well the inherent strength and weakness of his branch of the service.
He could not hope to hold his position before such a mass of the enemy,
with the little force at his disposal. His only chance of escape, to
come off victor, was to strike them so swiftly and with such force as
to paralyze pursuit. Already the reinforcing warriors were sweeping
forward to attack, two thousand strong, led fiercely by Little Raven,
an Arapahoe; Santanta, a Kiowa, and Little Rock, a Cheyenne.
Dismounting his men he prepared for a desperate resistance, although
the troopers' ammunition was running low. Suddenly, crashing through
the very Indian lines, came a four-mule wagon. The quartermaster was
on the box, driving recklessly. Only Hamlin and a dozen other men were
still in saddle. Without orders they dashed forward, spurring maddened
horses into the ranks of the Indians, hurling them left and right,
firing into infuriated red faces, and slashing about with dripping
sabres. Into the lane thus formed sprang the tortured mules, sweeping
on with their precious load of ammunition. Behind closed in the squad
of rescuers, struggling for their lives amid a horde of savages. Then,
with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue,
hurling back the disorganized Indian mass, and dragging their comrades
from the rout. It was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and
spear, a fierce, breathless struggle. Behind eager hands ripped open
the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a
second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with
fire.

Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty,
his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through
the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse.
Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine. It was all
the work of a moment. About him were skurrying figures, infuriated