CHAPTER VII
THE FIGHT IN THE VALLEY
Far below, in the heart of the sunny depression bordering the left bankof the Little Big Horn, the stalwart troopers under Reno's commandgazed up the steep bluff to wave farewell to their comradesdisappearing to the right. Last of all, Custer halted his horse aninstant, silhouetted against the blue sky, and swung his hat beforespurring out of sight.
The plan of battle was most simple and direct. It involved a nearlysimultaneous attack upon the vast Indian village from below and above,success depending altogether upon the prompt cooeperation of theseparate detachments. This was understood by every trooper in theranks. Scarcely had Custer's slender column of horsemen vanishedacross the summit before Reno's command advanced, trotting down thevalley, the Arikara scouts in the lead. They had been chosen to strikethe first blow, to force their way into the lower village, and thus todraw the defending warriors to their front, while Custer's men were tocharge upon the rear. It was an old trick of the Seventh, and not aman in saddle ever dreamed the plan could fail.
A half-mile, a mile, Reno's troops rode, with no sound breaking thesilence but the pounding of hoofs, the tinkle of accoutrements. Then,rounding a sharp projection of earth and rock, the scattered lodges ofthe Indian village already partially revealed to those in advance, theriders were brought to sudden halt by a fierce crackling of rifles fromrock and ravine, an outburst of fire in their faces, the wild,resounding screech of war-cries, and the scurrying across their frontof dense bodies of mounted warriors, hideous in paint and feathers.Men fell cursing, and the frightened horses swerved, their ridersstruggling madly with their mounts, the column thrown into momentaryconfusion. But the surprised cavalrymen, quailing beneath the hot firepoured into them, rallied to the shouts of their officers, and swunginto a slender battle-front, stretching out their thin line from thebank of the river to the sharp uplift of the western bluffs. Riderlesshorses crashed through them, neighing with pain; the wounded begged forhelp; while, with cries of terror, the cowardly Arikara scouts lashedtheir ponies in wild efforts to escape. Scarcely one hundred and fiftywhite troopers waited to stem as best they might that fierce onrush oftwelve hundred battle-crazed braves.
For an almost breathless space those mingled hordes of Sioux andCheyennes hesitated to drive straight home their death-blow. They knewthose silent men in the blue shirts, knew they died hard. Upon thatslight pause pivoted the fate of the day; upon it hung the lives ofthose other men riding boldly and trustfully across the sunlit ridgesabove. "Audacity, always audacity," that is the accepted motto for acavalryman. And be the cause what it may, it was here that Major Renofailed. In that supreme instant he was guilty of hesitancy, doubt,delay. He chose defence in preference to attack, dallied where heshould have acted. Instead of hurling like a thunderbolt that handfulof eager fighting men straight at the exposed heart of the foe, makingdash and momentum, discipline and daring, an offset to lack of numbers,he lingered in indecision, until the observing savages, gatheringcourage from his apparent weakness, burst forth in resistless torrentagainst the slender, unsupported line, turned his flank by one fiercecharge, and hurled the struggling troopers back with a rush into thenarrow strip of timber bordering the river.
Driven thus to bay, the stream at their back rendering farther retreatimpossible, for a few moments the light carbines of the soldiers metthe Indian rifles, giving back lead for lead. But already every chancefor successful attack had vanished; the whole narrow valley seemed toswarm with braves; they poured forth from sheltering _coulees_ andshadowed ravines; they dashed down in countless numbers from thedistant village. Custer, now far away behind the bluffs, and almostbeyond sound of the firing, was utterly ignored. Every savage chiefknew exactly where that column was, but it could await its turn; Gall,Crazy Horse, and Crow King mustered their red warriors for onedetermined effort to crush Reno, to grind him into dust beneath theirponies' 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 themto death, the troopers, half of them already dismounted, burst fromcover in an endeavor to attain the shelter of the bluffs. The deadlyIndian rifles flamed in their faces, and they were hurled back, a merefleeing mob, searching for nothing in that moment of terror but apossible passageway across the stream. Through some rare providence ofGod, they chanced to strike the banks at a spot where the river provedfordable. They plunged headlong in, officers and men commingled, theIndian bullets churning up the water on every side; they struggledmadly through, and spurred their horses up the steep ridge beyond. Afew cool-headed veterans halted at the edge of the bank to defend thepassage; but the majority, crazed by panic and forgetful of alldiscipline, raced frantically for the summit. Dr. De Wolf stood at thevery water's edge firing until shot down; McIntosh, striving vainly torally 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 secondshot stretched him dead upon the bank. The loss in that wild retreat(which Reno later called a "charge") was heavy, the effectdemoralizing; but those who escaped found a spot well suited fordefence. Even as they swung down from off their wounded, pantinghorses, and flung themselves flat upon their faces to sweep withhastily levelled carbines the river banks below, Benteen came trottinggallantly down the valley to their aid, his troopers fresh and eager tobe thrown forward on the firing-line. The worst was over, and likemaddened lions, the rallied soldiers of the Seventh, cursing theirfolly, turned to strike and slay.
