That was so. At the discharges from the carbines whole squads of the scampering reds seemed to be swept from their saddles; when, no, there they were, again, upright, and gesturing derision! It was enough to fool any white man, fighting them for his first time. But many were the jokes leveled at the recruits, by the veterans in the firing-line.
However, the Indians didn’t succeed. There must have been two or three hundred of them, attacking, while about fifty tried for the camp horses. They had shot the picket. He was lying wounded. He would have been scalped if his comrades had not run out and dragged him in. After a few volleys from the Spencers of the soldiers the red enemy retreated. They could be seen gathered about a mile away, in council.
[IX]
DANGER ON EVERY SIDE
It could be seen that General Custer was thoroughly indignant. But first he must ask about the wounded picket, who proved to be badly hurt, not fatally. Then he must change his night-gown for a more practical field costume. When he emerged from his tent, he was again ready for business.
“I’d like to know who those fellows are, and what they mean,” he denounced, furiously, among his officers. “We’ve done nothing, to make them attack us. Send out an interpreter, Moylan, and ask for a parley.”
The Indians were still collected, upon their ponies, about a mile distant. Their figures showed black in the dawn brightening across the vast, boundless prairie. Where in the far east prairie met sky was a strip of glowing pink.
The interpreter, a squaw-man from Fort McPherson, with a Sioux wife, rode out and on the river bank made circles with his horse. This signalled: “We want to talk.” One of the Indians answered with the same sign, and a part of them came forward.