"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!"




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