Ned did not stay unconscious long. He was half-conscious. He dimly heard the pleading voice of little Mary, he felt her caresses, he was aware that the shots and the shouts and the whoops continued, he felt the throbbing pain of his wound, he felt himself lifted and carried, lax, and deposited again; and he felt a sharper, sickening agony as fingers manipulated the arrow, while a kindly voice soothed him. That must be the surgeon, Dr. Lippincott. He shut his lips firmly, not even to groan. It was the part of the soldier to bear pain; and if he was only a boy, he also was a soldier. A “snip” sounded, upon the arrow, and for a moment the shock was almost too much to stand. Then the shaft was gently but firmly slipped from the hole. The surgeon had cut off the head and had drawn the arrow out backward, for the point was of course barbed.
“You’ll do nicely, my lad,” spoke the surgeon. “It’s only a flesh wound. It followed outside the skull. Good!”
Soft touch applied a bandage.
“Can’t you see, Ned? Please see!” implored little Mary.
[216]
Ned rallied and opened his one eye. He was bolstered up, on a heap of buffalo-robes. Mary was trying to hug him. He hugged Mary. They were in an open space amidst the tipis, where the field hospital had been established. Around-about them were other wounded soldiers. Colonel Barnitz was lying near, as pale as if dead. Doctor Lippincott and his assistants were busy here and there.
The rattle of rifle and carbine, the quick orders, the defiant yells, betokened desperate battle. The strains of “Garryowen” sounded wild and inspiring, as the band, posted on a little knoll by the village, played on and on. But higher, more piercing, penetrating all the clamor, not unlike the howl of wolves rose an incessant chant—the mourning wail of sorrowing squaws.
The charge had been successful. The troops had the village. Now the surrounding hills were alive with Indians; the soldiers were in the center; and the day was not yet noon.
Rapidly came the news, brought in by the wounded, or drifting in hap-hazard from hurrying fighters. Captain Hamilton had been killed—shot through the heart in battle, just as he had desired as a soldier’s end. Bluff Colonel Alfred Barnitz was desperately wounded by a ball through the body. Lieutenant Colonel Tom Custer had been wounded, and Lieutenant March. Nothing had been seen, since the first[217] attack, of Major Elliot or Sergeant-Major Kennedy. Black Kettle and Chief Little Rock were slain. Major Benteen had encountered Black Kettle’s young son, not fourteen years of age, and after being fired upon repeatedly by him and having his horse shot under him, had been obliged to shoot back and kill the gallant young warrior. Squaws and children had fought wickedly, helping the warriors. One squaw, fleeing with a captive little white boy, had stabbed him rather than surrender him. She had been shot down at once; but too late. Romeo the interpreter had gathered the captive squaws into a large tipi, and California Joe had herded nine hundred ponies. This was the Cheyenne village, with a few Arapaho and Sioux tipis in it. But one of the squaws had informed the general (who was unharmed) that below the Cheyenne village extended for ten miles the villages of the Kiowas and of the Comanches, more Cheyennes, the Arapahos, and some Apaches. Aroused by runners and by the noise of conflict, these warriors were rallying by the hundreds to the attack and the rescue.
Captain Smith came riding hastily through; by the motions of his hand he was counting the tipis; and he was in a hurry because every now and then some angry squaw shot at him.
“Fifty-one,” he called, to an orderly.
General Custer himself appeared, flushed and energetic, on Dandy plashed with froth and frozen mud and water.
[218]
“Hello,” he cried, at sight of Ned. “Hurt?”
“Yes, sir,” and Ned tried to salute.
“Bullet?”
“No, sir. Arrow.”
“It didn’t go through his head,” piped little Mary, bravely. “It just stuck there.”
“I’ve found my sister, sir,” informed Ned, eager to let him know.
“Good!” And the busy general turned to other matters. His eagle glance measured the hospital. “You must get ready to move out of here, doctor,” he said. “We sha’n’t stay.”
“All right, general.”
And the Yellow Hair dashed away.
More and more Indians were gathering upon the ridges around the village. The head-dresses of the warriors could be seen. Word came that the overcoats and the haversacks which had been left by the center column when it advanced were captured and that the guard was obliged to scud hard for escape. Blucher the stag-hound had run out among the Indians, thinking that they were yelling for a hunt; and now he stiffened up there, with an arrow through him. Maida had not been hurt.
That was bad, to lose the overcoats and the haversacks of rations—although of course here in the village was plenty of furs and food. But what of the supply train, which Lieutenant Mathey was bringing on? From the hills the Indians would soon sight it, and[219] while a thousand of them fought the cavalry, another thousand would attack the eighty men guarding the wagons.
The warriors surrounding the village did not seem ready to storm it and retake it; while a circle of the troopers, dismounted, kept them at long range, field squads sought among the tipis for the dead and the wounded on both sides.
A lull had occurred in the fighting. Now 200 soldiers were set at work heaping high the plunder from the tipis, and tearing the tipis down, to burn them. General Custer, in plain view, on restless Dandy, delivering rapid orders right and left to his aides, received report of the battle results.
There were 875 ponies and mules; 241 saddles, some (as could be seen in the pile gathered) very finely decorated; 573 dressed buffalo robes—some of these, also, very fine; 390 lodge hides; 160 raw robes, untanned; thirty-five bows, thirty-five revolvers, forty-seven rifles, 360 axes and hatchets, twelve shields, seventy-five lances, ninety bullet molds, thirty-five pounds of powder, 1050 pounds of lead, 300 pounds of bullets, 4000 arrows and arrow-heads, 470 Government blankets, ninety-three coats, 775 hide lariats or picket-ropes, 940 skin saddle-bags, 700 pounds of tobacco, and moccasins and dried meat and flour and so forth.
One hundred and three Indians had been killed, including sixteen chiefs; three squaws and a boy and[220] two girls had been wounded; fifty-three were prisoners. Captain Hamilton had been killed, and three other soldiers; Colonel Barnitz, Colonel Tom Custer, Lieutenant March, and eleven men wounded; Major Elliot and Sergeant-Major Kennedy and fourteen men were still missing. It was rumored that they had pursued some Indians escaping down the stream.
After a few things had been picked out, to keep, the piles of lodges and belongings were set on fire. At sight of the flames, from the Indians upon the hills swelled a great cry of rage, and down they came, in party after party, charging the cavalry lines. The general ordered his mounted squadrons to charge back. Outfought, the Indians were forced to open a way wherever led the guidons. Thus breathing space was again given.
The whole column was being put in marching formation. The hospital had been broken—when now from the column’s rear sounded sharp volleys, and continued heavy firing.
An attack? Or was it Major Elliot and men cutting their way through to join their comrades? Or was it the supply train, in peril? No. Swiftly passed the word that the general had directed that all the captured ponies and mules be shot, except those needed to carry the prisoners. Eight hundred were being killed, by four companies detailed to do the firing.
[221]
This was cruel, but necessary in war. What could the column do, with all those wild ponies and mules? The Indians would fight fiercely to retake them; the Indians would be badly crippled, without them. So the general had set his heart hard, and had given the order. When the firing ceased, all the column was glad, for k............