The Mintage | Page 7

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.
Reno's charge had failed--instead of riding straight down through the
length of the village and meeting Custer, he had gotten only fifty rods,
and then had been met by a steady fire from Indians who held their
ground. He wedged them back, but his horses, already overridden,
refused to go on, and the charging troops were simply carried out of the
woods into the open, and once there they took to the hills for safety,
leaving behind, dead, one-third of their force.
Custer quickly realized the hopelessness of charging alone into a mass
of Indians, who were exultant and savage in the thought of victory.
Panic was not for them.
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They were armed with Springfield rifles, while the soldiers had only
short-range carbines.
The bugles now ordered a retreat, and Custer's men rode back to the top
of the hill--with intent to join forces with Reno.
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Reno was hopelessly cut off. Determined Sioux filled the gully that
separated the two little bands of brave men.
Custer, evidently, thought that Reno had simply withdrawn to re-form
his troop, and that any moment Reno would ride to his rescue.
Custer decided to hold the hill.
The Indians were shooting at him from long range, occasionally killing
a horse.
He told off his fours and ordered the horses sent to the rear.

The fours led their horses back toward where they had left their
packmules when they had stopped for coffee at three o'clock.
But the fours had not gone half a mile when they were surrounded by a
mob of Indians that just closed in on them. Every man was killed--the
horses were galloped off by the women and children.
Custer now realized that he was caught in a trap. The ridge where his
men lay face down was half a mile long, and not more than twenty feet
across at the top. The Indians were everywhere--in the gullies, in the
grass, in little scooped-out holes. The bullets whizzed above the heads
of Custer's men as they lay there, flattening their bodies in the dust.
The morning sun came out, dazzling and hot.
It was only nine o'clock.
The men were without food and without water. The Little Big Horn
danced over its rocky bed and shimmered in the golden light, only half
a mile away, and there in the cool, limpid stream they had been
confident they would now swim and fish, the battle over, while they
proudly held the disarmed Indians against General Terry's coming.
But the fight had not been won, and death lay between them and water.
The only thing to do was to await Reno or Terry. Reno might come at
any time, and Terry would arrive without fail at tomorrow's dawn--he
had said so, and his word was the word of a soldier.
Custer had blundered.
The fight was lost.
Now it was just a question of endurance. Noon came, and the buzzards
began to gather in the azure.
The sun was blistering hot--there was not a tree, nor a bush, nor a green
blade of grass within reach.
The men had ceased to joke and banter. The situation was serious.

Some tried to smoke, but their parching thirst was thus only
aggravated--they threw their pipes away.
The Indians now kept up an occasional shooting.
They were playing with the soldiers as a cat plays with a mouse.
The Indian is a cautious fighter--he makes no sacrifices in order to win.
Now he had his prey secure.
Soon the soldiers would run out of ammunition, and then one more day,
or two at least, and thirst and fatigue would reduce brave men into old
women, and the squaws could rush in and pound them on the head with
clubs.
The afternoon dragged along its awful length. Time dwindled and
dawdled.
At last the sun sank, a ball of fire in the West.
The moon came out.
Now and then a Sioux would creep up into shadowy view, but a shot
from a soldier would send him back into hiding. Down in the
cottonwoods the squaws made campfires and were holding a dance,
singing their songs of victory.
Custer warned his men that sleep was death. This was their second
sleepless night, and the men were feverish with fatigue. Some babbled
in strange tongues, and talked with sisters and sweethearts and people
who were not there--reason was tottering.
With Custer