The foot of the hill was reached; the pony herd stared, and jostled uneasily, scenting and hearing and seeing. With crackle of snow they moved aside—and as the crackle by the cavalry mingled with the crackle by their ponies, the village slept on, suspecting naught.
Now the timber ahead was the goal; for in the timber was the main collection of the lodges. A few, above and below, had been pitched on this side of the stream; but the majority were across, where the bank was low and level.
From the pony herd to the timber fringe was further than had been expected; as with crackle and slight jingle of sabre and bit the line moved in at eager walk, every man peering, all too fast brightened the landscape. The tipis glimmered white; from the apex of some curled thin smoke; very soon would the village awake to the routine of another day. How hard they slept—warrior and squaw and child and even dog!
“Another deserted village!” whispered the general, to Adjutant Moylan.
The adjutant nodded. The general swept a glance along his line, right and left; he straightened more in the saddle, his right hand fell to the butt of his revolver, projecting from holster; evidently the time had come, and in a few moments would it be known whether this was indeed another abandoned village. Ned raised his bugle to his lips, for the “Charge”; but even while he was drawing breath, in readiness, smart and quick rang from the farther side of the village a single report of rifle! The alarm!
What a change burst upon the slumberous valley! Turned in his saddle the general; with a word his voice smote the band into action.
“Garryowen! Give it to ’em!”
No longer was there need for concealment. Quite the opposite. Shattering the icy air, pink with nearing dawn, into full cry blared the doughty band. The men cheered wildly; back from the hills beyond the fated village hastened like an echo other cheers.
“Trot—march!”