. Positioned atop the circular sandstone wall, the figures appear in motion, emerging into the vast sky behind them. Beaded ornaments, cloth bundles, and tobacco ties left by visitors turn the memorial into an active space of remembrance and prayer. This sculpture forms part of a broader effort to reclaim narrative space at the battlefield, offering a counterpoint to the longstanding emphasis on Custer and the 7th Cavalry. It stands not as a monument to victory, but as a gesture toward presence—toward those who fought not for conquest, but for survival.
Iron White Man
Iron White Man, a Hunkpapa Lakota warrior, was a teenager when he fought at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. He survived and, as a young man, joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, appearing in costume at exhibitions across the country. But in 1923, at around seventy years old, he entered a different kind of stage: the United States Court of Claims, where he gave sworn testimony later used in United States v. Sioux Nation of Indians.
He spoke as a witness to the events of that day—describing what he saw, what he defended, and what was taken. His testimony made clear that Custer had attacked the Sioux without warning, and that the version passed down in history books was wrong. That myth—of Native aggression—had long been used to justify the seizure of Sioux and Cheyenne land, and the forced relocation of Lakota families to places like the Pine Ridge Reservation.
He spoke in Lakota, translated word for word inside the courtroom. It was not told for the public. It was entered into the legal record—part of the evidence that would later support one of the most significant Native land claims ever brought before the U.S. Supreme Court.
Testimony alone could not restore the land. But his voice joined others in a legal struggle that stretched more than fifty years. In 1980, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that the federal government had violated the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 by seizing the Black Hills without just compensation. The Court awarded $17.1 million—the land’s 1877 value—plus a century of interest, raising the total above $100 million. The Sioux refused the money. They did not want compensation. They wanted the land. The funds remain in trust, unclaimed to this day. Now worth over $1 billion, the offer still stands—but the Sioux have never wavered. The Black Hills were taken illegally, and in their view, the Black Hills were never for sale.
Iron White Man did not live to see the outcome. But his testimony remains part of the record—grounded in memory, entered into evidence, and used to challenge the government’s version of events. It stands as part of a longer struggle to correct the historical record.
That struggle did not begin in court. Others had spoken long before the courtroom—warriors who had lived it, who drew it, told it, and passed it down without legal record or translation. Their accounts endure in different forms: in drawings, in stories, in family lines.
Käsebier, Gertrude. (ca. 1900). Iron White Man, a Sioux Indian from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Photographed in studio around the turn of the century, this half-length portrait depicts Iron White Man—one of many Native performers featured in Buffalo Bill’s traveling exhibitions. The image, taken by Gertrude Käsebier, reflects her broader project documenting Native subjects during their time with the Wild West Show. Gifted to the Library of Congress by the photographer’s granddaughter in 1964, this portrait is part of the Prints and Photographs Division collection (LC-DIG-ppmsca-12097). Public domain.
Red Horse: A Visual Account
Not all who witnessed the fall of the 7th Cavalry did so from a distance. Red Horse, a Minneconjou Lakota war chief, was there. He didn’t tell his story with words—he told it with a pencil. Five years after the battle, he created 42 drawings, each one capturing what he saw that day—without edits, without bias, and without the filter of military historians reshaping the outcome.
Red Horse didn’t draw noble cavalrymen from paintings or movies. He drew them as they fell—surrounded, outnumbered, and desperate.
He showed them crawling, wounded, and dying in the dust. This wasn’t a glorious last stand. It was a slaughter—and it was Custer who rode into it. While the U.S. called it a massacre, Red Horse saw it differently. It wasn’t revenge. It was defense. It wasn’t an ambush. It was war. And it wasn’t unjust. It was long overdue.
Red Horse. (1881). Indians charging U.S. soldiers at the Battle of Little Bighorn. Drawing No. 15, MS 2367A. National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution. One of 42 drawings commissioned by U.S. Army physician Dr. Charles E. McChesney at the Cheyenne River Agency in 1881, now held by the Smithsonian as part of a rare firsthand Native narrative of the battle. Public domain.
One Bull: A Lakota Reflection
One Bull, a Hunkpapa Lakota warrior and nephew of Sitting Bull, fought at the Little Bighorn. Years later, he painted this comprehensive view of the event—one of the few surviving Native accounts rendered through pictographic narrative. Across the top and right, he depicted scenes from the fighting, some annotated in pencil. At left center, radiating circles represent the Lakota and Cheyenne tipi encampments, while the heads at lower left show the warriors’ families nearby. At the heart of the painting, One Bull shows himself mounted, carrying Sitting Bull’s light green shield, riding into the fray to rescue a wounded friend. With precise detail and spiritual symbolism, he rendered horses, weapons, and sacred items—not as decoration, but as meaning. This is more than memory—it is testimony, created from within.
