Safe beyond range of the troopers’ light carbines, the Indians, with their heavier rifles, kept hurling a constant storm of lead, hugging the gullies, and spreading out until there was no rear toward which the harassed cavalrymen could turn for safety.  One by one, continually under a heavy fire, the scattered troops were formed into something more nearly resembling a battle line—­Calhoun on the left, then Keogh, Smith, and Yates, with Tom Custer holding the extreme right.  The position taken was far from being an ideal one, yet the best possible under the circumstances, and the exhausted men flung themselves down behind low ridges, seeking protection from the Sioux bullets, those assigned to the right enjoying the advantage of a somewhat higher elevation.  Thus they waited grimly for the next assault.

Nor was it long delayed.  Scarcely had the troopers recovered, refilled their depleted cartridge belts from those of their dead comrades, when the onslaught came.  Lashing their ponies into mad gallop, now sitting erect, the next moment lying hidden behind the plunging animals, constantly screaming their shrill war-cries, their guns brandished in air, they swept onward, seeking to crush that thin line in one terrible onset.  But they reckoned wrong.  The soldiers waited their coming.  The short, brown-barrelled carbines gleamed at the level in the sunlight, and then belched forth their message of flame into the very faces of those reckless horsemen.  It was not in flesh and blood to bear such a blow.  With screams of rage, the red braves swerved to left and right, leaving many a dark, war-bedecked figure lying dead behind them, and many a riderless pony skurrying over the prairie.  Yet their wild ride had not been altogether in vain; like a whirlwind they had struck against Calhoun on the flank, forcing his troopers to yield sullen ground, thus contracting the little semicircle of defenders, pressing it back against that central hill.  It was a step nearer the end, yet those who fought scarcely realized its significance.  Exultant over their seemingly successful repulse, the men flung themselves again upon the earth, their cheers ringing out above the thud of retreating hoofs.

“We can hold them here, boys, until Reno comes,” they shouted to each other.

The skulking red riflemen crept ever closer behind the ridges, driving their deadly missiles into those ranks exposed in the open.  Twice squads dashed forth to dislodge these bands, but were in turn driven back, the line of fire continually creeping nearer, clouds of smoke concealing the cautious marksmen lying prone in the grass.  Custer walked up and down the irregular line, cool, apparently unmoved, speaking words of approval to officers and men.  To the command of the bugle they discharged two roaring volleys from their carbines, hopeful that the combined sound might reach the ears of the lagging Reno.  They were hopeful yet, although one troop had only a sergeant left in command, and the dead bodies of their comrades strewed the plain.