The valley was obscured with clouds of dust and smoke, the day
frightfully hot and suffocating. The various troop commanders, gaining
control over their men, were prompt to act. A line of skirmishers was
hastily thrown forward along the edge of the bluff, while volunteers,
urged by the agonized cries of the wounded, endeavored vainly to
procure a supply of water from the river. Again and again they made
the effort, only to be driven back by the deadly Indian rifle fire.
This came mostly from braves concealed behind rocks or protected by the
timber along the stream, but large numbers of hostiles were plainly
visible, not only in the valley, but also upon the ridges. The firing
upon their position continued incessantly, the warriors continually
changing their point of attack. By three o'clock, although the
majority of the savages had departed down the river, enough remained to
keep up a galling fire, and hold Reno strictly on the defensive. These
reds skulked in ravines, or lined the banks of the river, their
long-range rifles rendering the lighter carbines of the cavalrymen
almost valueless. A few crouched along the edge of higher eminences,
their shots crashing in among the unprotected troops.
As the men lay exposed to this continuous sniping fire, above the
surrounding din were borne to their ears the reports of distant guns.
It came distinctly from the northward, growing heavier and more
continuous. None among them doubted its ominous meaning. Custer was
already engaged in hot action at the right of the Indian village. Why
were they kept lying there in idleness? Why were they not pushed
forward to do their part? They looked into each other's faces. God!
They were three hundred now; they could sweep aside like chaff that
fringe of red skirmishers if only they got the word! With hearts
throbbing, every nerve tense, they waited, each trooper crouched for
the spring. Officer after officer, unable to restrain his impatience,
strode back across the bluff summit, amid whistling bullets, and
personally begged the Major to speak the one word which should hurl
them to the rescue. They cried like women, they swore through clinched
teeth, they openly exhibited their contempt for such a commander, yet
the discipline of army service made active disobedience impossible.
They went reluctantly back, as helpless as children.
It was four o'clock, the shadows of the western bluffs already
darkening the river bank. Suddenly a faint cheer ran along the lines,
and the men lifted themselves to gaze up the river. Urging the tired
animals to a trot, the strong hand of a trooper grasping every
halter-strap, Brant was swinging his long pack-train up the
smoke-wreathed valley. The out-riding flankers exchanged constant
shots with the skulking savages hiding in every ravine and coulée.
Pausing only to protect their wounded, fighting their way step by step,
N Troop ran the gantlet and came charging into the cheering lines with
every pound of their treasure safe. Weir of D, whose dismounted
troopers held that portion of the line, strode a pace forward to greet
the leader, and as the extended hands of the officers met, there echoed
down to them from the north the reports of two heavy volleys, fired in
rapid succession. The sounds were clear, distinctly audible even above
the uproar of the valley. The heavy eyes of the two soldiers met,
their dust-streaked faces flushed.