One Bull. (c. 1900). Custer’s War. Muslin painting, 39 × 69 in. A visual narrative of the Battle of the Little Bighorn from a Lakota perspective. Collection of the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Public domain.
A Living Tradition
Every August, just a few miles from the Little Bighorn Battlefield, the Crow Nation hosts one of the largest Native gatherings in the country. Founded in 1904, Crow Fair has grown into a week-long powwow and cultural celebration that draws thousands from across Indian Country. The fairgrounds turn into a temporary city of tipis and trailers, alive with hand drums, song, and dancers in motion. Each afternoon, Grand Entry brings participants into the arbor in regalia that blends the old and the new—elk teeth and beadwork, ribbon shirts, baseball caps, and sunglasses. The past is here, but it moves. More than a celebration, Crow Fair is an act of cultural assertion—a response to erasure, forced assimilation, and political marginalization. The parade, the rodeo, the giveaways, the dances—all reaffirm identity on the Crow’s own terms. It is a reclaiming of time and space in a landscape where history once tried to write them out.
Today, delegations arrive from across the continent—Lakota, Cheyenne, Blackfeet, Shoshone, Navajo—some descended from nations once at war. Now, flags fly side by side, and competition takes the form of dance, not battle. Old wounds haven’t disappeared, but many have given way to mutual respect, and often kinship. The Crow’s decision to side with the U.S. military once set them apart, but time complicates judgment. At Crow Fair, those divisions soften into something closer to understanding. It’s a recognition that survival took many forms. What matters now is that the people are still here. The culture endures. The languages are spoken. Rap beats mix with hand drums. Kids livestream the parade. The culture adapts without giving an inch. And each August, in a place shaped by conflict, Native nations gather not to forget the past, but to carry it forward.
The markers on the hills—white for soldiers, red for warriors—remain a powerful symbol. But the land holds more than one story. The Crow who scouted for Custer, the Lakota and Cheyenne who fought to defend their future, the soldiers caught in the middle of someone else’s ambition—none of them fall neatly into hero or villain. This was never just a place of death. It’s a place of continuity. Where once the land was taken, now it is reclaimed in movement, color, and sound. Not far from here, Crow Fair continues—not in spite of the battle, but in response to it. The circle still turns. The drums still sound. The story didn’t end here. It’s still being told.
McConnell, S. (2025). Crow elder rides in the opening parade at Crow Fair. A respected elder leads the Grand Parade on horseback, dressed in traditional regalia that speaks to lineage, responsibility, and honor. Tipis stand in the background, part of the temporary city that rises each August for the fair. The presence of elders—riding, walking, or seated in shade—anchors the event in continuity. They are living connections to stories, treaties, and struggles that younger generations continue to carry forward. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Dancer during Grand Entry at Crow Fair. Held each August on the Crow Reservation in Montana, Crow Fair brings together Native nations from across North America in a vibrant celebration of continuity and identity. The dancer pictured here enters the arbor during Grand Entry, where traditional regalia meets contemporary influence—beadwork, eagle feathers, and elk teeth side by side with ribbon, sunglasses, and bead-stitched logos. The energy of the moment, the light on his face, and the layered texture of his outfit embody the enduring power of cultural survival. At Crow Fair, memory isn’t static. It moves, sings, and reclaims space in the landscape of a shared past. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Young dancer at Crow Fair. Wearing a brightly colored bustle and roach headdress, a young boy stands ready to join the dance circle. Events like Crow Fair are not just celebrations—they are continuity in motion. In regalia passed down, stitched by family, or newly made, children take part in cultural renewal with each step, drumbeat, and smile. The next generation is not only watching—they are already carrying the story forward. Photograph by the author.
Voices from the Battlefield
This section brings together historical quotes from key figures who witnessed or shaped the events at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Paired with pencil-style portrait sketches, each quote offers a brief, personal perspective—sometimes reflective, sometimes defiant, often revealing. These are the voices that echo through the history: Crow scouts, Lakota warriors, U.S. officers, and Arapaho allies. Their words, drawn from firsthand accounts and recollections, ground the larger narrative in individual experience.
All portraits were generated using artificial intelligence, based on low-resolution public domain photographs. Graphic composition by Stephen McConnell. Presented here solely for educational and documentary purposes.
