He could distinguish Reno’s soldiers as they charged into the underbrush. Their shouts and the sound of firing filled his fighter’s heart.
The Indians were in confusion—he could see them by the dim light, stampeding. They were running in brownish masses right around the front of the hill where he stood. He ordered the bugles to blow the charge.
The soldiers greeted the order with a yell—tired muscles, the sleepless night, its seventy-five miles of hard riding, were forgotten. The battle would be fought and won in less time than a man takes to eat his breakfast.
Down the slope swept Custer’s men to meet the fleeing foe.
But now the savages had ceased to flee. They lay in the grass and fired.
Several of Custer’s horses fell.
Three of his men threw up their hands, and dropped from their saddles, limp like bags of oats, and their horses ran on alone.
The gully below was full of Indians, and these sent a murderous fire at Custer as he came. His horses swerved, but several ran right on and disappeared, horse and rider in the sunken ditch, as did Napoleon’s men at Waterloo.
The mad, headlong charge hesitated. The cottonwoods, the water and the teepees were a hundred yards away.
Custer glanced back, and a mile distant saw Reno’s soldiers galloping wildly up the steep slope of the hill.