One hundred and three Indians had been killed, including sixteen chiefs; three squaws and a boy and two girls had been wounded; fifty-three were prisoners. Captain Hamilton had been killed, and three other soldiers; Colonel Barnitz, Colonel Tom Custer, Lieutenant March, and eleven men wounded; Major Elliot and Sergeant-Major Kennedy and fourteen men were still missing. It was rumored that they had pursued some Indians escaping down the stream.
After a few things had been picked out, to keep, the piles of lodges and belongings were set on fire. At sight of the flames, from the Indians upon the hills swelled a great cry of rage, and down they came, in party after party, charging the cavalry lines. The general ordered his mounted squadrons to charge back. Outfought, the Indians were forced to open a way wherever led the guidons. Thus breathing space was again given.
The whole column was being put in marching formation. The hospital had been broken—when now from the column’s rear sounded sharp volleys, and continued heavy firing.
An attack? Or was it Major Elliot and men cutting their way through to join their comrades? Or was it the supply train, in peril? No. Swiftly passed the word that the general had directed that all the captured ponies and mules be shot, except those needed to carry the prisoners. Eight hundred were being killed, by four companies detailed to do the firing.
This was cruel, but necessary in war. What could the column do, with all those wild ponies and mules? The Indians would fight fiercely to retake them; the Indians would be badly crippled, without them. So the general had set his heart hard, and had given the order. When the firing ceased, all the column was glad, for killing horses is not soldiers’ work.
Major Elliot and his fifteen had not been heard from. To delay and seek them might mean the loss of the whole column and of the supply train. How thick the Indians were swarming! Kiowa, Comanche, Arapaho and Apache and Cheyenne, in their war-dress they were rallying to avenge their fellows. Upon the tops of the hills they had posted lookouts, to watch the country around about, and the next movement of the invaders.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The battle had lasted nine hours. At signal from the general pealed clear and defiant the bugle call of “Advance”; “For—r’d—march!” sounded the command.
The worst wounded, and the body of Captain Hamilton wrapped in a blanket, were in the ambulance. Ned could ride his horse; and beside him rode upon a pony little Mary, with her Indian finery and her white girl face and hair. The Osage scouts bearing many scalps—the mourning warrior now in war-paint like the rest—led; the captive squaws and children, on ponies, under guard closed in at the rear. Skirmishers rode the flanks.