Unknown photographer. (c. late 19th century). Sitting Bull, Hunkpapa Lakota leader. Played a spiritual and symbolic role in the events leading up to the Battle of the Little Bighorn. In a Sun Dance vision in June 1876, he saw U.S. soldiers falling upside down into camp—interpreted as a prophecy of their defeat. The vision, shared widely, united Lakota and Cheyenne warriors in the days before battle. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph for educational use.
Unknown photographer. (based on mid-20th century sources). Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota war leader. Played a decisive role in the Native victory at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, leading a flanking maneuver that helped encircle Custer’s forces. Renowned for his tactical skill and commitment to Lakota lifeways, Crazy Horse refused to be photographed, and no verified image of him exists. This portrait is based on the likeness sculpted into the Crazy Horse Memorial in South Dakota, created with input from those who knew him. Image adapted using AI-assisted compositing for educational use.
Unknown photographer. (c. late 19th century). Chief Gall, Hunkpapa Lakota war leader. Played a crucial role in the Battle of the Little Bighorn, leading a counterattack after the death of his family during Reno’s assault. His actions were instrumental in the defeat of Custer’s forces. Known for his tactical skill, Gall later advocated for assimilation and served as a judge on the Standing Rock Reservation. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph for educational use.
Unknown photographer. (c. late 19th century). Arapahoe Waterman, warrior at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. One of five Arapaho who fought alongside Lakota and Cheyenne forces in 1876. Initially mistaken for scouts and captured, their lives were spared when recognized by Cheyenne chief Two Moons. Waterman counted coup during the battle and carried a buffalo-hide cross with feathers, a symbol of spiritual protection. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph for educational use.
Brady, M. B. (1865). Major General George Armstrong Custer, Union Army. Taken shortly after the Civil War, this portrait by Mathew Brady captures Custer’s theatrical confidence—qualities that helped him rise rapidly in rank and later fueled his fatal misjudgment at Little Bighorn. This image served as the basis for the pencil sketch adaptation used here. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph. Courtesy of the Library of Congress. Public domain.
Unknown photographer. (c. 1870s). Captain Frederick Benteen, 7th Cavalry. A veteran officer during the 1876 campaign, Benteen played a critical and controversial role at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Tasked with scouting the left flank, he received Custer’s urgent message—“Come on. Big village. Be quick. Bring packs”—but advanced slowly. Longstanding mistrust between the two officers may have influenced his delay. By the time he joined Reno on the bluffs, Custer’s command was already being destroyed. His actions and later testimony have remained a source of historical debate. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph for educational use.
Unknown photographer. (c. 1870s). Major Marcus A. Reno, 7th Cavalry. As Custer’s second-in-command, Reno led the initial attack at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, which quickly collapsed under heavy resistance. His retreat across the river was marked by confusion and loss. Later joining Benteen on the bluffs, he established a defensive position but made no move to aid Custer. His actions were reviewed during the 1879 Court of Inquiry, which cleared him officially but left his leadership under lasting scrutiny. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph for educational use.
Unknown photographer. (c. late 19th century). Two Moons, Northern Cheyenne chief. Took command of Cheyenne warriors after the death of Lame White Man and played a pivotal role in the encirclement of Custer’s battalion at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Known for his determination, he encouraged his men to stand firm in the fight. His recollections were recorded in an 1898 interview with author Hamlin Garland. In later years, he served as a U.S. Army scout and remained an advocate for his people. Public domain image.
Unknown photographer. (c. late 19th century). Little Wolf, Northern Cheyenne chief. Known for his leadership and strategic skill during a period of great upheaval. Though not present at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, movements by his warriors helped shape its context. In 1878, he led a 1,500-mile journey from Indian Territory back to Montana, demonstrating deep commitment to his people’s survival and sovereignty. Public domain image.
Unknown photographer. (c. late 19th century). White Man Runs Him, Crow scout. Served under Custer during the 1876 campaign and was among the scouts who observed the massive Native encampment from the Crow’s Nest on the morning of June 25. Despite their warnings, Custer advanced. White Man Runs Him was relieved from duty shortly before the fighting began. He survived and later provided detailed accounts that remain essential to understanding the battle. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph for educational use.
Unknown photographer. (c. late 19th century). Curley, Crow scout and battlefield witness. A young scout assigned to Custer’s column, Curley observed the destruction of the 7th Cavalry from a distance but did not take part in the fighting. He later reported the outcome to military authorities, offering one of the earliest accounts of the defeat. Over time, he became a symbol of survival—often mistakenly identified as the sole survivor of Custer’s command. Image adapted using AI-assisted sketching from a public domain photograph for educational use.
