“B’tall-yun, draw—pistols! Gallop—march!”
With a cheer they lunged ahead, pistols held high, eyes alert, ready to meet the fleeing Sioux and turn them back again.
The valley widened; in this direction had ridden the Major Reno battalion, recalled Ned, as he, too, galloped, pistol high.
“Right and left into line—march!” shouted Captain Benteen, to cover the ground with battle front.
Then, as all were galloping, forming the line, the draw opened upon a wide cross valley, and there was the battle field—a brushy, broken arena, cut by the willow-bordered crooked stream, hazy with smoke of burning grass and powder through which echoed shot and shout and chant, and through which dimly could be seen horsemen careering in all directions, as if attacking a common object in their midst. Upon a bluff to the right was another battle—soldiers above, Indians below.
The gallop quickly ceased. Now where to go, or what to do, first?
“Look out! Here come some!”
The cry and the murmur swept from man to man. A confused mass was rapidly bearing up the valley, toward them.
“No, that’s all right. They’ve signaled. They’re Crows, with a pony herd.”
So they were. As they wildly scampered past, driving off their spoils, Indian-fashion, voices hailed them, inquiring where was Reno, where was Custer. One of the Crows waved his hand at the bluff.