“In my opinion, that brush is full of Sioux, and those six bucks would be only too glad to lead us past,” said Adjutant Calhoun, to Lieutenant Tom.
“The general had better join us or we him,” answered the lieutenant, gazing anxiously. “He’s too near. He’s liable——” but from all the detachment issued a sudden cry.
The six Sioux had wheeled, and were charging, and from the timber patch had burst, as if at a breath, fully three hundred others. At full speed they came, whooping and firing, and in splendid line. Evidently these Sioux were fine warriors.
All eyes leaped to the general. Around he had whirled, around had whirled the sergeant, and back they were spurring for dear life. They were three hundred yards from the timber, almost opposite to them, and two hundred yards from the soldiers.
On sped the line of Sioux, dividing, part to head off the general, part to ride to rear of the detachment and head off Captain Moylan, coming from behind.
“Prepare to fight on foot!” It was Lieutenant Tom’s clear voice.
From the saddle swung three men from each squad, leaving Number Four to hold the horses.
“As skirmishers, men! Quick!” and “Company—halt!” issued the commands. There was no time for regulation orders. Out in front of the horses had run the dismounted men, to halt in loose line, kneel, and without waiting for more orders, to aim.
“Don’t fire, men, until I give the word,” spoke Lieutenant Tom, revolver in hand, behind the line. “Aim low.”