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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The winter winds moan among those forlorn monuments to death, Marking the spots where brave men fell gasping their last breath. Upon bleak Calhoun Hill where Seventh Cavalrymen gave their all, Now lie 225 souls in hallowed graves awaiting Gabriel's call! The battlefield that once echoed with the screams of dying men, And the war cry of the Ogala, Sioux, Miniconjou and Cheyenne, Now teems with the restless spirits of troopers and Indian braves, Listlessly roving about the Little Big Horn, the gullies and the graves! On that Sabbath day in June the piercing bullets, lance and arrows flew. Avenging braves pounced upon hapless victims as they counted coup! As the sun settles in the west, heard are bugles and phantom steeds are seen. The moon rises and casts its mellow glow o'er that cold and eerie scene. Captain Keogh's horse Comanche, the sole survivor, though badly bruised, Can be heard plaintively neighing for its master, alone and confused. The curses and cries of men are heard above the clash of tomahawk and steel. The battle played again and again on that tragic stage seems so surreal! Yellow Hair Custer, dashing yet impetuous, had made his final stand. Not a soldier survived the carnage since the Indians held the upper hand! It seems that these restless souls are ever searching in an endless quest, Perhaps seeking a fallen comrade or, yes, for well-deserved eternal rest! Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired © All Rights Reserved
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