“How many Injuns will there be, do you think?” invited “Autie” Reed, excitedly, of Ned.

This was the evening of June 21. The expedition had been out from Fort Lincoln over a month. Now they were in camp at the mouth of the Rosebud River, on the south side of the Yellowstone River in southeastern Montana—just beyond the Tongue River where in the summer of 1873 General Custer had first met the Sioux in battle and had almost been cut off, and Doctor Honzinger and Sutler Baliran had been killed by Rain-in-the-Face.

No Indians had been met. Many of the officers and men were of the opinion that none would be found, and that all would escape. But when here the searchers were, at last, right in the enemy’s home, it looked as though a fight was likely to occur soon. General Gibbon’s “Montana column” was encamped across the Yellowstone. They had marched from the west down the north bank, and had reported that no Sioux had traveled north, but that they had seen hostile Indians watching them from the south bank. Therefore in the opinion of General Gibbon the Sioux were still south of the Yellowstone, in the wild hunting-grounds of the Big Horn and the Powder Rivers.

General Crook the Gray Fox was down there, with his soldiers. He had not been heard from, but it was expected that as he approached he would be driving the Sioux before him. Nobody knew that on June 17 General Crook had been met on the upper Rosebud by Sitting Bull’s warriors and had been forced back. The red general had out-matched the white general. The Sioux were better warriors than the Apaches.

Major Reno had been ordered by General Terry to take his portion of the Seventh and scout southward, to examine the country for Indian signs and perhaps to sight General Crook. He had not sighted General Crook, who was a hundred miles distant, shut off by a wide stretch of rough, perilous country. But swinging in a circle back he had come, with news that on the Rosebud River he had struck a large trail, trending up-river, made by many Sioux. This was news indeed, and welcome news.

Steamboats ran on the Yellowstone. The Government supply boat Far West, Captain Grant Marsh, had arrived from the Missouri. General Terry and General Gibbon and General Custer had consulted, aboard her where she was tied to the shore unloading her supplies; and the results were known.

The “Montana column” were to be crossed to the south bank; and they, and the infantry, under General Terry and General Gibbon, were to proceed south up the Big Horn River, which was the next river beyond the Rosebud. The Far West was to accompany as far as it could. But the whole Seventh Cavalry were to march up the Rosebud, to the Indian trail, and see where the trail went to. Then, if the Indians tried to escape by the east or the southeast, the Seventh would turn them; and if they tried to escape north down the Big Horn, the other column would turn them.

Every soldier was now much interested, but none more interested than “Autie.” So he had sought out Ned the veteran, to confer with him. “Autie,” being the general’s nephew, always was chock-full of inside information that he picked up among the officers. So together they made a good team.

“How many Injuns will there be, do you think?” asked “Autie,” by the camp-fire.

“Major Reno says he counted sign of three hundred and eighty lodges, didn’t he?” answered Ned. “Charley Reynolds says that means about fourteen hundred in all; four or five hundred warriors, if we include the boys. Indian boys over fourteen can fight as hard as the men. They did down on the Washita.”

“Bloody Knife and the Rees are scared already,” declared “Autie.” “They’re making medicine. But Half-Yellow-Face and Curly and the other Crows aren’t scared. (Some Crow Indians had joined the Arikari scouts, to fight against the enemy Sioux.) I like them the best, anyway. They’re as jolly as any of us.”

“Yes,” agreed Ned, wisely; “they’re about the best Indians I’ve ever seen.”

“Sioux can whip ’em,” grunted a voice. It was that of Isaiah, the black squaw-man scout. “Sioux best fighters on plains.”

“They can’t whip us, though,” retorted “Autie.” “Is that Sitting Bull’s trail we’re going to follow, Ike?”

“No, guess not. Band goin’ to Settin’ Bull’s village, mebbe. But don’t you worry, boy. We find Settin’ Bull, plenty quick; or he find us. Crazy Hoss, too. Gall, Lame Deer, Black Moon, Two Moon, He Dog, Hump, Big Road, Crow King—they all be there, with their Minniconjous, an’ Oglalas, an’ Cheyennes, an’ Sans Arc, an’ Brules, an’ Hunkpapas, an’ Blackfeet, jest sp’ilin’ for a fight if we only fetch it to ’em in the right place.”

“And Rain-in-the-Face,” suggested “Autie.”

“Yep; Rain-in-the-Face. He be there.”

“We don’t care,” scoffed “Autie,” true to the Seventh. “General Terry offered Uncle Autie the gatling guns and some of the Second Cavalry; but Uncle Autie says the Seventh is enough. We don’t need anybody to help us; do we, Ned!”

