"That was a signal, Custer's signal for help!" the younger man cried,
impulsively, his voice full of agony. "For God's sake, Weir, what are
you fellows waiting here for?"
The other uttered a groan, his hand flung in contempt back toward the
bluff summit. "The cowardly fool won't move; he's whipped to death
now."
Brant's jaw set like that of a fighting bulldog.
"Reno, you mean? Whipped? You have n't lost twenty men. Is this the
Seventh--the Seventh?--skulking here under cover while Custer begs
help? Doesn't the man know? Doesn't he understand? By heaven, I 'll
face him myself! I 'll make him act, even if I have to damn him to his
face."
He swung his horse with a jerk to the left, but even as the spurs
touched, Weir grasped the taut rein firmly.
"It's no use, Brant. It's been done; we've all been at him. He's
simply lost his head. Know? Of course he knows. Martini struck us
just below here, as we were coming in, with a message from Custer. It
would have stirred the blood of any one but him--Oh, God! it's
terrible."
"A message? What was it?"
"Cook wrote it, and addressed it to Benteen. It read: 'Come on. Big
village. Be quick. Bring packs.' And then, 'P. S.--Bring packs.'
That means they want ammunition badly; they're fighting to the death
out yonder, and they need powder. Oh, the coward!"
Brant's eyes ran down the waiting line of his own men, sitting their
saddles beside the halted pack-animals. He leaned over and dropped one
hand heavily on Weir's shoulder. "The rest of you can do as you
please, but N Troop is going to take those ammunition packs over to
Custer if there's any possible way to get through, orders or no
orders." He straightened up in the saddle, and his voice sounded down
the wearied line like the blast of a trumpet.
"Attention! N Troop! Right face; dress. Number four bring forward
the ammunition packs. No, leave the others where they are; move
lively, men!"
He watched them swing like magic into formation, their dust-begrimed
faces lighting up with animation. They knew their officer, and this
meant business.
"Unsling carbines--load!"
Weir, the veteran soldier, glanced down that steady line of ready
troopers, and then back to Brant's face. "Do you mean it? Are you
going up those bluffs? Good Heavens, man, it will mean a
court-martial."
"Custer commands the Seventh. I command the pack-train," said Brant.
"His orders are to bring up the packs. Perhaps I can't get through
alone, but I 'll try. Better a court-martial than to fail those men
out there. Going? Of course I 'm going. Into line--take
intervals--forward!"