Welcome to Talk with History.

I'm your host, Scott, and my wife and historian, Jen, is traveling

for a special project this week.

So I thought I would bring you a story from our past travels.

So I hope you enjoy this history road trip.

We stopped along the ridge that outlined the battlefield of Little

Bighorn, overlooking the river.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall figure walking straight

towards Jen and not stopping.

That's odd.

Traveling through Montana with the family had been an otherworldly experience.

It really is someplace you have to be.

We had driven up from Wyoming via Devil's Tower, and I couldn't stop

gaping at the wide open plains that had inspired so many songs.

Cowboys and western tall tales.

There it was.

The sign indicating that we were entering the Crow Indian Reservation.

The little bighorn battlefield monument is on the reservation.

It's beautiful, isn't it?

And about 70 miles from both Sheridan, Wyoming, and Billings, Montana.

It's pretty out there.

As we drove up to the monument, I wondered what it must have been

like the morning of June 25th, 1876.

147 years before our trip across these great plains.

Nobody survived Custer's Last Stand.

Or so they thought.

It was supposed to have been an easy ride, at least according to Custer.

We had ridden many days and weeks to get to this river.

What was it again?

Little?

Big?

Something?

I could barely think of that now, that we were surrounded by the

very people we had been chasing.

Bullets and arrows whizzed through the air as chaos and fear took over the plains.

I felt the ground tremble beneath me from the onslaught

of warriors and soldiers alike.

My heart pounded in rhythm with the beat of the war drums

that echoed from the distance.

My best friend and partner the past couple years, Captain Kyo, rode with

me, guiding me through the pandemonium.

Together we had pressed forward, his steady hand and firm voice reassuring

me despite the chaos around us.

We had been through many battles together, but this one felt different.

There was a sense of desperation in his voice, a tension in his demeanor.

Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in my flank, my legs gave way, but I fought

to stay standing, to continue fighting.

But the pain was too much, and I stumbled, accidentally bringing Captain Keo with me.

I tried to rise, but the pain overpowered me.

I watched as he was swallowed up by the chaos, disappearing from my sight.

I lay there in the dust, the battle raging around me, the noise slowly

faded, replaced by a strange silence.

The Indian warriors had moved on, leaving behind the fallen and the broken.

Days passed in a haze of pain and fear, the battlefield was a grim sight,

littered with the casualties of war.

I was alone, nursing my wounds, waiting for the end, but it never came.

Instead, I saw the blurs of blue uniforms appear.

They approached cautiously, their eyes scanning the

devastation across the hilltop.

They found me, injured and barely able to move.

They spoke in hushed voices, their hands gentle as they tended to my wounds.

Their touch was kind, their voices soothing.

I felt the pain recede, replaced by a warm, comforting sensation.

They fed me, gave me some water, and slowly, they left.

I regained my strength.

In the days that followed, I gained enough strength to show my

gratitude and accept their help.

They seemed to understand my loss, my pain.

They treated me with respect, almost reverence.

I was a survivor, a living testament to the battle that had consumed so

many at the Little Bighorn River.

As I regained my strength, people said I was more than just a survivor.

They said I was a symbol.

A beacon of hope amid the devastation.

I just knew that I was Comanche, the horse of Captain Keo.

I was the lone survivor of the Battle of Little Bighorn.

The man walking towards Jen briefly disappeared as he walked behind a truck.

I started to turn and walk towards Jen as well.

I had lost sight of her for a moment as a tour group passed in front of me, but

then, surprisingly, I heard laughter.

The group passed, and there was the man chatting happily away with my better half.

He recognized me from the channel, she burst aloud.

He grinned sheepishly, almost as if embarrassed.

I saw the collaboration you guys did with JD, and I've

followed your channel ever since.

I smiled.

JD's a friend of ours with another history YouTube channel.

Great guy, super supportive.

Of course, the first time Jen ever gets recognized from the channel, we're about

as far away from home as we've ever been.

In fact, we were a little over 2000 miles away and we got a picture with him and

he went on his way, all of us smiling.

Quite a different interaction with a stranger than Custer had.

The story here at Little Bighorn was so much more complex than I expected, with

broken promises, ominous forewarnings, and ultimately the decimation of

Custer's troops on Last Stand Hill.

The story of Comanche, the horse of Captain Miles Keough, is true, The

horse was found on the battlefield by U.

S.

soldiers who presumed he hadn't been taken due to his two gunshot wounds.

He was standing over his captain.

And the soldiers eventually nursed him back to health.

The horse stayed at Fort Meade until 1887 when he was shipped to Fort Riley, Kansas.

He remained at Fort Riley for the rest of his life.

Comanche received hero attention at Fort Riley.

On April 10, 1878, General Order No.

7 was issued stating, The horse known as Comanche being the only living

representative of the bloody tragedy of Little Bighorn, June 25, 1876, his

kind treatment and comfort shall be a matter of special pride and solicitude

on the part of every member of the 7th Calvary to the end that his life

be preserved to the utmost limit.

Further, company, I will see that a special and comfortable stable is fitted

for him and he will not be ridden by any person whatsoever under any circumstances,

nor will be put to any kind of work.

Having led near every parade at the fort during his time there, he became

something of a celebrity and was treated with reverence and pride by every soldier.

On November 7th, 1891, Comanche died of colic, a digestive disorder

not uncommon in elderly horses.

He was 29 years old.

I

highly recommend, if you ever have a chance to go to Little Bighorn,

you're in the Montana, Wyoming area.

You go do it.

It's a must see, and it really takes you back in time.

Thank you for listening to the Talk with History podcast, and please

reach out to us at thehistoryroadtrip.

com, where you can chat with us and our community of fellow history travelers.

That is thehistoryroadtrip.

com.

Thank you, and we'll talk to you next time.