Randall Parrish - Bob Hampton of Placer

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They were up with the pack-train by now, and the cavalrymen gazed with
interest at the new arrivals. Several among them seemed to recognize
Murphy, and crowded about his horse with rough expressions of sympathy.
Brant scarcely glanced at them, his grave eyes on Hampton's stern face.

"And what is it you wish me to do?"

"Take care of Murphy. Don't let him remain alone for a minute. If he
has any return of reason, compel him to talk. He knows you, and will
be as greatly frightened at your presence and knowledge as at mine.
Besides, you have fully as much at stake as any one, for in no other
way can the existing barrier between Naida and yourself be broken down."

Insisting that now he felt perfectly fit for any service, the impatient
Hampton was quickly supplied with the necessary food and clothing,
while Murphy, grown violently abusive, was strapped on a litter between
two mules, a guard on either side. Brant rode with the civilian on a
sharp trot as far as the head of the pack-train, endeavoring to the
very last to persuade the wearied man to relinquish this work to
another.

"Foster," he said to the sergeant in command of the advance, "did you
chance to notice just what _coulee_ Custer turned into when his column
swung to the right?"

"I think it must have been the second yonder, sir; where you see that
bunch of trees. We was a long ways back, but I could see the boys
plain enough as they come out on the bluff up there. Some of 'em waved
their hats back at us. Is this man goin' after them, sir?"

"Yes, he has despatches from Cheyenne."

"Well, he ought ter have no trouble findin' the trail. It ought ter be
'bout as plain as a road back in God's country, sir, fer there were
more than two hundred horses, and they'd leave a good mark even on hard
ground."

Brant held out his hand. "I'll certainly do all in my power, Hampton,
to bring this out right. You can rely on that, and I will be faithful
to the little girl. Now, just a word to guide you regarding our
situation here. We have every reason for believing that the Sioux are
in considerable force in our front somewhere, and not far down this
stream. Nobody knows just how strong they are, but it looks to me as
if we were pretty badly split up for a very heavy engagement. Not that
I question Custer's plan, you understand, only he may be mistaken about
what the Indians will do. Benteen's battalion is out there to the
west; Reno is just ahead of us up the valley; while Custer has taken
five troops on a detour to the right across the bluffs, hoping to come
down on the rear of the Sioux. The idea is to crush them between the
three columns. No one of these detachments has more than two hundred
men, yet it may come out all right if they only succeed in striking
together. Still it 's risky in such rough country, not knowing exactly
where the enemy is. Well, good luck to you, and take care of yourself."

The two men clasped hands, their eyes filled with mutual confidence.
Then Hampton touched spurs to his horse, and galloped swiftly forward.

CHAPTER VII

THE FIGHT IN THE VALLEY

Far below, in the heart of the sunny depression bordering the left bank
of the Little Big Horn, the stalwart troopers under Reno's command
gazed up the steep bluff to wave farewell to their comrades
disappearing to the right. Last of all, Custer halted his horse an
instant, silhouetted against the blue sky, and swung his hat before
spurring out of sight.

The plan of battle was most simple and direct. It involved a nearly
simultaneous attack upon the vast Indian village from below and above,
success depending altogether upon the prompt cooeperation of the
separate detachments. This was understood by every trooper in the
ranks. Scarcely had Custer's slender column of horsemen vanished
across the summit before Reno's command advanced, trotting down the
valley, the Arikara scouts in the lead. They had been chosen to strike
the first blow, to force their way into the lower village, and thus to
draw the defending warriors to their front, while Custer's men were to
charge upon the rear. It was an old trick of the Seventh, and not a
man in saddle ever dreamed the plan could fail.

A half-mile, a mile, Reno's troops rode, with no sound breaking the
silence but the pounding of hoofs, the tinkle of accoutrements. Then,
rounding a sharp projection of earth and rock, the scattered lodges of
the Indian village already partially revealed to those in advance, the
riders were brought to sudden halt by a fierce crackling of rifles from
rock and ravine, an outburst of fire in their faces, the wild,
resounding screech of war-cries, and the scurrying across their front
of dense bodies of mounted warriors, hideous in paint and feathers.
Men fell cursing, and the frightened horses swerved, their riders
struggling madly with their mounts, the column thrown into momentary
confusion. But the surprised cavalrymen, quailing beneath the hot fire
poured into them, rallied to the shouts of their officers, and swung
into a slender battle-front, stretching out their thin line from the
bank of the river to the sharp uplift of the western bluffs. Riderless
horses crashed through them, neighing with pain; the wounded begged for
help; while, with cries of terror, the cowardly Arikara scouts lashed
their ponies in wild efforts to escape. Scarcely one hundred and fifty
white troopers waited to stem as best they might that fierce onrush of
twelve hundred battle-crazed braves.