Narrative Sources
Narrative elements—particularly those in the Crow Scout Epilogue and Native warrior sections—have been drawn from multiple firsthand accounts and reconstructed for clarity and continuity. Some content is synthesized from interviews recorded in the early 20th century and collected in historical sources such as The Custer Myth and related oral histories.
Reference Materials
Brown, R. (Director). (1991). Son of the morning star [TV miniseries]. Robert Halmi, Inc.
Connell, E. (1984). Son of the morning star: Custer and the Little Bighorn. North Point Press.
Curtiz, M. (Director). (1941). They died with their boots on [Film]. Warner Bros.
Graham, W. A. (Ed.). (1953). The Custer Myth: A source book of Custeriana. Stackpole Books. Includes oral accounts from Crow scouts such as Curly, Goes Ahead, White Man Runs Him, and Hairy Moccasin.
Greene, J. A. (2008). Stricken field: The Little Bighorn since 1876. University of Oklahoma Press.
Little Bighorn History Alliance. (n.d.). Battle of the Little Bighorn. https://www.friendslittlebighorn.com
Marquis, T. B. (1931). A warrior who fought Custer. Midwest Company. Based on oral testimony of Kate Bighead, Northern Cheyenne.
Neihardt, J. G. (Ed.). (1932). Black Elk Speaks: Being the life story of a holy man of the Oglala Sioux. University of Nebraska Press. Narrative based on interviews conducted in 1931 with Black Elk (Hehaka Sapa).
National Park Service. (2023, October 18). Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument.https://www.nps.gov/libi/index.htm
Neihardt, J. G. (Ed.). (1932). Black Elk Speaks: Being the life story of a holy man of the Oglala Sioux. University of Nebraska Press. Narrative based on interviews conducted in 1931 with Black Elk (Hehaka Sapa).
Smithsonian Magazine. (2019, June 25). What really happened at the Battle of the Little Bighorn.https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/what-really-happened-battle-little-bighorn-180972410/
Wikipedia contributors. (n.d.). Battle of the Little Bighorn. Wikipedia. Retrieved May 6, 2025, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_Little_Bighorn
Image Sources
Paxton, E. S. (1899). Custer’s Last Stand. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
McConnell, S. (2025). View of Last Stand Hill from the river approach. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). AI-generated sketch of Mitch Boyer. Created using public domain photographic references for educational use.
McConnell, S. (2025). Marker for Mitch Boyer, Crow Scout. Photograph taken by the author. Courtesy of the National Park Service.
Library of Congress. (1865). George A. Custer with wife Libbie and brother Tom Custer. Public domain, LC-USZ62-114798.
Illingworth, W. H. (1874). Custer with scouts after bear hunt. South Dakota State Historical Society – Digital Archives.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive sign outside Custer Battlefield Museum. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Reno’s Retreat: View from the Bluffs above the Little Bighorn. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive sign: Reno’s Retreat. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Monument marking the siege site of Reno, Benteen, and the pack train. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive map: The Reno–Benteen Defense. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Marker for Pvt. Thomas E. Meador, Company H. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). View across the Little Bighorn River from the base of Medicine Tail Coulee. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Gravemarker for George A. Custer, Last Stand Hill. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). 7th Cavalry Memorial Obelisk, Last Stand Hill. Photograph taken by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Interpretive sign at Deep Ravine. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). 7th Cavalry Horse Cemetery marker. Photograph taken by the author.
Unknown photographer. (c. 1876). 7th Cavalry guidon recovered from Little Bighorn. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
McConnell, S. (2025). Young horse on open range, Little Bighorn Battlefield. Photograph by the author.
Unknown photographer. (c. 1913). Former Crow scouts at Little Bighorn. Public domain. Retouched by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Marker for A’Kavehe’ Onahe (“Limber Bones”), Cheyenne warrior. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Spirit Warriors sculpture at the Indian Memorial. Photograph by the author.
Käsebier, G. (c. 1900). Iron White Man, Sioux performer. Library of Congress. Public domain.
Red Horse. (1881). Indians charging U.S. soldiers, Battle of Little Bighorn. National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution. Public domain.
One Bull. (c. 1900). Custer’s War. Minneapolis Institute of Art. Public domain.
McConnell, S. (2025). Crow elder in parade at Crow Fair. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Dancer during Grand Entry at Crow Fair. Photograph by the author.
McConnell, S. (2025). Young dancer at Crow Fair. Photograph by the author.