"And he's a good one; among the best of the Cheyennes. Pass the word to get him, when we can."
After that, every carbine sought for White Antelope. His time came when he led a charge. The bullets seemed to mow him down, together with his warriors. Whether he had been killed or not, was a question; but he did not appear again.
The Indians tried no more charges across the park. However, they were growing in strength. They were extending their line; the bullets and yells arrived from east, north and west. The line had crossed the head of the park and the foot, and was closing in on three sides. The detachment were being out-flanked.
More than half the horses were down. The rifle fire never slackened. Matters looked very serious. An Indian called to Gruard.
"Hello, Standing Bear! You are all dead. Do you think there are no men but yours in this country!"
Civilian Finerty had many thoughts while he aimed, fired, and loaded. He remembered the warning by General Crook. He rather wished that he had stayed safe in the big camp. He almost wished that he had never left Chicago. How far away Chicago seemed! There, people were walking about the streets—the Times presses were thundering out first editions—and here, in the Big Horn Mountains of Montana he and half a company of United States soldiers were fighting for their lives.
He did not so much mind meeting death, in a charge, or in the excitement of open battle; but to be hemmed in, and helpless—to be disabled, and captured, by Indians—!
"No surrender!"
That was the word being passed now.
"Every man save one shot for himself."