The Cheyenne Story:

If you haven’t read the two posts prior to this one, I would recommend doing that first.

The first Northern Cheyenne killed on the trail home from Indian Territory was a man named Black Beaver. After the Battle of Turkey Springs, the Northern Cheyenne had moved into the countryside south of Dodge City Kansas. Once there, they began raiding the ranches that had sprung up along the many cattle trails recently etched through that country.

Black Beaver and two others were stealing horses owned by the nearby Driskill ranch when they were discovered by cowhands from that ranch. A running fight ensued in which Black Beaver was shot from his horse. His kinsmen were unable to go back to recover his body and had to reluctantly leave him. The cowhands threw a rope around his corpse and dragged it back to the ranch headquarters where they encountered a company of soldiers who were out looking for the Northern Cheyenne

Military records mention that the cowboys showed them the body of an Indian they had killed. This story was also told by one of those ranch hands, a man named J.E. George. It was then printed in local periodicals into the early 1900’s. Mari Sandoz shared her version of the Northern Cheyenne perspective in her book, Cheyenne Autumn. Sandoz had the opportunity to interview Northern Cheyenne participants and their descendants who identified the man as Black Beaver.

As was often the case with Sandoz, she gave an overly-sympathetic Northern Cheyenne slant to the event when she said that Black Beaver was killed while trying to purchase the horses. When one considers the impoverished state of the Northern Cheyenne, along with the amount of raiding they did all along the trail north, it seems extremely partial to believe that any of the Northern Cheyenne would consider contacting a white man in an attempt to purchase horses from him.

In the “boots on the ground” part of my research, I’ve found that local legend often provides vital information not found in documented history. In the years since the incident, ownership of the land had changed hands at least twice. After one of the sales, one of the ranch hands, who was now an old man, visited the new owner and told him the story of how, after showing the body to the soldiers, they were advised to dispose of it, lest the Indians come back looking for him and seek revenge.

He said they dragged the body north of the ranch and buried it in a shallow grave along the creek. It happened that the new owner’s young son overheard this little-known story about the old west and remembered it all of his life. When that young boy became an old man, and the time came for the land to be sold again, he shared the story along with the approximate location of the “Indian grave,” with the man who bought the land and is the current landowner.

It was through this short chain of storytellers that the local legend was passed on to me as I came wandering up the trail. To say I was excited would be an understatement. I had been searching for my ancestor’s legacy, not an actual ancestor.

To protect the site, I won’t provide the location or the current landowner’s name, but I will say that he has become a great friend, and a great ally for Black Beaver and the Northern Cheyenne people. I was led to him by another friend, Kim Goodnight, of the Goodnight Cattle Trail lineage. Kim works for ITC Great Plains and it was through that friendship and the generosity of that organization that funds were secured to finance a search to see if there was any truth to this incredible story.

A 2023 geo-physical survey of the site determined that there were anomalies in the soil significant enough to suggest the possibility of a subsoil disturbance of sufficient proportions. For the layman, (like me) that meant we did a Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR) survey, to see if a grave might have been dug in that area. It showed us that there were a few spots of interest. While we were deciding our next step, my friend, Rebecca, with Algonquin Consultants, suggested we might try a different approach. She then put me in touch with Jennifer Jordan Hall with KYK9 Search Dogs.

Dogs have always been a boon to the Northern Cheyenne. Most of us consider them to be relatives. They’ve been with us from some of the earliest stories on the plains, and they continue to enrich our lives today. The idea of using oeškėseho (dogs) or hotāme (old-time usage) to help find our lost relative seemed very fitting indeed. Arrangements were made and, on March 9^th, we all met at the site. It didn’t take Jennifer’s associates, Pocket and Wick, two hardworking and talented Parson Russell Terriers, very long to confirm our research.

Pocket, who was recently recognized by the AKC with the 2023 Award for Canine Excellence as a search dog, keyed on the gravesite first. It was intriguing to watch the communication taking place between Jennifer and Pocket, and later Jennifer and Wick, when he too keyed on exactly the same spot. This communication, this cooperative relationship between dog and human, goes back so far in time, and remains such a vital connection. Family is like that. It was an amazing and inspirational moment for everyone at the site.

I will leave it to the reader to try to imagine how it felt to go from that powerful moment to another, just a short while later, when I was able to stand next to the long-forgotten grave of my relative, and tell him, “Uncle, we came back for you.”