“No,” asserted Ned. “We can take care of all the Sioux that come. There aren’t more than three thousand of them off the reservation, according to the Indian Department report; and only six or eight hundred of these are warriors. The Seventh Cavalry can whip them.”

“You see,” grunted Isaiah. “There as many Sioux off reservation as on. My squaw Sioux. She know.”

“We don’t care,” again scoffed “Autie.”

When the Seventh started, the next noon, they started in style. They passed in review before General Terry and General Gibbon and General Custer. The general, and Captain Tom and Adjutant Cook and Captain Keogh wore their buckskin suits; all the regiment were natty and businesslike; the band played “Garryowen”—but they were to be left behind, this time, were the band. General Terry smiled and saluted each troop as in platoons they swung past. On prancing Dandy the general sat straight and proud, for this was his crack regiment.

That evening “Autie” reported upon the officers’ council which was held at the general’s tent. “Uncle Autie” had said that the regiment were to follow the Sioux even if the trail led clear to the Nebraska agencies; and it must be done on the fifteen days’ rations. That sounded exactly like the general. Just as General Sheridan had once declared, when he wanted a thing done quickly he sent Custer.

The Rosebud was a small but rapid stream, flowing north through a bluffy, bare country. The Indian trail was struck the next day. There were lodge-pole marks and pony tracks, and little brush wicki-ups that looked as if dogs had slept under them. The Ree and Crow scouts, and Charley Reynolds and Isaiah and other scouts not Indians, rode in the advance, closely examining all the signs. They thought that the trail was about ten days old.

Over to the right was the Big Horn River, running northeast parallel with the Rosebud. But between was the Little Big Horn, which flowing northwest emptied into the Big Horn. The theory was, that the Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse village, or both, were in on the Little Horn or the Big Horn. The Seventh was to swing in a curve and meet the infantry and the Gibbon column about where the Little Horn joined the Big Horn.

That Indians were over there somewhere seemed certain; for to-day, Saturday, June 24, Curly the Crow scout reported through Mitch Bouyer the interpreter that they had found fresh Indian tracks; and they saw signal smokes on the west, or the right. The main trail was very broad and beaten to dust by the hoofs of many, many ponies.

“Ike says the dust we’re making will be seen by the Sioux, sure,” complained “Autie,” much concerned, at noon camp finding Ned. “The Little Big Horn is called by the Sioux ‘Greasy Grass River.’ It’s just beyond those hills. They’re the Wolf Mountains. The Injuns might be on top, spying down on us. Maybe we won’t catch ’em.”

However, General Custer knew as much as Isaiah. The companies were ordered to march at wider intervals, so as to make as little dust as possible; and that night the camp was pitched under a flanking bluff, and fires were extinguished as soon as supper had been cooked. The trail had turned off from the valley of the Rosebud. It headed for the west, as if to cross over to the Little Big Horn. The first sergeants spread the word among the companies for the men to be ready to march again at eleven-thirty. After taps there seemed to be another officers’ council, by candle-light at headquarters. Lying in his blanket, amidst the dark, while officers on their way to the general’s stepped over him, Ned could tell that something was up. The air was full of mystery and expectation.

As young “Autie” was sound asleep in his own blanket, Ned, like other men in the ranks, did not know precisely what the officers had talked about. But at 11.30 the silent reveille—which was touch of hand and low word by the sergeants and corporals—was “sounded,” and by column of fours the regiment rode out through the dusty dusk; the train of pack mules followed.

It was slow going. Long after midnight the command to halt was passed down the column; and presently was it known that the scouts claimed they could not guide them any further across the divide until daylight.

Everybody waited. Daylight was near. In about an hour the east began to brighten; in another hour there was light enough for making coffee. Carrying a message, from Captain Benteen, Ned had another glimpse of “Autie,” who was going back to the horse herd.

“Hello,” hailed “Autie.” “You ought to have been there! Uncle Autie and the Injun scouts have been talking, and Bloody Knife said to the others: ‘We’ll find enough Sioux to keep us all fighting two or three days.’ And Uncle Autie just smiled and said: ‘Oh, I guess we’ll get through with them in one day!’ Those Rees are awful scared. It’s going to be a big battle, I bet. I wonder if we’ll fight on Sunday. I’ve got to tend to my horses. Good-by.”