For an almost breathless space those mingled hordes of Sioux and
Cheyennes hesitated to drive straight home their death-blow. They knew
those silent men in the blue shirts, knew they died hard. Upon that
slight pause pivoted the fate of the day; upon it hung the lives of
those other men riding boldly and trustfully across the sunlit ridges
above. "Audacity, always audacity," that is the accepted motto for a
cavalryman. And be the cause what it may, it was here that Major Reno
failed. In that supreme instant he was guilty of hesitancy, doubt,
delay. He chose defence in preference to attack, dallied where he
should have acted. Instead of hurling like a thunderbolt that handful
of eager fighting men straight at the exposed heart of the foe, making
dash and momentum, discipline and daring, an offset to lack of numbers,
he lingered in indecision, until the observing savages, gathering
courage from his apparent weakness, burst forth in resistless torrent
against the slender, unsupported line, turned his flank by one fierce
charge, and hurled the struggling troopers back with a rush into the
narrow strip of timber bordering the river.

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 _coulees_ 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.

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 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 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.

"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!"

"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 a
moment the gallant troopers of N and D, some on foot, some in saddle,
were rushing up the face of the bluff, their officers leading, the
precious ammunition packs at the centre, all alike scrambling for the
summit, 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 an
exultant cheer back to those below. Panting, breathless from the hard
climb, their carbines spitting fire while the rapidly massing savages
began circling their exposed position, the little band fought their way
forward a hundred yards. Then they halted, blocked by the numbers
barring their path, glancing back anxiously in hope that their effort
would encourage others to join them. They could do it; they could do
it if only the rest of the boys would come. They poured in their
volleys and waited. But Reno made no move. Weir and Brant, determined
to hold every inch thus gained, threw the dismounted men on their faces
behind every projection of earth, and encircled the ridge with flame.
If they could not advance, they would not be driven back. They were
high up now, where they could overlook the numerous ridges and valleys
far around; and yonder, perhaps two miles away, they could perceive
vast bodies of mounted Indians, while the distant sound of heavy firing
was borne faintly to their ears. It was vengeful savages shooting into
the bodies of the dead, but that they did not know. Messenger after
messenger, taking life in hand, was sent skurrying down the bluff, to
beg reinforcements to push on for the rescue, swearing it was possible.
But it was after five o'clock before Reno moved. Then cautiously he
advanced his column toward where N and D Troops yet held desperately to
the exposed ridge. He came too late. That distant firing had ceased,
and all need for further advance had ended. Already vast forces of
Indians, flushed with victory and waving bloody scalps, were sweeping
back across the ridges to attack in force. Scarcely had reinforcements
attained the summit before the torrent of savagery burst screeching on
their front.

From point to point the grim struggle raged, till nightfall wrought
partial cessation. The wearied troopers stretched out their lines so
as to protect the packs and the field hospital, threw themselves on the
ground, digging rifle-pits with knives and tin pans. Not until nine
o'clock did the Indian fire slacken, and then the village became a
scene of savage revel, the wild yelling plainly audible to the soldiers
above. Through the black night Brant stepped carefully across the
recumbent forms of his men, and made his way to the field hospital. In
the glare of the single fire the red sear of a bullet showed clearly
across his forehead, but he wiped away the slowly trickling blood, and
bent 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' ther
time, but he's asleep now, I reckon."

The young officer stood silent, his face pale, his gaze upon the
distant Indian fires. Out yonder were defeat, torture, death, and
to-morrow meant a renewal of the struggle. His heart was heavy with
foreboding, his memory far away with one to whom all this misfortune
might come almost as a death-blow. It was Naida's questioning face
that haunted him; she was waiting for she knew not what.

CHAPTER VIII

THE OLD REGIMENT

By the time Hampton swung up the _coulee_, he had dismissed from his
attention everything but the business that had brought him there. No
lingering thought of Naida, or of the miserable Murphy, was permitted
to interfere with the serious work before him. To be once again with
the old Seventh was itself inspiration; to ride with them into battle
was the chief desire of his heart. It was a dream of years, which he
had never supposed possible of fulfilment, and he rode rapidly forward,
his lips smiling, the sunshine of noonday lighting up his face.