The Northern Cheyenne Cultural Commission will decide what happens next. They may repatriate and help Black Beaver finish his journey home, or they may leave him where he currently rests. Leaving your bones on the prairie was an honorable act. Whatever happens, he is no longer lost or forgotten.

I mentioned in my most recent post that practical knowledge of the locations along the southern portion of the Northern Cheyenne Homecoming Trail is almost nil. People have written plenty about the events that occurred along the trail, but only a few, including John Monnett in Tell Them We Are Going Home and Alan Boye in his book, Holding Stone Hands, have claimed to have actually visited any sites south of Punished Woman’s Fork, near Scott City, KS.

Northern Cheyenne history ties us all to the land. Knowing our history is as critical to our culture as knowing our language. There are nuances to both that resonate within each of us who are born into them. I felt a strong need to find and confirm these places before they become simply names for events that people write about, but no one knows where they happened. That, like a language which no one remembers the words for, is one sign of a dying culture.

Monnett and Boye’s visits to Turkey Springs were to the current developed spring, located on Anderson Creek near Freedom, Oklahoma. This was the same site I visited on my first visit to the area. Neither author verified the location with their research on their visit, and neither did I on my first trip there. What I did do though, was return on subsequent trips to see if the surrounding countryside contained any of the geographic elements mentioned in the various reports and maps produced by those who were there… and it did not. The only feature it possessed that tied it to the battle was its name.

Military reports mention a collective speculation among the officers that they were somewhere in the vicinity of Turkey Springs as it is shown on the 1875 Ruffner map. No effort was made by them to confirm this speculation. It has long since become a common understanding that both the map, and the soldiers, were wrong. This led to a series of return trips for me, and a deeper study of the site, in which I focused on trying to find the ridge, the knoll, the ravine, and anything else that jumped out to say, “This is it – this is the place.” Twelve years later, November 18, 2023, on a lonely, wind-blown point above the canyons of Red Horse Creek, those words were finally uttered.

Before that, on my second trip to the area, I had the good fortune of meeting Dr. Kay Decker of Alva, OK, who had also been looking for the correct location of the Turkey Springs Battlefield for quite some time. We combined our efforts and our research, which led to many, many successive conversations, as well as a lot of map study, cross-country trips and fieldwork. We were joined in the effort by Rebecca Hawkins and her enthusiastic crew from Algonquin Consultants, and, we all then simply went out and found a battlefield that had been lost for one hundred and forty-five years.

We are now in the process of applying for National Historic Site recognition and I will soon be writing a more descriptive paper about our efforts. For now, the picture at the top of this post is of what I call “Rendlebrock’s Knoll.” It also shows the horse ravine described in the various reports and testimonies given about the battle. These, and several other geographic features in the area, match up beautifully with identifying features from maps drawn by battle participants.

In addition, I have posted here a photo of one of the spent 45-70 shell casings found on the knoll by the crew of Algonquin Consultants. This casing has a headstamp with the manufacture date of March 1878, three months prior to the engagement. We know there were no conflicts recorded on this site in the six months between the shell’s date of manufacture and the Battle of Turkey Springs. We also know that this battle was the last armed conflict between the U.S. Military and Native Americans in what is now Oklahoma. Thus, there is no other reason for a shell casing, with that headstamp, to have been in the soil, on that knoll, other than as a result of rifle fire at the Battle of Turkey Springs.

I have been most fortunate to have had the right people join this effort, at just the right time, to help make this discovery. There are many more details and people involved than what I’ve shared here, I will do my best to recognize them in a more formal rendering of this story. Right now, I’m eager to get this post up so I can begin writing about another exciting and emotional discovery a few miles north, in Kansas.

My hope is that, after you read the progression of events to follow, you won’t blame me too much for taking sixteen months to offer my next installment.  My last segment was titled. Lucky Guy, and the good fortune has clearly not stopped.  Sit back, relax, and prepare yourself for a tale of much better luck than I deserve.

Things have gotten very busy since the Wrangler Award.  I had been working on a project related to the story that I’m writing. The project is called, The Northern Cheyenne Healing Trail. This three and one-half mile long interpretive trail is going to be built at Fort Robinson, (no relation) Nebraska. It is the second stage of a project that was started twenty years ago by a pair of Northern Cheyenne elders, Edna Seminole and Rosie Eaglefeathers, to commemorate the heroic actions of our ancestors who escaped Indian Territory in 1878, made a painstaking and heroic trek back to their homeland, and then escaped another tortuous imprisonment at Fort Robinson in 1879.

