Saluting, around wheeled Ned. He had one glimpse of the general’s face. The blue eyes were blazing, the broad-brimmed hat was being swung to the column urging forward at a trot.

“We’ve caught ’em asleep, boys!” cheered the general’s high, clear voice. “Now for a charge!”

Down along the column Ned went thundering, for the back trail. Familiar faces, dusty and sweaty, but resolute all, grinned at him; a hand or two waved. From the murk at the rear of the eager ranks he looked behind him. The column had topped the ridge. Headed by the general and the adjutant and young “Autie,” the stars and stripes and the headquarters or “general’s own” flag close following, with the cavalry guidons of red and white streaming in the sun to mark each troop, horses at hard trot, men leaning forward, hat-brims flaring, bridle-hands forward, carbines and pistols not yet drawn, rank by rank, guidon by guidon they dipped over, into a hollow, and disappeared. They were gone: but they left a cheer behind.

Ned did not look again. He had his duty to perform. He was not certain as to where he would find Major Benteen; but it would be somewhere toward the river; the branching of the trails would guide.

“Go on! Go on!” he urged, into the pricked ears of his horse, another “Buckie.”

“Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud!” The brush and the rocks reeled dizzily past, the brown trail of many hoofs flowed under. He extracted the message from his blouse, to read it and to be sure of it in case it was lost. Yes, that was it in Adjutant Cook’s hasty scrawl:

“Cl’k!” clucked Ned to Buckie; and pricked him again with the spurs. They must make it. The general would be depending upon them. Adjutant Cook had repeated the words “Bring packs,” which showed how important was the matter.

“Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud!” The lather was white where the bridle reins rubbed Buckie’s wet neck; his breath whistled, occasionally he snorted to blow from his straining nostrils the dust and moisture; but he never faltered. Good horse!

Far and faint from the right were heard a spattering of rifle-shots, like a skirmish fire; and then cheers! That must be Major Reno, or Captain Benteen; and off there would lie the river.

Gallop, gallop, up the back trail, with the rounded slopes, sagey and hot, girding the long, long way. Where was Captain Benteen? Where was the pack-train? Ah, here came somebody—a rider also galloping hard. Out whipped Ned’s revolver; but soon the speck resolved into a man in white-man’s garb. Looked like a soldier. It was “Bos!” “Bos” Custer, forage-master.

He saw Ned, and waved. Ned drew rein barely for a moment, as they met.

“Where you been?”

“Back to get a fresh horse.”

“Where’s Captain Benteen? Seen him?”

“Just left him. Straight on. Keep the trail. A fight, isn’t it?”

“You bet.” And Ned was away, in the one direction; “Bos” galloped on to join his big brother. Five of the Custer family were to be together in that battle: three brothers, a brother-in-law, and a nephew.

Ned kept watch ahead for any token of the Benteen column. Hurrah! There they were—a long mass of dusty blue, moving at a trot, down the trail, Captain Benteen and his aide leading. The pack-train was not in sight. On galloped Ned (revolver stowed again in holster), and met Captain Benteen, who had been watching his approach.

“A dispatch from headquarters, sir,” panted Ned, holding it out.

As he rode, Captain Benteen rapidly read it. Ned held himself prepared at a word to whirl and carry the order on to the packs. But as the captain read, the spattering of shots in the distance before suddenly swelled to a continuous clamor. The captain raised his head, listening, gazing. Louder, and louder, rang the gun-fire, as if the battle was approaching. The Indians were being driven this way? What——? But the captain’s order rang smartly.

“B’tall-yun, draw—pistols! Gallop—march!”

With a cheer they lunged ahead, pistols held high, eyes alert, ready to meet the fleeing Sioux and turn them back again.

The valley widened; in this direction had ridden the Major Reno battalion, recalled Ned, as he, too, galloped, pistol high.

“Right and left into line—march!” shouted Captain Benteen, to cover the ground with battle front.