The sun was well up. It was a glorious June day; and it was the 25th, or Sunday, as “Autie” had remarked. Pretty soon, while the troops were still waiting and resting and wondering, the general came riding down the column. He was bareback, on Vic. His face was aglow, under his broad-brimmed hat, his yellow hair and tawny moustache shone, but his blue eyes were weary and puckered, with a trace of worry.

“We march at eight o’clock, Benteen,” he directed, to the captain. “The scouts have spied the location of the Indian camp about fifteen miles ahead, over on the Little Horn. A lot of smoke and ‘heap ponies.’ Varnum reports they passed some bodies, on Sioux scaffolding. Let me have Fletcher as my orderly.”

“All right, sir,” responded Captain Benteen; and the general trotted on. At a nod from the captain, Ned made haste to mount and follow.

“Probably we approach as close as we can, to reconnoiter; and early in the morning we’ll attack,” was remarking to the captain Lieutenant Gibson, as Ned sped away.

“There can’t be more than twelve or fifteen hundred. We can trim that number easy,” was the answer.

Who was there to tell that over the ridge, well concealed in the crooked valley of the Little Big Horn, lay in one great village—another village like the village on the Washita, only larger—the allied bands of the Oglalas, the Minneconjous, the Sans Arc or Bowless, the Brules or Burnt Thighs, the Hunkpapas, the Blackfeet, the Northern Cheyennes: 15,000 Indians, with at least 3000 of them fighters well-armed and commanded by wise Gall and other mighty chiefs. The flower of the Sioux nation, they feared no white soldiers. They asked only to be let alone.

Ned now riding with the general, the march was along a little pass through the hills of the divide. About the middle of the morning halt was again ordered, in a ravine.

But taking Adjutant Cook and his orderlies and Bloody Knife the general galloped ahead to join the scouts on a ridge before. Ned and Sergeant Butler of Captain Tom’s troop (he was the other orderly) must hold the horses while the general and the adjutant stole forward afoot, to survey over the ridge.

“Smoke,” commented Sergeant Butler, nodding.

Beyond the ridge hung a film of smoke, mingled with dust. When the officers returned, by their talk they had sighted through their glasses a pony herd also. The Indian village must be down there.

In the ravine again it was hot; the brush quivered in the heat reflected by the rocks. The column were waiting, expectant. The Rees were in a group, stripped as for a fight. Their medicine-man, Bob-tail Bull, was passing from one to another, smearing them with an oil, to make them safe against the weapons of the enemy. The Crows were squatting, witnessing.

Captain Tom came galloping to meet the general.

“Keogh reports that the detail sent back by Yates to get the hardtack he dropped ran into a Sioux, opening one of the boxes with his hatchet. The fellow made off, till out of range; then he rode leisurely along the ridge, sizing us up.”

“Sound officers’ call,” bade the general, to Ned.

The officers gathered.

“Gentlemen,” said the general, “Indians, have been seen on the back trail and on the hills, and our presence must be well known. This will necessitate our attacking at once, instead of waiting until the early morning, as I had intended. If we wait, the village will scatter and get away. Each troop commander will detail a non-commissioned officer and six men to accompany the packs. The troops will be inspected for action. The column will form in the order in which final reports are made, and the first troop reported ready will be given the post of honor, in the advance.”

Captain French, M Troop, won the honor; and speedily all the troops were reported “Ready, sir.”

“Prepare to mount—mount! For-r’d—march!” To fight the Sioux, onward rode the eager Seventh. “Autie” had hastened forward. Ned was the general’s orderly, just as he had been at the battle of the Washita. What luck!

The divide had been crossed, for now the trail seemed to be more down hill. The Rosebud was behind; the Little Big Horn before; but the hills still enclosed on all sides. Another halt was made, and the column reformed into three battalions. So the attack would be launched in several blows—also just as at the Washita. This was the general’s favorite mode of fighting. He had used it in the Civil War, too.

Major Reno had the first battalion, of three companies and the scouts; the general had five companies; Captain Benteen had three, and B Company under Captain McDougall escorted the pack-train and the loose horses. The general kept Vic for his battle-horse; Dandy was put with the extras.

Captain Benteen’s battalion swung off to the left, on a circuit down another valley. Major Reno’s column also veered to the left more. The general drew even with him, across on the right side of the first valley.

