The east was barely pink. Dawn scarce had arrived. The hour must be very early. But for white and red the day had begun.
“Give it to ’em, men; give it to ’em, but be careful how you shoot. Make every bullet tell.” The sharp words of Captain Benteen and Lieutenant Gibson, as they walked up and down behind Troop H, steadied the nerves of all.
How fast the bullets rained in! They struck from before and from behind. As the dawn brightened, the feathered chiefs could be seen gesturing and commanding, while hither-thither ran their naked warriors, to occupy better positions. There were swarms of them; swarms!
“For the love o’ Saint Patrick, but they’re all sharp-shooters!” gasped Private McDermott, at Ned’s elbow. “An’ half o’ them are out o’ range of us, wid these sawed-off carbines.”
So they were—all sharp-shooters. Fast and true their lead picked, picked, at the rifle-pits and barricades; searched the hollow where were herded the pack-mules and the extra horses. Along the line of H company men were being killed, some by bullets from behind. Mules and horses screamed with wounds. Powder reek filled the still air. One’s head ached with the noise, one’s throat smarted with the smoke.
Major Reno, in his position to the north, must lie low; must lie low Captain Benteen and every other officer. The Indians were creeping closer. By little dashes and rushes they stole up, through the brush. With whish and patter arrows began to eke out the hail of bullets.
“Must be short o’ ammunition,” muttered Private McDermott.
“Wait! I’ll get one of those red beggars,” exclaimed Private Burns. From his place he crawled forward, hugging the brush, for better aim. On he went, peering; but see! Half-up he sprang, and fell, crumpled into a lax heap.
With exultant whoop a painted, glistening coppery figure darted toward him, speeding like a deer, coupstick, ten feet long, out-stretched to touch his body and claim a scalp. But half a dozen carbines spoke together, and the painted, glistening coppery figure collapsed to a dully red mass.