“Cease firing, men! Cease firing!” bade the sergeants, along the skirmish line of kneeling men, protecting the bluff.
Now might all pause from squinting over hot carbine barrels, and wipe foreheads. The Indians in the valley were galloping away, along the hills and stream, toward the north.
What was the matter there? Oh! Listen! Custer must be in action. His carbines were rattling fast and faster. Why doesn’t he send some word, though? Why was the battalion kept here? Why didn’t the major order an advance?
Listen now! Crash! Volley firing! And again “Crash!” Another. Surely “Old Curly” was giving it to them heavy. Who was that coming? Ah, McDougall and the packs. Good! The general had sent word for the packs; wasn’t it time to push ahead in force and join him, or help him out by attack?
Water was needed; but when soldiers tried to get it from the river below they were promptly fired upon. The shooting in the direction where the general was died away to a fitful clatter; few Indians were to be seen; and at last Major Reno did order a movement north on the bluffs, toward the general. Then the Indians gathered fast and furious, and the command was driven back to the first bluff. The general’s battalion had been in sight, two miles distant, on a hill. At least, over there was an eddy of riding and irregular firing. From the place many Indians suddenly came hurrying to attack the other white soldiers. So it looked as if the general had been defeated and his rear-guard had been defending his retreat.
But why didn’t he send a courier through or make signals, to inform the rest of the regiment?
The bluff was a lively spot. Thicker and thicker the Sioux and the Cheyennes were besieging it. From every side, from above as well as from below, shrieked their taunts, whined their bullets. The day was almost spent. As the sun sank into the desolate hills the red foe yelped the louder, fired the faster; every bunch of sage and every rock seemed to harbor an Indian; down by the willow-bordered stream the squaws sang vengefully in the village still standing and triumphant.
Even at twilight the Indians did not dare to charge. Steadily and desperately the soldiers replied to their bullets. Officer and man shot as one; and Ned among them. His stubby cavalry carbine repeatedly jammed on him. It wouldn’t extract the shell. On right and left he heard his mates complaining of their carbines also. They must stop and use their knife-blades, to pry loose the shells.
The twilight faded; the dusk settled; and the Indians quit. The reports of rifle and carbine ceased; and for an instant quiet blessed the valley. Ned was glad to rise and stretch his cramped legs and back, and look about.
“Hark!” again cautioned somebody. “I hear commands! Troops are coming! Hurrah for Crook!”