The valley was obscured with clouds of dust and smoke, the dayfrightfully hot and suffocating. The various troop commanders, gainingcontrol over their men, were prompt to act. A line of skirmishers washastily thrown forward along the edge of the bluff, while volunteers,urged by the agonized cries of the wounded, endeavored vainly toprocure a supply of water from the river. Again and again they madethe effort, only to be driven back by the deadly Indian rifle fire.This came mostly from braves concealed behind rocks or protected by thetimber along the stream, but large numbers of hostiles were plainlyvisible, not only in the valley, but also upon the ridges. The firingupon their position continued incessantly, the warriors continuallychanging their point of attack. By three o'clock, although themajority of the savages had departed down the river, enough remained tokeep up a galling fire, and hold Reno strictly on the defensive. Thesereds skulked in ravines, or lined the banks of the river, theirlong-range rifles rendering the lighter carbines of the cavalrymenalmost 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 thesurrounding din were borne to their ears the reports of distant guns.It came distinctly from the northward, growing heavier and morecontinuous. None among them doubted its ominous meaning. Custer wasalready engaged in hot action at the right of the Indian village. Whywere they kept lying there in idleness? Why were they not pushedforward to do their part? They looked into each other's faces. God!They were three hundred now; they could sweep aside like chaff thatfringe of red skirmishers if only they got the word! With heartsthrobbing, every nerve tense, they waited, each trooper crouched forthe spring. Officer after officer, unable to restrain his impatience,strode back across the bluff summit, amid whistling bullets, andpersonally begged the Major to speak the one word which should hurlthem to the rescue. They cried like women, they swore through clinchedteeth, they openly exhibited their contempt for such a commander, yetthe 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 alreadydarkening the river bank. Suddenly a faint cheer ran along the lines,and the men lifted themselves to gaze up the river. Urging the tiredanimals to a trot, the strong hand of a trooper grasping everyhalter-strap, Brant was swinging his long pack-train up thesmoke-wreathed valley. T
he out-riding flankers exchanged constantshots with the skulking savages hiding in every ravine and coulee.Pausing only to protect their wounded, fighting their way step by step,N Troop ran the gantlet and came charging into the cheering lines withevery pound of their treasure safe. Weir of D, whose dismountedtroopers held that portion of the line, strode a pace forward to greetthe leader, and as the extended hands of the officers met, there echoeddown to them from the north the reports of two heavy volleys, fired inrapid succession. The sounds were clear, distinctly audible even abovethe uproar of the valley. The heavy eyes of the two soldiers met,their dust-streaked faces flushed.
"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 areyou fellows waiting here for?"
The other uttered a groan, his hand flung in contempt back toward thebluff summit. "The cowardly fool won't move; he's whipped to deathnow."
Brant's jaw set like that of a fighting bulldog.
"Reno, you mean? Whipped? You have n't lost twenty men. Is this theSeventh--the Seventh?--skulking here under cover while Custer begshelp? Doesn't the man know? Doesn't he understand? By heaven, I 'llface him myself! I 'll make him act, even if I have to damn him to hisface."
He swung his horse with a jerk to the left, but even as the spurstouched, Weir grasped the taut rein firmly.
"It's no use, Brant. It's been done; we've all been at him. He'ssimply lost his head. Know? Of course he knows. Martini struck usjust below here, as we were coming in, with a message from Custer. Itwould have stirred the blood of any one but him--Oh, God! it'sterrible."
"A message? What was it?"
