Bob Hampton of Placer - Page 187/205

Driven thus to bay, the stream at their back rendering farther retreat

impossible, for a few moments the light carbines of the soldiers met

the Indian rifles, giving back lead for lead. But already every chance

for successful attack had vanished; the whole narrow valley seemed to

swarm with braves; they poured forth from sheltering coulées and

shadowed ravines; they dashed down in countless numbers from the

distant village. Custer, now far away behind the bluffs, and almost

beyond sound of the firing, was utterly ignored. Every savage chief

knew exactly where that column was, but it could await its turn; Gall,

Crazy Horse, and Crow King mustered their red warriors for one

determined effort to crush Reno, to grind him into dust beneath their

ponies' hoofs. Ay, and they nearly did it!

In leaderless effort to break away from that swift-gathering cordon,

before the red, remorseless folds should close tighter and crush them

to death, the troopers, half of them already dismounted, burst from

cover in an endeavor to attain the shelter of the bluffs. The deadly

Indian rifles flamed in their faces, and they were hurled back, a mere

fleeing mob, searching for nothing in that moment of terror but a

possible passageway across the stream. Through some rare providence of

God, they chanced to strike the banks at a spot where the river proved

fordable. They plunged headlong in, officers and men commingled, the

Indian bullets churning up the water on every side; they struggled

madly through, and spurred their horses up the steep ridge beyond. A

few cool-headed veterans halted at the edge of the bank to defend the

passage; but the majority, crazed by panic and forgetful of all

discipline, raced frantically for the summit. Dr. De Wolf stood at the

very water's edge firing until shot down; McIntosh, striving vainly to

rally his demoralized men, sank with a bullet in his brain; Hodgson,

his leg broken by a ball, clung to a sergeant's stirrup until a second

shot stretched him dead upon the bank. The loss in that wild retreat

(which Reno later called a "charge") was heavy, the effect

demoralizing; but those who escaped found a spot well suited for

defence. Even as they swung down from off their wounded, panting

horses, and flung themselves flat upon their faces to sweep with

hastily levelled carbines the river banks below, Benteen came trotting

gallantly down the valley to their aid, his troopers fresh and eager to

be thrown forward on the firing-line. The worst was over, and like

maddened lions, the rallied soldiers of the Seventh, cursing their

folly, turned to strike and slay.