As the weather-beaten commander of this expedition trotted quietly in the front of the line, a horseman suddenly appeared upon the horizon, and, galloping hard for the travel-stained column, drew rein before the leading officer.
"General Reynolds," said he, "the village of Crazy Horse is not more than five miles away. You must approach with caution, but, as you outnumber them, I feel sure that there can be but one outcome of the fight."
The officer in command smiled grimly.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," said he. "You have scouted well. We will be all prepared for a brush with my old friend Crazy Horse within an hour."
Then, turning about, he called:
"Close column, men! Tighten saddlegirths, and look to it that your ammunition is all ready. We are about to have a warm affair."
As the men busied themselves with their arms and accoutrements, a lean timber wolf sneaked from behind a small bunch of cottonwood trees. Sitting on his haunches, he howled dismally. It was the song of death.
What did this alkali-covered column mean—there upon the bleak, unpopulated Wyoming plains? Why these grim-visaged warriors: these munitions of war: these scouts and vigilant-eyed officers of the Government? It meant that the last great Indian campaign had begun; and that within the course of a year the power of the native Americans would be irrevocably broken. The country of the Sioux was encircled by the forts and agencies of the white men. A railroad now crossed the continent and ran through the land of the elk and the buffalo. Surrounded by their civilized enemies, the Indians determined to make one last desperate stand against the whites.
Sitting Bull, an Unkpapa chief and medicine man, was the real leader of the Sioux. His were the brains which conceived and executed the movements of the warriors. But Crazy Horse, an Oglala, was the true leader in time of battle. Sitting Bull was the Grant, and Crazy Horse the Sheridan, of the Sioux army. One conceived and the other executed.