As the two columns pushed ahead, Ned’s heart beat as it always beat before a fight. He was seeing Indians, in the rocks and the brush—but they vanished when he looked hard. He was not afraid; no, not afraid. General Custer himself commanded, and the very best officers of the regiment were here: gallant Captain Tom, and brave Captain Keogh of two great wars, and Captain Yates the dandy, and Lieutenant Smith with crippled arm, and Lieutenant Calhoun who had married Maggie Custer, and Lieutenant “Queen’s Own” Cook the adjutant. They all had been at the battle of the Washita. And here were Captain Lord the surgeon and little “Autie” and good old “Bos” and the civilian Mr. Kellogg, who wrote for the New York Herald. Isaiah the black squaw-man and “Lonesome” Charley Reynolds were over there with Major Reno.

But where were the Sioux? How long before the Little Big Horn would be reached, where stood the village?

The Ree and the Crow scouts were spread out, across the valley. He could see Bloody Knife, and Bob-tail Bull and Stab and Half-Yellow-Face and Curly the Crow who spoke English. Now they all had gathered in a group, and had made a smoke. Yes—there were some Sioux! The scouts had left the smoke and were chasing other riders; just a few. When the troops reached the place of the smoke they found it to be from a tipi with a dead Sioux inside. The scouts had set fire to the tipi, and had chased Sioux warriors out of the place which seemed to have been a small village camp.

“Oh, Cook,” called the general; and Adjutant Cook trotted to him. “Tell Reno the Indians are running away. The village must be only about two miles off yonder. Tell him to move on at as rapid a gait as he thinks prudent, and when he strikes the village to charge; and the whole outfit will support him.”

Adjutant Cook galloped across to Major Reno. Major Reno turned in his saddle to give the order; his column broke into a fast trot; and amidst a cloud of dust away they went, forging ahead, veering to the left as they followed the trail down beside a little stream, and around the point of a high ridge. The Little Big Horn was close before, at the end of the valley!

But the general led his column away from the trail, more to the right. Everybody listened, while peering; listened for the cheers and the volleys of the major or of Captain Benteen.

“Steady, men,” warned Captain Keogh, on his horse Comanche, to his company, behind Ned’s position.

They were climbing the hither flank of the ridge around which Major Reno now had disappeared. The moments seemed hours. With thud of rapid hoof came galloping from the rear a trooper; he was a corporal, Major Reno’s orderly. By the general’s side he pulled short to his horse’s haunches and saluted.

“The Major’s compliments, sir, and says he is at the river and has everything in front of him and they are strong.”

“Very well, sir,” answered the general. His voice was brusque, tense with energy. “Adjutant, you’d better send somebody back with orders for that pack-train and ammunition to hurry along.”

And Adjutant Cook sent a sergeant from the non-commissioned staff. Ned had forgotten his name. Away he dashed.

They continued to climb, diagonaling the slope. At any moment they would hear the shouts and shots of the Reno men, the whoops and shots of the Sioux.

“We’re going to have a big fight, I guess,” again ventured “Autie,” dropping back a few paces to ride with Ned. His voice was tremulous, his brown face was paled, but his eyes were snapping. Ned gravely nodded.

The general had spurred impatiently; and in a little squad making for a high knoll ahead, they gradually left the column. The general first reached the top of the knoll. He had been craning anxiously, searching for the view beyond. Now he hauled short on Vic, as if surprised. Adjutant Cook immediately joined him. They intently peered. So did “Autie.” Ned pressed forward, to see. On the left, before and below, lay the valley of the Greasy Grass and the Sioux village.

An irregular line of green willows and cottonwoods marked the course of a very crooked stream flowing evidently between high banks, amidst rolling bluffs. High, dark mountains rose far southward, shutting in a level plateau. But of these Ned took only a glimpse, for something of more importance was closer at hand.

The valley of the crooked stream was a mile and a half away, yet, partially concealed by another and lower ridge. But over the ridge was floating brown dust, from some commotion; and yonder along the stream was floating more dust. The white lodges of the Sioux gleamed through it, as they clustered for a mile and more of length! A tremendous village, this! Ant-like figures were moving hither-thither; the pony herds (which made the dust) were grazing on the plateau beyond the tipis; shrill cries of squaws, and the barking of dogs, wafted faintly through the still, sunny air. Ned looked to see Major Reno’s column, but they were not yet visible.

“A big one!” exclaimed the general, his face glowing. “Good! Send another order back to Benteen, Cook. We must have those packs with their ammunition at once, and more men.”

Lieutenant Cook jerked out his field note-book, and with his pencil stub hastily scrawled, resting the book upon his buckskin knee. As he wrote, digging hard in his earnestness, he read:

“Benteen, come on. Big village. Be quick. Bring packs.”

He glanced over it, once, and added another word or two. He thrust the folded paper at Ned.

“Here,” he said, crisply. “Take that to Captain Benteen, and don’t spare your horse.”