Ned did not look again. He had his duty to perform. He was not certain as to where he would find Major Benteen; but it would be somewhere toward the river; the branching of the trails would guide.
“Go on! Go on!” he urged, into the pricked ears of his horse, another “Buckie.”
“Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud!” The brush and the rocks reeled dizzily past, the brown trail of many hoofs flowed under. He extracted the message from his blouse, to read it and to be sure of it in case it was lost. Yes, that was it in Adjutant Cook’s hasty scrawl:
Benteen, come on. Big
Village. Be quick.
Bring packs.
Cook, adj’t.
P. S. Bring packs.
“Cl’k!” clucked Ned to Buckie; and pricked him again with the spurs. They must make it. The general would be depending upon them. Adjutant Cook had repeated the words “Bring packs,” which showed how important was the matter.
“Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud! Thud-ity thud!” The lather was white where the bridle reins rubbed Buckie’s wet neck; his breath whistled, occasionally he snorted to blow from his straining nostrils the dust and moisture; but he never faltered. Good horse!
Far and faint from the right were heard a spattering of rifle-shots, like a skirmish fire; and then cheers! That must be Major Reno, or Captain Benteen; and off there would lie the river.
Gallop, gallop, up the back trail, with the rounded slopes, sagey and hot, girding the long, long way. Where was Captain Benteen? Where was the pack-train? Ah, here came somebody—a rider also galloping hard. Out whipped Ned’s revolver; but soon the speck resolved into a man in white-man’s garb. Looked like a soldier. It was “Bos!” “Bos” Custer, forage-master.