Then, as all were galloping, forming the line, the draw opened upon a wide cross valley, and there was the battle field—a brushy, broken arena, cut by the willow-bordered crooked stream, hazy with smoke of burning grass and powder through which echoed shot and shout and chant, and through which dimly could be seen horsemen careering in all directions, as if attacking a common object in their midst. Upon a bluff to the right was another battle—soldiers above, Indians below.

The gallop quickly ceased. Now where to go, or what to do, first?

“Look out! Here come some!”

The cry and the murmur swept from man to man. A confused mass was rapidly bearing up the valley, toward them.

“No, that’s all right. They’ve signaled. They’re Crows, with a pony herd.”

So they were. As they wildly scampered past, driving off their spoils, Indian-fashion, voices hailed them, inquiring where was Reno, where was Custer. One of the Crows waved his hand at the bluff.

“Soldiers there,” he said.

“Right oblique, trot—march!” ordered Captain Benteen. And for the bluff they made.

The men upon the bluff proved to be Major Reno and his battalion. They were dismounted, and were firing at long range down the slopes. The fighting below had been by the rear guard, in the retreat to the bluff. Major Reno wore a handkerchief tied about his head. Ned thought that he had been wounded, but he had only lost his hat. He had lost his revolver, too. He greeted Major Benteen feverishly.

“Where’s Custer? Have you seen Custer?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. He promised to support me. It was too hot in there for us. We were driven out. Five to one.” The major appeared almost beside himself. “Why, I tell you we’re fighting all the Sioux nation, and all the outlaws and half-breeds east of the Rocky Mountains. Dismount your men, captain, and deploy them as skirmishers along that hill on the south.”

Yes, Major Reno and his 200 men had started in to charge the village, across the river; but it had looked as if they were being drawn on into an ambush; when they had halted, to survey, out had swarmed the Sioux, thicker and thicker. Afoot they came, and ahorse. “Hi-yih hi-yih yip-yip-yip!” had they cried, frightfully. The Rees, on the left flank, had fled pell-mell. The major had dismounted his men in some timber; but no Custer was in sight, the Indians were surrounding, and he had ordered a retreat to the bluff on this side.

That had been a close call. In the retreat Lieutenant Don McIntosh and Lieutenant Benny Hodgson the acting adjutant had been killed, and so had Doctor DeWolf, and “Lonesome” Charley Reynolds, and black Isaiah. Faithful Bloody Knife, too, had fallen; struck down, said somebody, at Major Reno’s side. Twenty-nine other men also were dead. A score were missing. The bodies of most of the killed were down there still.

The battalion might have done better had they stayed in the timber by the village and fought dismounted. But where was Custer? Where was the general?

The bugles shrilled.

“Cease firing, men! Cease firing!” bade the sergeants, along the skirmish line of kneeling men, protecting the bluff.

Now might all pause from squinting over hot carbine barrels, and wipe foreheads. The Indians in the valley were galloping away, along the hills and stream, toward the north.

What was the matter there? Oh! Listen! Custer must be in action. His carbines were rattling fast and faster. Why doesn’t he send some word, though? Why was the battalion kept here? Why didn’t the major order an advance?

Listen now! Crash! Volley firing! And again “Crash!” Another. Surely “Old Curly” was giving it to them heavy. Who was that coming? Ah, McDougall and the packs. Good! The general had sent word for the packs; wasn’t it time to push ahead in force and join him, or help him out by attack?

Water was needed; but when soldiers tried to get it from the river below they were promptly fired upon. The shooting in the direction where the general was died away to a fitful clatter; few Indians were to be seen; and at last Major Reno did order a movement north on the bluffs, toward the general. Then the Indians gathered fast and furious, and the command was driven back to the first bluff. The general’s battalion had been in sight, two miles distant, on a hill. At least, over there was an eddy of riding and irregular firing. From the place many Indians suddenly came hurrying to attack the other white soldiers. So it looked as if the general had been defeated and his rear-guard had been defending his retreat.

