MONTANA TERRITORY
JUNE 1876
Captain Myles Keogh was at the head of troops C, I, and L as they made for the river. Captain Yates had gone with troops E and F to support his assault on the village at a point called Deep Coulee. God only knew the situation with Reno and his companies, and Captain Benteen was still off reconnoitering to the south. He figured Benteen would miss the engagement altogether.
Keogh’s orders had been simple: cross the river and attack the northern end of the village. A hundred yards from the edge of the riverbank, they quickly discovered to their horror that what they thought was the end of the enormous Indian encampment was actually its middle. The burly Irish captain called a halt to the charge just as a hundred hostiles came over the top of the riverbank to mix with the already confused column. Amid the initial assault he turned and spurred his large mount back in the direction of the low-slung hills, followed by all three companies. He had failed to see that, downriver, another band of Cheyenne led by the warrior Lame White Man had already swarmed across Medicine Tail Coulee and rushed forward unseen. Keogh belatedly saw that the hostiles had anticipated his retreat route east and cut it off.
As he gave the command to turn south, his companies were hit suddenly from the side of a hill that had hidden another group of Cheyenne. Keogh pulled violently on his reins, but not before six of his troopers in the lead had continued headlong into the advancing ranks of hostiles. The attacking Indians drove his men and their mounts to the ground in a frenzied attack that quickly hid their slaughter in a rising dust cloud. The captain immediately signaled for his three companies to turn to the north, hoping to squeeze his units in between the attacking groups, but immediately saw that there was no clear path away from the Cheyenne assault. To continue going forward would only guarantee being picked off piecemeal, so in the madness of the moment and dictated by their predicament, he ordered his men to dismount—a command of last resort for a cavalry unit, because it would take away the only advantage they had, the quickness of horse. But Keogh had no choice. He remembered a successful dismounted defense at Gettysburg thirteen years before under General Buford; they would hold until relief could come.
As the remains of companies I, L, and C dismounted, arrows and bullets began to find their deadly mark. Keogh pulled his army Colt revolver and started issuing orders to fort up behind whatever they could find. Horses were shot as men threw themselves behind their bulk for protection. Keogh sat tall and purposely in the saddle and fired deliberately at the swarming horde of warriors. He hoped he could inspire his men to gather the courage they would need this dark day. The hostiles were now attacking en masse, no tactic involved other than strike and fall back. Every time they came forward the Indians would leave at least ten of his men either dead or dying.
“Captain, shouldn’t we try and reach the general?” his aide called out.
“One spot’s as good as the other today; we’ll all be eating supper at the same table tonight,” he said loudly in his Irish brogue as he fired two quick shots and then jumped from his horse.
Keogh had no hope for relief as he saw farther down the hill that Captain Yates and his men were also in headlong flight. At that point the captain hadn’t seen Custer among them; the dust had started to obscure his view. The captain fired his last round at a warrior who could not have been more than thirteen, sending him back three feet when the bullet struck his chest.
While he opened his cartridge pouch to retrieve his last detachable cylinder, a Cheyenne dog soldier, attempting to count coup on him, lunged with a long, red, striped staff. He easily dodged the feathered tip and grabbed for the coup stick, dropping his pistol at the same moment. He pulled the Indian close to him by yanking on the pole and started hitting him with his gauntleted right fist. As he brought up his hand to strike another blow, a bullet struck the warrior in the back of his head. Keogh tossed away the coup stick and then noticed that it had been a nineteen-year-old private that had come to his aide. The captain had just dipped his head in thanks when an arrow pierced the young trooper in the neck and the boy fell. At the same moment, a bullet creased Keogh’s forehead through his straw hat and almost knocked him down. The hat flew from his head and was caught in the dust storm being thrown up by the circling Indians.
Captain Keogh shook his head to try to clear his vision, not realizing blood from his head wound had clouded his right eye. He shook his head again as he tried to find his horse, Comanche. The big roan, disciplined as always, stood at the center of the three companies, his reins hanging free. Keogh started walking, struggling to gather his thoughts. Where were they, anyway …the Big … no, the Little Bighorn? Yes, that was it, the Little Bighorn River. He kept the name running through his mind, concentrating hard on those words as he fought to stay conscious, and then he finally reached his horse.
Instead of reaching for Comanche’s reins, he started untying the saddlebags. He reached inside and pulled out a long chain from a steel box. He could barely see and tried in vain to wipe the blood from his eye. He felt the chain through his thick gloves and was satisfied at the touch of the Saint Christopher; next to that were his prized papal medals, and then he finally felt the cross. It was the largest of the four objects, a full seven inches long. He slid the chain around his neck and ran his fingers along the cross once again. He hoped the sight of the holy cross and the two medals would keep the hostiles from mutilating his remains. His breath was coming rapidly now and he felt as if he were starting to lose his battle with staying conscious. Comanche jerked and screamed as a bullet went through Keogh’s McClellan saddle and struck the animal across its back. The movement spun the captain around, and that was when things seemed to slow to a crawl as if he were only dreaming this disaster.
Down below his engagement and behind a solid wall of swirling dust, a warrior named Crazy Horse and several hundred Sioux were ending a fight that would haunt the U.S. Army for a hundred years and send the great Indian nations into a bleak future.
Before Keogh struck the ground he saw the guidon for his own company falling just as he was. The letter I emblazoned in red struck the grass and lay there. The captain hit the ground as two arrows found the trampled yellow grass next to his head, tossing soil onto his face as he lay blinking against the sun. He didn’t even react when a third arrow struck him in his side. He clutched the cross to his chest and prayed and waited.
For ten miles around companies C, I, and L, 265 men of the United States Army’s most elite fighting unit, the Seventh Cavalry, met their fate with bullet, lance, and arrow. On a hill overlooking the spot where a foolish man with long yellow hair and a buckskin jacket struck the ground, his swallowtail blue and red flag soon following, Captain Myles Keogh held onto his cross and died. And with his death, he took with him a secret from hundreds of years in the past—lost with the rest of the Seventh in the Valley of the Little Bighorn.