He experienced no fear, no premonition of coming disaster, yet the
reawakened plainsman in him kept him sufficiently wary and cautious.
The faint note of discontent apparent in Brant's concluding
words--doubtless merely an echo of that ambitious officer's dislike at
being put on guard over the pack-train at such a moment--awoke no
response in his mind. He possessed a soldier's proud confidence in his
regiment--the supposition that the old fighting Seventh could be
defeated was impossible; the Indians did not ride those uplands who
could do the deed! Then there came to him a nameless dread, that
instinctive shrinking which a proud, sensitive man must ever feel at
having to face his old companions with the shadow of a crime between.
In his memory he saw once more a low-ceiled room, having a table
extending down the centre, with grave-faced men, dressed in the full
uniform of the service, looking at him amid a silence like unto death;
and at the head sat a man with long fair hair and mustache, his proud
eyes never to be forgotten. Now, after silent years, he was going to
look into those accusing eyes again. He pressed his hand against his
forehead, his body trembled; then he braced himself for the interview,
and the shuddering coward in him shrank back.

He had become wearied of the endless vista of desert, rock, and plain.
Yet now it strangely appealed to him in its beauty. About him were
those uneven, rolling hills, like a vast storm-lashed sea, the brown
crests devoid of life, yet with depressions between sufficient to
conceal multitudes. Once he looked down through a wide cleft in the
face of the bluff, and could perceive the head of the slowly advancing
pack-train far below. Away to the left something was moving, a dim,
shapeless dash of color. It might be Benteen, but of Reno's columns he
could perceive nothing, nor anything of Custer's excepting that broad
track across the prairies marked by his horses' hoofs. This track
Hampton followed, pressing his fresh mount to increased speed,
confident that no Indian spies would be loitering so closely in the
rear of that body of cavalry, and becoming fearful lest the attack
should occur before he could arrive.

He dipped over a sharp ridge and came suddenly upon the rear-guard.
They were a little squad of dusty, brown-faced troopers, who instantly
wheeled into line at sound of approaching hoofs, the barrels of their
lowered carbines glistening in the sun. With a swing of the hand, and
a hoarse shout of "Despatches!" he was beyond them, bending low over
his saddle pommel, his eyes on the dust cloud of the moving column.
The extended line of horsemen, riding in column of fours, came to a
sudden halt, and he raced swiftly on. A little squad of officers,
several of their number dismounted, were out in front, standing grouped
just below the summit of a slight elevation, apparently looking off
into the valley through some cleft In the bluff beyond. Standing among
these, Hampton perceived the long fair hair, and the erect figure clad
in the well-known frontier costume, of the man he sought,--the proud,
dashing leader of light cavalry, that beau ideal of the _sabreur_, the
one he dreaded most, the one he loved best,--Custer. The commander
stood, field-glasses in hand, pointing down into the valley, and the
despatch bearer, reining in his horse, his lips white but resolute,
trotted straight up the slope toward him. Custer wheeled, annoyed at
the interruption, and Hampton swung down from the saddle, his rein
flung across his arm, took a single step forward, lifting his hand in
salute, and held forth the sealed packet.

"Despatches, sir," he said, simply, standing motionless as a statue.

The commander, barely glancing toward him, instantly tore open the long
official envelope and ran his eyes over the despatch amid a hush in the
conversation.

"Gentlemen," he commented to the little group gathered about him, yet
without glancing up from the paper in his hand, "Crook was defeated
over on the Rosebud the seventeenth, and forced to retire. That will
account for the unexpected number of hostiles fronting us up here,
Cook; but the greater the task, the greater the glory. Ah, I thought
as much. I am advised by the Department to keep in close touch with
Terry and Gibbons, and to hold off from making a direct attack until
infantry can arrive in support. Rather late in the day, I take it,
when we are already within easy rifle-shot. I see nothing in these
orders to interfere with our present plans, nor any military necessity
for playing hide and seek all Summer in these hills. That looks like a
big village down yonder, but I have led the dandy Seventh into others
just as large."

He stopped speaking, and glanced up inquiringly into the face of the
silent messenger, apparently mistaking him for one of his own men.

"Where did you get this?"

"Cheyenne, sir."

"What! Do you mean to say you brought it through from there?"

"Silent Murphy carried it as far as the Powder River. He went crazy
there, and I was compelled to strap him. I brought it the rest of the
way."

"Where is Murphy?"

"Back with the pack-train, sir. I got him through alive, but entirely
gone in the head."

"Run across many hostiles in that region?"

"They were thick this side the Rosebud; all bucks, and travelling
north."

"Sioux?"

"Mostly, sir, but I saw one band wearing Cheyenne war-bonnets."

A puzzled look slowly crept into the strong face of the abrupt
questioner, his stern, commanding eyes studying the man standing
motionless before him, with freshly awakened interest. The gaze of the
other faltered, then came back courageously.

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