“To your horses, men! Quick! To your horses! Run!” The command of the general was as sharp as the crack of a whip. Shoeless and hatless and coatless he stood, rifle in hand.
There were only half a dozen Indians in sight. Evidently they had intended to stampede the mounts; but they had reckoned without their host. The Seventh Cavalry had met Indians before. Out rushed the troopers, to grasp the lariats of the horses, and to reinforce the picket-line. And stopping short, the squad of Indians only raced back and forth, beyond range, gesturing as if inviting the soldiers to come and get them. Sioux they were, by their war-dress and action, said Bloody Knife, his eyes flaming hatred and disdain.
Now was it “Boots and Saddles” and “Mount.” The general took Adjutant Calhoun and Lieutenant Tom and twenty men, including Ned the trumpeter, and galloped forth boldly; Captain Moylan was to follow.
The six Sioux easily kept out of reach. As anybody ought to know, they were only trying cunningly to lead the white chief on, into an ambuscade. So continued the chase, up the grassy green valley.
“I’ll take my orderly and ride ahead, Tom,” presently called the general. “Perhaps that will develop those rascals’ plan. You follow at about two hundred yards interval, ready to rush in.”
The general was on his Kentucky horse Vic. Sergeant Butler his orderly had a good horse, too. But the Indians would not let even them close in, with the other soldiers so near at hand. They were smart, these six Sioux, and knew what they were about.
A patch of timber was before to the left. The general had halted; also halted the six Indians. The general rode in a circle, for a parley; the six Indians paid no attention. Now here came Sergeant Butler, back with a message from the general. He saluted Lieutenant Tom.
“The general’s compliments, and he would suggest that you keep a sharp eye on that bunch of trees, yonder,” said the sergeant.
“Very well,” responded Lieutenant Tom.
Sergeant Butler galloped off.