Over to the right was the Big Horn River, running northeast parallel with the Rosebud. But between was the Little Big Horn, which flowing northwest emptied into the Big Horn. The theory was, that the Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse village, or both, were in on the Little Horn or the Big Horn. The Seventh was to swing in a curve and meet the infantry and the Gibbon column about where the Little Horn joined the Big Horn.
That Indians were over there somewhere seemed certain; for to-day, Saturday, June 24, Curly the Crow scout reported through Mitch Bouyer the interpreter that they had found fresh Indian tracks; and they saw signal smokes on the west, or the right. The main trail was very broad and beaten to dust by the hoofs of many, many ponies.
“Ike says the dust we’re making will be seen by the Sioux, sure,” complained “Autie,” much concerned, at noon camp finding Ned. “The Little Big Horn is called by the Sioux ‘Greasy Grass River.’ It’s just beyond those hills. They’re the Wolf Mountains. The Injuns might be on top, spying down on us. Maybe we won’t catch ’em.”
However, General Custer knew as much as Isaiah. The companies were ordered to march at wider intervals, so as to make as little dust as possible; and that night the camp was pitched under a flanking bluff, and fires were extinguished as soon as supper had been cooked. The trail had turned off from the valley of the Rosebud. It headed for the west, as if to cross over to the Little Big Horn. The first sergeants spread the word among the companies for the men to be ready to march again at eleven-thirty. After taps there seemed to be another officers’ council, by candle-light at headquarters. Lying in his blanket, amidst the dark, while officers on their way to the general’s stepped over him, Ned could tell that something was up. The air was full of mystery and expectation.
As young “Autie” was sound asleep in his own blanket, Ned, like other men in the ranks, did not know precisely what the officers had talked about. But at 11.30 the silent reveille—which was touch of hand and low word by the sergeants and corporals—was “sounded,” and by column of fours the regiment rode out through the dusty dusk; the train of pack mules followed.
It was slow going. Long after midnight the command to halt was passed down the column; and presently was it known that the scouts claimed they could not guide them any further across the divide until daylight.
Everybody waited. Daylight was near. In about an hour the east began to brighten; in another hour there was light enough for making coffee. Carrying a message, from Captain Benteen, Ned had another glimpse of “Autie,” who was going back to the horse herd.
“Hello,” hailed “Autie.” “You ought to have been there! Uncle Autie and the Injun scouts have been talking, and Bloody Knife said to the others: ‘We’ll find enough Sioux to keep us all fighting two or three days.’ And Uncle Autie just smiled and said: ‘Oh, I guess we’ll get through with them in one day!’ Those Rees are awful scared. It’s going to be a big battle, I bet. I wonder if we’ll fight on Sunday. I’ve got to tend to my horses. Good-by.”
The sun was well up. It was a glorious June day; and it was the 25th, or Sunday, as “Autie” had remarked. Pretty soon, while the troops were still waiting and resting and wondering, the general came riding down the column. He was bareback, on Vic. His face was aglow, under his broad-brimmed hat, his yellow hair and tawny moustache shone, but his blue eyes were weary and puckered, with a trace of worry.
“We march at eight o’clock, Benteen,” he directed, to the captain. “The scouts have spied the location of the Indian camp about fifteen miles ahead, over on the Little Horn. A lot of smoke and ‘heap ponies.’ Varnum reports they passed some bodies, on Sioux scaffolding. Let me have Fletcher as my orderly.”