Many of the participants died in this effort which became the principal reason the Northern Cheyenne were allowed to regain a piece of their homeland and to continue to live in the northern plains today. In 2016 a monument was dedicated to them and, shortly afterward, the Healing Trail effort was begun. It is a true privilege to be a part of this effort and to work with my relatives to honor our esteemed forebearers and comemmorate their remarkable accomplishments.

But wait, there’s more.

I’d been doing research for book two long before book one was published. In doing so, I have traveled, and continue to travel, thousands of miles a year, to Oklahoma, Kansas and Nebraska, where I get out on the trail taken by Little Wolf, Morning Star, and all those who followed them back home. I have been searching for where they were, both physically and emotionally, to try to better understand their experience. What I have found is that, try as I may, much of what they experienced is impossible to replicate or even begin to try to understand. It seems that I enjoy the benefit of far too many modern conveniences that they did not have and which make it impossible for me to truly “be where they were” emotionally.

That said, many of those conveniences have made it possible for me to have much greater success in finding where they were physically, and understanding, at least to some extent, what they went through. So, there’s a tradeoff. I want to tell you about the successes here, but I felt it necessary to qualify them before I began out of respect for the struggle and tenacity of my ancestors. While I have had great success at finding where they were, physically, I, nor anyone else, can ever truly understand where they were emotionally during this arduous journey.

The northern portion of the trail is pretty well identified with at least three of the locations along the trail hosting regular commemorative events that recognize the Northern Cheyenne Homecoming. Fort Robinson, NE, Oberlin, KS, and Scott City, KS, all host events, and have built monuments dedicated to the Northern Cheyenne trek home. Conversely, the southern locations have all nearly been forgotten, even by most of the locals. It is here where I have been lost myself, for the last sixteen months. It is also here where noteworthy events have passed, and noteworthy people have been encountered. I’ll share more about them in my next few posts.

After cycling through alternating spells of busyness, procrastination, and back again, I finally return to this blog. There’s no way I can account for everything that’s happened since my last post in a single entry, but I will make a good faith effort to cover some of the ground. I’ll then likely make a shaky promise to do better and be more consistent, only to delay another two years or so as is my all-too-evident modus operandi.

First things first, about that Western Heritage Award. After three postponements I was finally able to fly down to Oklahoma City in September of 2021 to accept the Wrangler that I was first scheduled to receive eighteen months earlier. They ended up presenting two years’ worth of awards in one weekend, and I must say that the wait was certainly worth it. The National Cowboy Museum is a world-class organization with an amazing venue to host an event like this. I spent a full day wandering through the endless exhibits and around the grounds outside. I know I still have not seen it all. While they make a considerable effort to be respectful to Native Anericans in their displays, I will admit to struggling at times with the celebratory emphasis on “winning the west” that is often taken there.

While there, we were given an early-bird peek at the new First Americans’ Museum on the night before its grand opening. It is also a very special place and I wish I had been able to spend more time there but the weekend was too tightly scheduled to allow for it. What I was able to see in the time that I was there was breathtaking. Next time I go I’ll be sure I’m operating on NDN time and really immerse myself.

My wife, Connie, was unable to make the trip because the third reschedule put it on a weekend that she had another obligation scheduled. She was a bit heartbroken to not be able to see her childhood crush, Kurt Russell, but, as it turned out, Kurt couldn’t make it either. Shortly after I arrived, I found myself calling my sweetie to inform her that her old crush didn’t show because he was scheduled for some hip surgery. Clearly, fate is as fickle as our bodies are frail.

Speaking of frail bodies, 90 year-old Robert Duvall was there, (suck it up Kurt) along with George Strait, Reba McEntire, Bruce Boxleitner and a few other sorta-well-knowns. I was invited to one elbow-rubbing affair, but I tend to avoid the bar scene these days. I did make several new friends though, and will actually be working with one of them on a project of theirs in the near future.

The statue sits on my bookcase now. Every time I look at it, I shake my head in disbelief. It seems that, this time, I got the award AND the girl.

So, apparently, the book has legs… at least at the local level. Through a lot of help from family, friends, and the awesome folks at Sweetgrass Books, there’s been a little buzz created that seems to be growing. We’ve had a couple readings, there’s a podcast set up with Native America Calling, and (hopefully,) a couple more in the offing. We’re also eagerly awaiting the results of a few award nominations this spring/summer.

