The morning was half over when the command was ordered to halt for two reasons.
One of these was that his scouts had brought word that the large Indian village, whose presence in the vicinity had been strongly suspected, was only a short distance ahead; the other that a single horseman was sighted coming along their back trail at a furious gallop.
Custer had suspected this latter might be a bearer of dispatches from his commander, General Terry, from whom he had separated at the mouth of the Rosebud, the commander going up the river on the supply steamer Far West, to ferry Gibbons' troops over the water.
When, however, the horseman came closer, it was discovered that he was no blue coat, but a greasy leather-clad ranger. The individual rode directly up to the officers, and his quick gray eye picking out Custer, he extended a horny palm.
"Can I believe my eyes?" exclaimed the general; "gentlemen, let me make you acquainted with my old friend, Pandy Ellis, the best Indian fighter that ever raised a rifle, and one whom I am proud to shake hands with."
"Come, come, general, don't butter it too thick. Yer sarvint, gentlemen. I'm on hand ter see ther fun, wich air all I keer 'bout. Don't mind me no more than ef I warn't in these hyar diggin's," protested Pandy, modestly.
"We shall do no such thing, old friend. Colonel Cooke, we will now move onward to the assault," and Custer touched his spurs to his steed.
A few notes from the trumpeters, and the regiment was again in motion.
Onward at a gallop went the troops.
The valley of the Little Horn was reached, and where the great trail entered it, another halt was made.