Sped like lightning through the rifle-pits the rumor that the Custer battalion had met a great disaster. Little exclamations of wonder and pity were succeeded by an expectant silence.
But here along the valley, right where had stood the proud Sioux village, appeared the head of the column; appeared cavalry and infantry, under guidon and banner. Hooray for Terry and Gibbon! Hooray for comrades in blue! Hats were swung, grimy hand gripped grimy hand.
On came the column, to the cheering lines. General Terry, leading, was grave. Evidently he bore very bad news. Sober were all the officers with him, sober were the men; and sober grew the awed camp.
“Custer! What about Custer?”
Heads were shaken.
“Don’t know yet, for sure. But some command has been killed off, every man, apparently, yonder on those hills. We passed about two hundred stripped bodies.”
Ned glimpsed a familiar face. It was that of Curly, the Crow scout. He rushed to Curly.
“Where’s the general, Curly? Where’s the Long Hair?”
Curly shook his head, as other heads were being shaken.
“Long Hair dead,” he said, gutturally. “All dead. Me only one left. Let hair down like Sioux, put on Sioux paint, an’ ride out. Nearly all killed, then.”