The line of squadrons, irregular as they surged through the low brush, broke into the trot. Sabres jingled, saddles creaked; carbines were at the “Advance,” butt on thigh, muzzle up; and the sharpshooters must run.
The trees were close before. The tipis were plain. Dark figures were darting among them. Dogs barked furiously. From the other side of the village pealed a rattling volley of carbines, and spread to a steady clatter.
The general stood in his stirrups; he whirled Dandy about, and swung high his cap above his yellow hair. Over the clamor of band and of cheer his voice rose exultant.
“Charge!”
This was enough. Ned glued his lips to that old bugle and from puffed cheeks forced his very soul into the wild stirring notes of the “Charge.” On right and on left the company bugles answered. Forward sprang the horses, awaiting no spur.
Ned was conscious that the band had dropped back through an interval of the squadron behind; they raced on past it; but it continued to play.
Our hearts so stout have got us fame,
For soon ’tis known from whence we came;
Where’er we go they dread the name
Of Garryowen in glory.
More savagely cheered the men. Sergeant-Major Kennedy (fine soldier) had drawn up almost even with the general and the adjutant. They rode with revolvers held aloft, to be brought down to the deadly level. Ned blew over and over the “Charge”—the bugle in his left hand, but his revolver in his right.
Now they struck the first trees, bordering the stream and housing the sprinkling of tipis on this side. Out from the tipis were bursting men and women—the men half naked, weapons in their grasp, the women scurrying with their frightened children. They saw the galloping line of blue, and swerved for shelter of tree and stream. The Indian rifles cracked venomously into the very faces of the horses. Ned thought that he saw, with the corner of his eye, Captain Hamilton pitch sideways from his saddle. But the Custer revolver, and the revolvers of his companions jetted smoke, and with a roar the carbines of the troopers drowned every noise, almost every thought save the thought of fight.
Back were swept the Indians—warriors dodging, women and children fleeing. Driven from their white lodges, many warriors were standing waist-deep in the frozen stream; others fought from cover of the high bank; others from the trees and the brush. It was hot, fast work. Even the squaws were using rifle and bow. Some fell, like the warriors, shot down in the act of bitter defence. It could not be avoided. Ned fired right and left, but whether he hit anybody he did not know.