But why didn’t he send a courier through or make signals, to inform the rest of the regiment?

The bluff was a lively spot. Thicker and thicker the Sioux and the Cheyennes were besieging it. From every side, from above as well as from below, shrieked their taunts, whined their bullets. The day was almost spent. As the sun sank into the desolate hills the red foe yelped the louder, fired the faster; every bunch of sage and every rock seemed to harbor an Indian; down by the willow-bordered stream the squaws sang vengefully in the village still standing and triumphant.

Even at twilight the Indians did not dare to charge. Steadily and desperately the soldiers replied to their bullets. Officer and man shot as one; and Ned among them. His stubby cavalry carbine repeatedly jammed on him. It wouldn’t extract the shell. On right and left he heard his mates complaining of their carbines also. They must stop and use their knife-blades, to pry loose the shells.

The twilight faded; the dusk settled; and the Indians quit. The reports of rifle and carbine ceased; and for an instant quiet blessed the valley. Ned was glad to rise and stretch his cramped legs and back, and look about.

“Hark!” again cautioned somebody. “I hear commands! Troops are coming! Hurrah for Crook!”

“Don’t you see them over there? Right over there against the sky-line! Ah—now they’ve disappeared. But they’re coming—Terry or Crook or Custer! Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” welled the cheers, from this hill and all along the bluff, where the Reno men also were stirred.

“Sound stables, Fletcher,” bade Captain Benteen, of Ned. “Loud as you can, to reach them and guide them.”

With parched and cracked lips Ned did his best, pealing from his battered trumpet the rollicking, familiar tune:

“Now listen!”

It did seem as though answering bugle call floated in through the dusk. But after shots had been fired, and more calls had been sounded, officers and men must agree that their hopes deceived them. Nobody was coming. So where was Custer?

Barricades of boxes and horse carcasses were being piled up, and the order went forth to scoop out rifle pits, for the next day’s fight. The darkness gradually settled. There was no water for coffee, and every mouth was too dry to chew bread. The bluff was miserable, but the village below was gay. Great fires flared redly; and about them the Indians were prancing and yelping in a tremendous scalp dance. With flames and shrieks and hoots and firing of guns and beating of tom-toms the dances lasted all night. But the Indians were not unmindful of the watchers on the bluff; for when Major Reno sent out scouts to find an open way they speedily crept back, with word that they had encountered nothing but Sioux, Sioux, Sioux, everywhere.

No matter; Custer would come, in the morning; and soon would come Terry and Gibbon, and Crook the Gray Fox.

The digging of the little rifle-pits took most of the night. Ned had been helping one of the squads. They had finished their pit, and he had closed his eyes, for a moment (he was so tired!), when he wakened with a jump. Two rifle-shots echoed in his ears. To the signal up-swelled a hideous clamor again, of whoops and rapid reports; the bullets pelted in, ringing upon the rocks and cutting the dry earth and the brittle sage. There was no need for “Assembly”; into the pits dived the men.

The east was barely pink. Dawn scarce had arrived. The hour must be very early. But for white and red the day had begun.

“Give it to ’em, men; give it to ’em, but be careful how you shoot. Make every bullet tell.” The sharp words of Captain Benteen and Lieutenant Gibson, as they walked up and down behind Troop H, steadied the nerves of all.

How fast the bullets rained in! They struck from before and from behind. As the dawn brightened, the feathered chiefs could be seen gesturing and commanding, while hither-thither ran their naked warriors, to occupy better positions. There were swarms of them; swarms!

“For the love o’ Saint Patrick, but they’re all sharp-shooters!” gasped Private McDermott, at Ned’s elbow. “An’ half o’ them are out o’ range of us, wid these sawed-off carbines.”

