“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!”

“Attention, D Troop!” It was Weir’s voice, eager and determined now.  Like an undammed current his orders rang out above the uproar, and in a moment the gallant troopers of N and D, some on foot, some in saddle, were rushing up the face of the bluff, their officers leading, the precious ammunition packs at the centre, all alike scrambling for the summit, in spite of the crackling of Indian rifles from every side.  Foot by foot they fought their way forward, sliding and stumbling, until the little blue wave burst out against the sky-line and sent an exultant cheer back to those below.  Panting, breathless from the hard climb, their carbines spitting fire while the rapidly massing savages began circling their exposed position, the little band fought their way forward a hundred yards.  Then they halted, blocked by the numbers barring their path, glancing back anxiously in hope that their effort would encourage others to join them.  They could do it; they could do it if only the rest of the boys would come.