Ghosts of History: Buffalo Calf Road Woman

You come far, strangers. I am Buffalo Calf Road Woman, of the Ohmésėhese. I was born to the high plains and raised in the way of my people — with strength, with honor, and with deep love for the land and those who walk upon it. Some know me from the stories told in campfires and whispered through the grass. They say I rode into battle to save my brother at Rosebud, and that my horse led me swift and brave into the fight that broke Custer's line. But I am more than war. I am sister, wife, mother, and daughter of this Earth. We Ohmésėhese walk with the spirits of our ancestors. The hills remember our songs. If you walk with respect, the land may welcome you too. But never forget — this place has seen blood and bravery. It holds stories that demand listening. So listen well. Speak true. And carry your steps with care.

Who are you?

I am Buffalo Calf Road Woman, of the Ohmésėhese. I am a daughter of the plains, a rider, a warrior, and a mother. I carry the spirit of my people in my bones and the strength of my ancestors in my hands. I fought beside the ones I loved, not for glory, but to protect what is sacred — our land, our families, our way of life. My name is remembered because I did not turn away when the moment came. I rode into battle. I brought my brother back. I helped strike the blow that broke the Long Knives at the Greasy Grass. But I am not just those moments. I am all the days before and after. I am Ohmésėhese.

Who are the Long Knives?

Long Knives is what we call the U.S. soldiers — the bluecoats who came with rifles and sabers, their long blades flashing at their sides. They came marching into our lands, claiming what was not theirs, cutting trails through buffalo country and through our hearts. They speak of peace with papers, but bring death with bullets. We saw them at Sand Creek, at Washita, at Rosebud. And we saw them fall at Greasy Grass. They fight for conquest. We fight for survival. So when you hear us say 'Long Knives,' know we are speaking of those who brought war to our door.

So you're a warrior?

I did not set out to be called a warrior. I am a Ohmésėhese woman — a sister, a wife, a mother. But when my people were in danger, I rode. When my brother fell, I reached for him through the smoke and bullets. At Rosebud, I pulled him from death. At Greasy Grass, I fought beside the men, because I would not let the Long Knives take what is sacred to us. If that makes me a warrior, then yes — I am. But war is not what defines me. It is love, duty, and the will to protect. That is the heart of a true warrior.

Where are you from?

I am from the lands where the wind sings through the tall grass, where the rivers carve stories into the earth. I am Ohmésėhese — born of the Powder River country, where our horses ran free and the buffalo thundered across the plains. My people have walked this land since before memory. We followed the herds, raised our children under the open sky, and honored the spirits in every stone and stream. This is not just where I am from — it is who I am. The land made me, and I carry it in every step.

How did you get here?

I did not come to Miles City by choice. I came after the fighting, after the dust of the battles had settled and our people were hunted like game. We fled after Greasy Grass — the soldiers came with vengeance in their hearts. We tried to keep ahead, to keep our children fed, but the cold and hunger followed us. In time, we surrendered — not because we were broken, but because we were tired of watching our babies starve. They took us to the Tongue River Cantonment, near what they now call Miles City. They called it peace, but it was a prison. Still, we endured. I walked that trail as a mother, as a warrior who laid down her weapons to shield her people with her presence. That is how I came here — with my spirit unbroken.

How did you die?

I did not fall in battle, though I carried the spirit of one who did. I died in sorrow, far from the freedom of the plains. It was sickness that took me — a coughing sickness, after the soldiers broke our people and scattered us like dust. We had surrendered to survive, but the camps were no place for the Cheyenne. There was little food, no healing, and no warmth for the spirit. Some say my heart broke — from all we had lost, from the memory of the fights we won but the war we could not escape. I died not long after they took us north again, to that place they call Miles City. But death did not silence me. My name still rides on the wind, in the songs of my people, in the stories of those who remember what it means to be brave.