Yes, the Indians were watching. That was soon to be shown. However, calm and sweet was the twilight. Gradually the western glow faded, while busily grazed the horses and mules. The men lounged about, and contentedly smoked and chatted. To and fro paced the sentries. The stream rippled. Over it and over the wide prairie swooped low the night-hawks. Scarcely a coyote barked. Even the general’s dogs found nothing to do.
At dusk the animals were brought in close and tethered along the picket ropes. Stable guards were stationed for them. At half-past eight Ned blew the long sweet call of “Taps.” The notes floated musically over the wide expanse. Every light was extinguished; and amidst the loneliness the camp of the Seventh Cavalry, United States Army, lay down to sleep. The white tents glimmered; the horses and mules snorted; the sentinels paced their beats.
In his tent beside the adjutant’s Ned was wakened in a jump. It seemed that he had just fallen asleep—but the interior of the tent was gray; dawn was at hand. The smart crack of a carbine was echoing in his ears—and now he heard a sharp, excited voice:
“They’re here!” That was Lieutenant Custer, the general’s brother, rushing past, warning the general. He was officer of the day. And out rang a perfect volley of shots, and a great peal of shrill, savage whoops.
Grabbing bugle and belt Ned dived from his tent. He was in time to witness the front of the general’s tent burst open, like a paper bag, and General Custer come bolting through. The general wore a bright red flannel night-gown—but he carried in his hand his Spencer rifle. He was ready for business.
On ran the general, toward the spot of the firing and the shouting. He was no quicker than his men; they streamed from their tents, and clad in shirts and drawers, but bearing cartridge-belts and carbines, they rallied to the defence. Scarcely any orders were necessary, although Lieutenant Tom Custer and all the officers were there to give them. The voice of the general rose high, urging, commanding, cheering. His red flannel night-shirt flamed hither and thither; his long bright locks tossed like a mane; he wore no shoes or stockings. Ned saw him in a new guise: Old Curly, the fighting Chief with the Yellow Hair.
The carbines crackled, as in irregular line the troopers, lying or kneeling, rapidly fired. Beyond, in the thin morning, the Indians dashed swiftly back and forth. From the soldiers issued jeers and threats and challenges, as well as lead.
“I got one! I got one!” yelped the lawyer recruit. “No; I got two! There goes another off his horse!”
“Shut up!” growled Sergeant Henderson. “Do you think that every time you fire you knock over an Injun? They only hang on the far side of their horses, lad!”