Custer now realized that he was caught in a trap.  The ridge where his men lay face down was half a mile long, and not more than twenty feet across at the top.  The Indians were everywhere—­in the gullies, in the grass, in little scooped-out holes.  The bullets whizzed above the heads of Custer’s men as they lay there, flattening their bodies in the dust.

The morning sun came out, dazzling and hot.

It was only nine o’clock.

The men were without food and without water.  The Little Big Horn danced over its rocky bed and shimmered in the golden light, only half a mile away, and there in the cool, limpid stream they had been confident they would now swim and fish, the battle over, while they proudly held the disarmed Indians against General Terry’s coming.

But the fight had not been won, and death lay between them and water.  The only thing to do was to await Reno or Terry.  Reno might come at any time, and Terry would arrive without fail at tomorrow’s dawn—­he had said so, and his word was the word of a soldier.

Custer had blundered.

The fight was lost.

Now it was just a question of endurance.  Noon came, and the buzzards began to gather in the azure.

The sun was blistering hot—­there was not a tree, nor a bush, nor a green blade of grass within reach.

The men had ceased to joke and banter.  The situation was serious.  Some tried to smoke, but their parching thirst was thus only aggravated—­they threw their pipes away.

The Indians now kept up an occasional shooting.

They were playing with the soldiers as a cat plays with a mouse.

The Indian is a cautious fighter—­he makes no sacrifices in order to win.  Now he had his prey secure.

Soon the soldiers would run out of ammunition, and then one more day, or two at least, and thirst and fatigue would reduce brave men into old women, and the squaws could rush in and pound them on the head with clubs.

The afternoon dragged along its awful length.  Time dwindled and dawdled.

At last the sun sank, a ball of fire in the West.

The moon came out.

Now and then a Sioux would creep up into shadowy view, but a shot from a soldier would send him back into hiding.  Down in the cottonwoods the squaws made campfires and were holding a dance, singing their songs of victory.

Custer warned his men that sleep was death.  This was their second sleepless night, and the men were feverish with fatigue.  Some babbled in strange tongues, and talked with sisters and sweethearts and people who were not there—­reason was tottering.

With Custer was an Indian boy, sixteen years old, “Curley the Crow.”  Custer now at about midnight told Curley to strip himself and crawl out among the Indians, and if possible, get out through the lines and tell Terry of their position.  Several of Custer’s men had tried to reach water, but none came back.