He glanced over it, once, and added another word or two. He thrust the folded paper at Ned.
“[Here],” he said, crisply. “[Take that to Captain Benteen, and don’t spare your horse.]”
[“HERE, TAKE THAT TO CAPTAIN BENTEEN, AND DON’T SPARE YOUR HORSE”]
[XXIV]
SITTING BULL AT BAY
Saluting, around wheeled Ned. He had one glimpse of the general’s face. The blue eyes were blazing, the broad-brimmed hat was being swung to the column urging forward at a trot.
“We’ve caught ’em asleep, boys!” cheered the general’s high, clear voice. “Now for a charge!”
Down along the column Ned went thundering, for the back trail. Familiar faces, dusty and sweaty, but resolute all, grinned at him; a hand or two waved. From the murk at the rear of the eager ranks he looked behind him. The column had topped the ridge. Headed by the general and the adjutant and young “Autie,” the stars and stripes and the headquarters or “general’s own” flag close following, with the cavalry guidons of red and white streaming in the sun to mark each troop, horses at hard trot, men leaning forward, hat-brims flaring, bridle-hands forward, carbines and pistols not yet drawn, rank by rank, guidon by guidon they dipped over, into a hollow, and disappeared. They were gone: but they left a cheer behind.