So they were—all sharp-shooters. Fast and true their lead picked, picked, at the rifle-pits and barricades; searched the hollow where were herded the pack-mules and the extra horses. Along the line of H company men were being killed, some by bullets from behind. Mules and horses screamed with wounds. Powder reek filled the still air. One’s head ached with the noise, one’s throat smarted with the smoke.

Major Reno, in his position to the north, must lie low; must lie low Captain Benteen and every other officer. The Indians were creeping closer. By little dashes and rushes they stole up, through the brush. With whish and patter arrows began to eke out the hail of bullets.

“Must be short o’ ammunition,” muttered Private McDermott.

“Wait! I’ll get one of those red beggars,” exclaimed Private Burns. From his place he crawled forward, hugging the brush, for better aim. On he went, peering; but see! Half-up he sprang, and fell, crumpled into a lax heap.

With exultant whoop a painted, glistening coppery figure darted toward him, speeding like a deer, coupstick, ten feet long, out-stretched to touch his body and claim a scalp. But half a dozen carbines spoke together, and the painted, glistening coppery figure collapsed to a dully red mass.

Bold? Yes. There between the lines lay soldier and Sioux, while over them passed and repassed bullet and arrow, shout and groan. Truly, the fight was growing more desperate.

“That won’t do,” spoke Captain Benteen. Major Reno had come over. “We’ll have to act quick, or they’ll be running into our lines. We must drive them back, major; drive them back.”

“Get your men ready for a charge, then,” directed the major.

“All ready, men,” called the captain, briskly. “Now’s your time. Hip, hip, here we go! Give it to ’em! Give it to ’em!”

“Hurrah!” cheered Lieutenant Gibson.

Out from shelter and down the sagey slope surged the blue-shirted line. Ned took no time to blow the “Charge”; he was shooting. Lead and not brass was needed. The carbines roared, the men shouted fiercely, and for the river broke the Indians.

“Back, men! Get back!” ordered Major Reno, following with the other officers, close behind.

So it was into the rifle-pits again.

Noon was near; either the Indians were out of ammunition, or else they were exhausted, for the firing by them slackened. Acting Adjutant Hare came hastening to Captain Benteen.

“The major’s compliments, and will you advance your skirmish line to cover volunteers getting water.”

The water-getters were making way, by hollow and ravine, toward the river in front. They carried camp-kettles and bunches of canteens. Dangerous work was this, and some of them were wounded; but they filled the canteens. These were handed along the lines. Ah, but it was good, to have a drink at last!

The sun had traveled from east across to the west. The afternoon waxed and waned: sometimes the Indians shot angrily; sometimes they seemed to be resting. What was to occur next? What were they scheming? The officers walked about, bidding the men be ready and not afraid.

“Sure, but looks to me as if the beggars were leavin’,” mused Private McDermott, gazing puzzled.

Then, toward sunset and the close of this the second day of fighting, from the bluff arose a murmur and a cry. The Indians were quitting, and riding off! ’Twas too good to be true; but nevertheless tipis were falling, as the squaws labored hard to pack the village. Soon billows of fresh smoke rolled up. The grass had again been fired; figures could be seen behind it, fanning it with blankets.

Officers and men stared. In the cool glow of twilight the whole village—or what looked to be the whole village—emerged from the concealing smoke and moved away across the bare plateau which had been the pony pasture.

An enormous, regular mass they made; no wonder that the Seventh Cavalry battalions had not whipped all this people.

“They’re as large as a brigade of the Army of the Potomac, and in as fine order,” pronounced Major Reno, watching from amidst his officers.

However, the Indians might be planning a trap. Eighteen dead and fifty-two wounded was the report of Doctor Porter, the surgeon on the bluff. Major Reno did not dare to venture far, but he moved the companies nearer to the river, for the water. Thus night descended upon Monday, June 26, 1876, by the Little Big Horn.

Tuesday the third day dawned clear and peaceful. Before, the only moving objects were a few Indian ponies grazing in the bottoms; not an Indian lodge-fire was to be sighted. Now where was Custer? Where was Crook? When could Terry and Gibbon be expected?