"Cook wrote it, and addressed it to Benteen. It read: 'Come on. Bigvillage. Be quick. Bring packs.' And then, 'P. S.--Bring packs.'That means they want ammunition badly; they're fighting to the deathout yonder, and they need powder. Oh, the coward!"
Brant's eyes ran down the waiting line of his own men, sitting theirsaddles beside the halted pack-animals. He leaned over and dropped onehand heavily on Weir's shoulder. "The rest of you can do as youplease, but N Troop is going to take those ammunition packs over toCuster if there's any possible way to get through, orders or noorders." He straightened up in the saddle, and his voice sounded downthe wearied line like the blast of a trumpet.
"Attention! N Troop! Right face; dress. Number four bring forwardthe ammunition packs. No, leave the others where they are; movelively, men!"
He watched them swing like magic into formation, their dust-begrimedfaces lighting up with animation. They knew their officer, and thismeant business.
"Unsling carbines--load!"
Weir, the veteran soldier, glanced down that steady line of readytroopers, and then back to Brant's face. "Do you mean it? Are yougoing up those bluffs? Good Heavens, man, it will mean acourt-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 throughalone, but I 'll try. Better a court-martial than to fail those menout there. Going? Of course I 'm going. Into line--takeintervals--forward!"
"Attention, D Troop!" It was Weir's voice, eager and determined now.Like an undammed current his orders rang out above the uproar, and in amoment the gallant troopers of N and D, some on foot, some in saddle,were rushing up the face of the bluff, their officers leading, theprecious ammunition packs at the centre, all alike scrambling for thesummit, in spite of the crackling of Indian rifles from every side.Foot by foot they fought their way forward, sliding and stumbling,until the little blue wave burst out against the sky-line and sent anexultant cheer back to those below. Panting, breathless from the hardclimb, their carbines spitting fire while the rapidly massing savagesbegan circling their exposed position, the little band fought their wayforward a hundred yards. Then they halted, blocked by the numbersbarring their path, glancing back anxiously in hope that their effortwould encourage others to join them. They could do it; they could doit if only the rest of the boys would come. They poured in theirvolleys and waited. But Reno made no move. Weir and Brant, determinedto hold every inch thus gained, threw the dismounted men on their facesbehind every projection of earth, and encircled the ridge with flame.If they could not advance, they would not be driven back. They werehigh up now, where they could overlook the numerous ridges and valleysfar around; and yonder, perhaps two miles away, they could perceivevast bodies of mounted Indians, while the distant sound of heavy firingwas borne faintly to their ears. It was vengeful savages shooting intothe bodies of the dead, but that they did not know. Messenger aftermessenger, taking life in hand, was sent skurrying down the bluff, tobeg reinforcements to push on for the rescue, swearing it was possible.But it was after five o'clock before Reno moved. Then cautiously headvanced his column toward where N and D Troops yet held desperately tothe exposed ridge. He came too late. That distant firing had ceased,and all need for further advance had ended. Already vast forces ofIndians, flushed with victory and waving bloody scalps, were sweepingback across the ridges to attack in force. Scarcely had reinforcementsattained the summit before the torrent of savagery burst screeching ontheir front.
From point to point the grim struggle raged, till nightfall wroughtpartial cessation. The wearied troopers stretched out their lines soas to protect the packs and the field hospital, threw themselves on theground, digging rifle-pits with knives and tin pans. Not until nineo'clock did the Indian fire slacken, and then the village became ascene of savage revel, the wild yelling plainly audible to the soldiersabove. Through the black night Brant stepped carefully across therecumbent forms of his men, and made his way to the field hospital. Inthe glare of the single fire the red sear of a bullet showed clearlyacross his forehead, but he wiped away the slowly trickling blood, andbent over a form extended on a blanket.
"Has he roused up?" he questioned of the trooper on guard.
"Not to know nuthin', sir. He's bin swearin' an' gurglin' most o' thertime, but he's asleep now, I reckon."
The young officer stood silent, his face pale, his gaze upon thedistant Indian fires. Out yonder were defeat, torture, death, andto-morrow meant a renewal of the struggle. His heart was heavy withforeboding, his memory far away with one to whom all this misfortunemight come almost as a death-blow. It was Naida's questioning facethat haunted him; she was waiting for she knew not what.
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