faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage. The three
fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at
leaping bodies and clutching hands. Out of the mist, the mad confusion
of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the Sergeant.
At first it was a delirium; then it became a reality. He saw the
shagginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face. All else
vanished in a fierce desire to kill. He leaped forward, crazed with
sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his
whirling carbine stock crashing at Dupont. Even as it struck he fell,
clutched by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the
charging troopers. Hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and
breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring
of red.

It was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain. About
them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming
mass of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again
rallied and consolidated. Custer did the only thing possible. Turning
loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact
command into marching column. Before the scattered tribes could rally
for a second attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the
cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating
hostiles. It was a bold and desperate move, the commander's object
being to impress upon the Indian chiefs the thought of his utter
fearlessness, and to create the impression that the Seventh would never
dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind. With
flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on. The very
mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the
warriors, and they broke and fled. As darkness fell the survivors of
the Seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains.