The night settled crisp and dark, with the moon hidden by drifting clouds. Not a sound issued from the direction of the Indian village, where dimly gleamed the white skin lodges of the Cheyennes and the Sioux. Ned blew “Tattoo,” and “Taps” for lights out; and the cavalry camp as well as the infantry and artillery camp, went to bed. General Custer’s tent had been pitched by itself, near to General Hancock’s. The little “pup” tent of Ned was beside the tent of the adjutant, Lieutenant Moylan. And all was still.
Ned had been sound asleep, in his blankets, when suddenly he was wakened by a voice, speaking low but distinct.
“Moylan! Moylan! Oh, Moylan!”
“What is it?” and Lieutenant Moylan stirred.
“It’s I—Custer. Open up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Moylan hastily arose, and fumbled at the flaps, untying them. Ned peered out, the dim figure of General Custer was just visible.
“Don’t make a light,” he said. “The regiment is ordered to move out, at once. Guerrier has come in from the village and reports all the warriors saddling to leave in a hurry. The general wants us to surround the village and nip that movement in the bud. The best way will be for us to notify the company commanders, one at a time, and they can tell the first sergeants. You take one battalion and I’ll take the other. Fletcher will follow me. No noise, mind. Have the men saddle up and fall in without bugle signals or any other signals, if possible. Sabres held to prevent clanking.”
The general was not kept waiting long, where he stood by the tent flaps; speedily Lieutenant Moylan was treading with silent, hasty foot, in the one direction, and Ned was following his leader in the other.
Amidst the serried canvases occurred a resurrection as the captains sought the first sergeants, and the first sergeants passed rapidly from tent to tent, whispering through to the men. With astonishingly little confusion or noise the horses were saddled, the companies were mounted, and all was ready.