Bob Hampton of Placer - Page 197/205

However daring the pen, it cannot but falter when attempting to picture

the events of those hours of victorious defeat. Out from the scene of

carnage there crept forth no white survivor to recount the heroic deeds

of the Seventh Cavalry. No voice can ever repeat the story in its

fulness, no eye penetrate into the heart of its mystery. Only in

motionless lines of dead, officers and men lying as they fell while

facing the foe; in emptied carbines strewing the prairie; in scattered,

mutilated bodies; in that unbroken ring of dauntless souls whose

lifeless forms lay clustered about the figure of their stricken chief

on that slight eminence marking the final struggle--only in such tokens

can we trace the broken outlines of the historic picture. The actors

in the great tragedy have passed beyond either the praise or the blame

of earth. With moistened eyes and swelling hearts, we vainly strive to

imagine the whole scene. This, at least, we know: no bolder, nobler

deed of arms was ever done.

It was shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon when that compact

column of cavalrymen moved silently forward down the concealing

coulée toward the more open ground beyond. Custer's plan was

surprise, the sudden smiting of that village in the valley from the

rear by the quick charge of his horsemen. From man to man the

whispered purpose travelled down the ranks, the eager troopers greeting

the welcome message with kindling eyes. It was the old way of the

Seventh, and they knew it well. The very horses seemed to feel the

electric shock. Worn with hard marches, bronzed by long weeks of

exposure on alkali plains, they advanced now with the precision of men

on parade, under the observant eyes of the officers. Not a canteen

tinkled, not a sabre rattled within its scabbard, as at a swift,

noiseless walk those tried warriors of the Seventh pressed forward to

strike once more their old-time foes.

Above them a few stray, fleecy clouds flecked the blue of the arching

sky, serving only to reveal its depth of color. On every side extended

the rough irregularity of a region neither mountain nor plain, a land

of ridges and bluffs, depressions and ravines. Over all rested the

golden sunlight of late June; and in all the broad expanse there was no

sign of human presence.

With Custer riding at the head of the column, and only a little to the

rear of the advance scouts, his adjutant Cook, together with a

volunteer aide, beside him, the five depleted troops filed resolutely

forward, dreaming not of possible defeat. Suddenly distant shots were

heard far off to their left and rear, and deepening into a rumble,

evidencing a warm engagement. The interested troopers lifted their

heads, listening intently, while eager whispers ran from man to man

along the closed files.