I’m amazed since it’s only been out a little over a month. To say that there’s been a learning curve involved would be a tremendous understatement. I knew the process would be challenging, (and it is,) but I knew I would have some tremendous support (and I do.) So now, with volume one on the ground and toddling off toward the arms of its waiting readers. I feel a parental mix of pride and regret. Pride, for the message it carries out into the world, and for how well it has been received, and regret over what I could have done better to help it along. Understandably, I also feel a strong pull to sit down and resume work on volume two. Volume one needs a sibling.

Before I get too caught up in all of that though, I thought I’d step back a bit and put something out there that’s a little different, but still speaks to where I come from as a writer, a Cheyenne, and a mistake-making, lesson-learning human being. This is a poem of mine that had been published in an online journal called, Stones Throw Magazine, which had been produced and edited by past Montana Poet Laureate, Tami Haaland. For some reason the journal was taken offline which left my little creation homeless. For want of a home, here it is.

As a young boy I once visited an old family cemetery with my father. While there, I asked Dad a typical childish question, “Do I have any relatives who were famous, from back in the old days?”  Dad’s response was uncertain.  “Well, your Grampa Rowland was supposed to have done something with the army during the Indin wars.  He was a scout, or something.”  That was it.  There was no more he could tell me.  The story was one of those old ones that, over time, had started to slip away.  It happens.

A few years back, as an adult, I enjoyed the opportunity to explore the rich history of an organization I had become involved with. In the process of learning that history, I happened across the names of several friends and relatives who had also been involved with that organization, years before I came along.  This inspired me to begin exploring more of my family’s history and heritage which, I have come to find, is exceptional.

“Well, your Grampa Rowland was supposed to have done something with the army during the Indin wars.  He was a scout, or something.”

It seems I can go back along any branch of my family tree and find remarkable individuals who have contributed great things to their family and their communities.  One of the most remarkable was indeed, as my father had indicated, my great-great grandfather, William Young Rowland, a.k.a. To’ėsemotšėške Long Knife.

My initial intent was to discover what role Bill Rowland played in the overall history of our tribe, the Northern Cheyenne.  I found bits and pieces of his story scattered around in different publications, which told me that he was one of those integral, behind the scenes, players, who likely never sought, nor was given, the spotlight in any event or developing situation.  He had moments though, where it was clear, he was the one people turned to for information or help.  I had to learn more.

I am so grateful that I live in a time when access to sometimes very archaic  information can be had at the touch of a computer mouse, or via a short email.  So much of what I have learned has come in such a fashion.  That’s not saying it all came that way however.  I have traveled thousands of miles visiting battlefields, forts, and state historical societies, spent days sifting through various repository records including the National Archives, researched hundreds of books, talked with countless historians and relatives, and spent seemingly endless hours scanning, writing, and researching Cheyenne history and Grampa Bill. Most importantly though, I went home and talked with family.

A clearer picture of Bill Rowland emerged in front of me with each click of the mouse, each mile on the road, each step in his footprints.

A clearer picture of Bill Rowland emerged in front of me with each click of the mouse, each mile on the road, each step in his footprints.  I’ve often wondered, with each turn in my investigation of his life, if he had any suspicion that his involvement in the grave and life-changing events of his time, would someday be of such pressing interest to any of his descendants – even a hundred and forty years later.  After learning what I have in this process of discovery, I would venture to say that many of his descendants will be fascinated to learn the role he played in one of the most tumultuous periods in our nations history.

I am also grateful to, Rick Ewig, editor for Wyoming’s history journal, Annals of Wyoming, for publishing the  article I wrote on my great-great grandfather, in which I relate the fascinating story of his life.  My current project is, The Cheyenne Story, a three volume novel which tells the story of the Northern Cheyenne people, from shortly after the fight at Little Bighorn to the establishment of our reservation.  It draws heavily on the research I’ve done for this article, as well as so much more I’ve dug up along the way.

Grampa Bill is a co-protagonist in the story, which provides me the opportunity to explore in greater detail, who he was and what role he played in the amazing story of the Cheyenne and their heroic fight to stay in their homeland.  That story has always been a great source of pride for myself and many others.  To know that I am a product and beneficiary of that struggle, that heroism, leaves me with gratitude beyond words.  By my ancestors brave example I have learned that even though something seems impossible it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.