Far below, in the heart of the sunny depression bordering the left bank
of the Little Big Horn, the stalwart troopers under Reno's command
gazed up the steep bluff to wave farewell to their comrades
disappearing to the right. Last of all, Custer halted his horse an
instant, silhouetted against the blue sky, and swung his hat before
spurring out of sight.
The plan of battle was most simple and direct. It involved a nearly
simultaneous attack upon the vast Indian village from below and above,
success depending altogether upon the prompt coöperation of the
separate detachments. This was understood by every trooper in the
ranks. Scarcely had Custer's slender column of horsemen vanished
across the summit before Reno's command advanced, trotting down the
valley, the Arikara scouts in the lead. They had been chosen to strike
the first blow, to force their way into the lower village, and thus to
draw the defending warriors to their front, while Custer's men were to
charge upon the rear. It was an old trick of the Seventh, and not a
man in saddle ever dreamed the plan could fail.
A half-mile, a mile, Reno's troops rode, with no sound breaking the
silence but the pounding of hoofs, the tinkle of accoutrements. Then,
rounding a sharp projection of earth and rock, the scattered lodges of
the Indian village already partially revealed to those in advance, the
riders were brought to sudden halt by a fierce crackling of rifles from
rock and ravine, an outburst of fire in their faces, the wild,
resounding screech of war-cries, and the scurrying across their front
of dense bodies of mounted warriors, hideous in paint and feathers.
Men fell cursing, and the frightened horses swerved, their riders
struggling madly with their mounts, the column thrown into momentary
confusion. But the surprised cavalrymen, quailing beneath the hot fire
poured into them, rallied to the shouts of their officers, and swung
into a slender battle-front, stretching out their thin line from the
bank of the river to the sharp uplift of the western bluffs. Riderless
horses crashed through them, neighing with pain; the wounded begged for
help; while, with cries of terror, the cowardly Arikara scouts lashed
their ponies in wild efforts to escape. Scarcely one hundred and fifty
white troopers waited to stem as best they might that fierce onrush of
twelve hundred battle-crazed braves.
For an almost breathless space those mingled hordes of Sioux and
Cheyennes hesitated to drive straight home their death-blow. They knew
those silent men in the blue shirts, knew they died hard. Upon that
slight pause pivoted the fate of the day; upon it hung the lives of
those other men riding boldly and trustfully across the sunlit ridges
above. "Audacity, always audacity," that is the accepted motto for a
cavalryman. And be the cause what it may, it was here that Major Reno
failed. In that supreme instant he was guilty of hesitancy, doubt,
delay. He chose defence in preference to attack, dallied where he
should have acted. Instead of hurling like a thunderbolt that handful
of eager fighting men straight at the exposed heart of the foe, making
dash and momentum, discipline and daring, an offset to lack of numbers,
he lingered in indecision, until the observing savages, gathering
courage from his apparent weakness, burst forth in resistless torrent
against the slender, unsupported line, turned his flank by one fierce
charge, and hurled the struggling troopers back with a rush into the
narrow strip of timber bordering the river.