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 coöperation 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.




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