“We can beat them, anyhow.” This was the confident voice of Boston Custer. “Bos” had been appointed forage-master, so now he counted himself a member of the regiment, and was proud of the fact. He liked to mix with the soldiers, sometimes, and be one of them, even if his brother was the commanding officer.
“Maybe so, maybe not,” mused Charley Reynolds, soberly. “That Bad Lands country is a terror to cross. Those Injuns are better armed than the soldiers, too; with Springfields and Winchesters and Remingtons that they’re getting direct from the agencies—along with plenty supplies. When you run up against those Sioux, son, you’ll know you’ve been in a scrimmage.”
The weeks passed. By the first of February the Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse bands had not come in upon the reservation, and evidently they did not intend to come in. One day appeared at Fort Lincoln old Isaiah, a negro interpreter who had married a Sioux wife and lived at the Standing Rock agency.
“Well, Isaiah, where are the rest of your Injuns?” hailed a soldier.
“Who you mean?” demanded Isaiah.
“Sitting Bull.”
“Didn’t you get his word?” retorted Isaiah. “He say to the soldiers: ‘Come on. Needn’t bring any guides. You can find me easy. I won’t run away.’ That is so, because my squaw tell me, an’ she know.”