“No, guess not. Band goin’ to Settin’ Bull’s village, mebbe. But don’t you worry, boy. We find Settin’ Bull, plenty quick; or he find us. Crazy Hoss, too. Gall, Lame Deer, Black Moon, Two Moon, He Dog, Hump, Big Road, Crow King—they all be there, with their Minniconjous, an’ Oglalas, an’ Cheyennes, an’ Sans Arc, an’ Brules, an’ Hunkpapas, an’ Blackfeet, jest sp’ilin’ for a fight if we only fetch it to ’em in the right place.”
“And Rain-in-the-Face,” suggested “Autie.”
“Yep; Rain-in-the-Face. He be there.”
“We don’t care,” scoffed “Autie,” true to the Seventh. “General Terry offered Uncle Autie the gatling guns and some of the Second Cavalry; but Uncle Autie says the Seventh is enough. We don’t need anybody to help us; do we, Ned!”
“No,” asserted Ned. “We can take care of all the Sioux that come. There aren’t more than three thousand of them off the reservation, according to the Indian Department report; and only six or eight hundred of these are warriors. The Seventh Cavalry can whip them.”
“You see,” grunted Isaiah. “There as many Sioux off reservation as on. My squaw Sioux. She know.”
“We don’t care,” again scoffed “Autie.”
When the Seventh started, the next noon, they started in style. They passed in review before General Terry and General Gibbon and General Custer. The general, and Captain Tom and Adjutant Cook and Captain Keogh wore their buckskin suits; all the regiment were natty and businesslike; the band played “Garryowen”—but they were to be left behind, this time, were the band. General Terry smiled and saluted each troop as in platoons they swung past. On prancing Dandy the general sat straight and proud, for this was his crack regiment.
That evening “Autie” reported upon the officers’ council which was held at the general’s tent. “Uncle Autie” had said that the regiment were to follow the Sioux even if the trail led clear to the Nebraska agencies; and it must be done on the fifteen days’ rations. That sounded exactly like the general. Just as General Sheridan had once declared, when he wanted a thing done quickly he sent Custer.
The Rosebud was a small but rapid stream, flowing north through a bluffy, bare country. The Indian trail was struck the next day. There were lodge-pole marks and pony tracks, and little brush wicki-ups that looked as if dogs had slept under them. The Ree and Crow scouts, and Charley Reynolds and Isaiah and other scouts not Indians, rode in the advance, closely examining all the signs. They thought that the trail was about ten days old.