After breakfast the men might sit about, wary but at ease, except the wounded. The sun floated higher, and the sage shimmered with heat. Scarcely a sound broke the aftermath of battle noise, save as magpies croaked hoarsely. Upon a knoll were sitting also Major Reno and Acting Adjutant Hare and Captain Benteen, and other officers—Ned and his fellow orderlies close at hand.

The talk was much upon Custer, and why he did not send word. Some of the officers were impatient with him. But suddenly talk ceased. Major Reno was peering intently through his glass, at the northward. What was that? From the lounging men uprose again a murmur. They were springing to their feet—as sprang to their feet Major Reno and all.

“Sound the assembly, trumpeter! To your posts, gentlemen!” ordered the major.

Against the mountain-tops far down the course of the crooked, half-hidden river was another spume of dust like a brownish cloud. To the hurrying notes of the “Assembly” by bugle after bugle the men hastened from the river below, seized carbines and crouched again in line. The Indians were coming back!

No! The dust did not approach fast enough for Indian riders. It was more like the dust of a cavalry or an infantry march. And yet—if Indians it was, could the bluff hold out against them, another day?

Ned felt his heart sink with dread. Evidently Major Reno was doubtful. He pondered, a moment; and wrote rapidly an order.

“I want three men to carry this message through,” he said, to Acting Adjutant Hare. “They’re to go as close as possible to that approaching column, and see what it is. If it’s Indians, they’re to pass on and take this word through to Terry at the Big Horn, so that he’ll hurry. If it’s a white column, they are to turn back at once and let us know. You can ask for volunteers from the ranks. Our Indians are no good. I can’t depend on them.”

Following the line of bluffs had ridden away the three brave couriers. The two battalions must wait.

“That may be Terry, don’t you think, major?” queried Adjutant Hare.

“No. If cavalry, they must be Custer. Terry would hardly have had time to get in this far.”

“Look for the gray horse troop, then,” suggested Captain Benteen. “Troop E; Smith’s. That will tell the story.”

An hour passed; and hurrah, here came the three couriers, hastening along the ridge! With them was a fourth rider. The dust also was nearing; soon the men under it would be in sight.

The squad of four arrived panting with their haste. The extra man was a scout, by his rig. He was weary and travel-worn.

“’Tis an army column; cavalry and infantry both, sir,” reported the corporal of the three couriers; and the strange scout handed to Major Reno a soiled note.

The major read it—read it twice, and passed it to the next officer.

“What do you make of it, gentlemen?” he asked, anxiously. “You say that’s Terry yonder?” he queried of the scout:

The scout nodded, and out of drawn face answered.

“Yes, sir.”

“And Custer isn’t with him?”

“No, sir.”

“This note is addressed to General Custer,” said Lieutenant Hare; “from General Terry.” And he read it aloud: “General: A Crow scout has just come into camp, saying you’ve been whipped. I don’t believe it, but I’m coming with medical aid.”

“Tried to get into your lines last night,” informed the white scout, “but the blamed Sioux were so thick they held me back. I s’posed you were Custer. Where is Custer, might I ask?”

Whitening face turned to whitening face. Ned knew himself grown pale and shaky with a great fear.

“If Custer didn’t meet Terry——”

“And hasn’t communicated with us——”

“Or with him——”

“We must hope for the best, gentlemen,” faltered Captain Benteen.

Sped like lightning through the rifle-pits the rumor that the Custer battalion had met a great disaster. Little exclamations of wonder and pity were succeeded by an expectant silence.

But here along the valley, right where had stood the proud Sioux village, appeared the head of the column; appeared cavalry and infantry, under guidon and banner. Hooray for Terry and Gibbon! Hooray for comrades in blue! Hats were swung, grimy hand gripped grimy hand.

On came the column, to the cheering lines. General Terry, leading, was grave. Evidently he bore very bad news. Sober were all the officers with him, sober were the men; and sober grew the awed camp.

“Custer! What about Custer?”

Heads were shaken.

“Don’t know yet, for sure. But some command has been killed off, every man, apparently, yonder on those hills. We passed about two hundred stripped bodies.”

Ned glimpsed a familiar face. It was that of Curly, the Crow scout. He rushed to Curly.

“Where’s the general, Curly? Where’s the Long Hair?”

Curly shook his head, as other heads were being shaken.

“Long Hair dead,” he said, gutturally. “All dead. Me only one left. Let hair down like Sioux, put on Sioux paint, an’ ride out. Nearly all killed, then.”

So Curly had been with Custer in the fight.

Acting Adjutant Hare’s voice was choked, he scarcely could speak, when in due time seeking out Captain Benteen he said:

“The major has the permission of General Terry to send out a company to inspect the battle-field where the bodies were seen. He therefore directs that you take your company, and return as soon as practicable with a report.”

Soberly Captain Benteen acknowledged the salute; and soberly rode away with him his men of Company H, including Ned, cavalry trumpeter.

Yes, there they lay, on slope and ridge, two miles from Reno Hill. There they lay: 212 by count, the fighting men of the great white chief Long Hair, overwhelmed by the 2000 fighting men of the great red chiefs Gall and Crazy Horse, and the medicine of Sitting Bull.

Company by company, in retreat from position to position, they could be recognized not by guidon but by officers and men. Here was fair Calhoun and his line; here was dark Captain Keogh and his; here were the Yates men and the Smith men and Tom Custer’s, backed by their officers. Here was “Queen’s Own” Cook; and “Bos” and little “Autie”; and in the circle of the brave was the general.

Scalps had been taken, hatchet and club had been at work; but General Custer lay calm and at ease, with two wounds only, and looking much as Ned had seen him look a thousand times before. Even the knife of Rain-in-the-Face had passed him by. Said the Sioux: “Of all the brave men we ever fought, the Long Hair was the bravest.”

Two hundred and sixty-five killed, fifty-two wounded, was the roll-call of the Seventh Cavalry, after this battle of the Little Big Horn, June 25 and 26, 1876. The Sioux fled, Crazy Horse to the east, Sitting Bull to the west. Pursuit was long. Band after band must yield to cavalry and to infantry. American Horse was killed; Iron Dog surrendered; Dull Knife the Cheyenne was defeated; Lame Deer was killed; Two Moons and Hump surrendered; Crazy Horse was defeated, and must surrender; Sitting Bull was twice defeated, and through snow and cold must lead into Canada the few of his people left. Five years after the great battle by the Greasy Grass he, too, surrendered. The United States had bought the Black Hills. But the Chief with the Long Yellow Hair and nigh three hundred of his Seventh Cavalry rode never again.

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Colored frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHERSPHILADELPHIA

The “True” Biographies and Histories

The aim of this unique series of biographies and histories is to present in entertaining form, free from glamour, some of the greatest characters and epochs in our national history, and with as close fidelity to the truth as can be gleaned from the conflicting record of events.

The True George Washington
By Paul Leicester Ford

The True Benjamin Franklin
By Sydney George Fisher

The True Patrick Henry
By George Morgan

The True Thomas Jefferson
By William Eleroy Curtis

The True History of the American Revolution
By Sydney George Fisher

The True William Penn
By Sydney George Fisher

The True Abraham Lincoln
By William Eleroy Curtis

The True Andrew Jackson
By Cyrus Townsend Brady

The True Henry Clay
By Joseph M. Rogers

The True History of the Civil War
By Guy Carleton Lee

The True Daniel Webster
By Sydney George Fisher

With twenty-four full-page illustrations in each volume
Crown 8vo. Per volume: Cloth, $2.00, net; half levant, $5.00, net

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHERSPHILADELPHIA