CHAPTER V.

HOW THE COMMAND PAID FOR IMMORTALITY.

Their valiant leader lying dead upon the ground, and men continually dropping on all sides, the remnant of the officers saw that the game was up. There was not one chance in a thousand for their escape, and the only thing that was left to them was to fight to the last gasp, to "pile the field with Moslem slain," and die as did Bowie and his friends at the Alamo, with the bodies of their enemies forming a breast-high bulwark around them.

"Down with the redfiends!"

It was brave Colonel Cook's last words, for hardly had he spoken before a lance knocked the red sword from his hand. Eager hands seemed to clutch at him on all sides, and in an instant he had disappeared, being pulled down among that surging crowd of savage devils.

Colonel Custer fought like a Hercules, but nothing could avail against such overwhelming numbers. In the confusion of the onslaught he had accidentally become separated a little from the rest, and although this may have hastened his death a trifle, in the end it made no difference. This gallant man was the next officer to fall. His horse was shot under him, and almost before he had reached the ground fate had overtaken him.

His comrade, Colonel Yates, uttered a heavy groan when Custer fell, and as if yet hoping against hope, turned his eyes towards the bluffs above. For once the brave man found himself wishing a fellow officer would commit a breach of discipline, and disobey orders. If Reno came up with the remaining seven companies they might be saved. Alas! the major never came, for about this time he was industriously engaged in defending himself against a horde of savage Sioux.

As moment after moment glided away, every spark of hope left the heart of Yates, and clenching his teeth, he turned his full attention upon the scene around him.

Indeed, it was enough to appall the stoutest heart to see that little band of brave men hemmed in on all sides by a surging mass of red demons, each one of whom seemed to feel the old desire for human blood so characteristic of the Indian race.

It would have been a sight fit for a painter, and yet what artist could do justice to the expression of mingled despair and courage that showed itself upon each face in that noble little band?

Ah, me! It was a terrible, terrible half-hour. Men in that gallant Seventh, who had been ordinary mortals before, now proved themselves heroes, and fought like tigers at bay.

There is something fearful in the look of a man who has given up every vestige of hope, and fights with that fierce courage born of despair; one can never expect to see it elsewhere.

"Boys, we've got to die here. Close up and let every man take half a dozen of these red fiends to eternity with him."

It was Captain Smith who yelled this out, and those who knew him best can believe it of the officer.

This was not his first Indian fight.

He had faced death before, but never would again.

Bronzed, bearded faces grew paler than usual, and perhaps some hands shook as the men thought of the loved ones at home.

God knows that they had cause to feel this weakness for a moment, when they realized that never again should their eyes behold those dear friends, and that this ravine in which they fought was doomed to be their field of death.

"Keep your faces towards the foe!" shouted Colonel Yates, bravely, and to himself he muttered the anxious prayer that could never be answered:

"Oh, heavens! that Crook was here, or Andy Burt and the Ninth."

But Crook and Gallant Major Burt were far away.

The Indians, incited by their chiefs, now prepared for a grand final rush.

Mr. Read, who had accompanied the expedition, was down; Colonel Keogh had vanished a long time before, and just at this critical juncture Captain Smith threw up his arms, and after reeling for an instant in his saddle, slipped to the ground.

Yates saw that the closing scene was at hand.

"Close up, men, close up! For God's sake, let every man keep his face towards them! The old Seventh will become famous!" he exclaimed.

Yes, indeed, famous at the dear cost of the utter extermination of almost half its number.

A yell, such as might have made the earth tremble, and the whole mass of warriors, mounted and on foot, came against the solid little phalanx like an avalanche.

Had the rush been from one quarter alone, the remnant of cavalry would have been swept out of existence like a flash, scattered here and there among their enemies; but as the press came from all sides at once, it only served to crush them closer together.

In union there is always strength.

Had the hundred cavalrymen now left been divided into small groups, they would have been all killed before ten minutes had passed by, but in a solid body they could resist for over half an hour.

Pandy Ellis was in the thick of it.

His blood was thoroughly aroused, and I doubt if any man in that ill-fated command killed half as many red-skins as did this gray-haired ranger.

When his rifle and pistols were empty, he slung the former to his back very coolly, and then, drawing the huge bowie-knife that had given him the name of Heavy Knife, he sailed in to conquer or die. Experienced in these matters, he had foreseen such a catastrophe, although even his vivid imagination had failed to paint such a serious calamity.

Pandy had expected to be forced into a retreat, but such a thing as having the whole command utterly annihilated never entered his head, until they were pushed into the ravine trap.

Even when he was fighting in the midst of the red-skins, a thought of the strange boy who had so suddenly disappeared among them, entered his head.

Custer had called him Mason, and seemed to feel some affection for him.

Pandy's eyes soon fell upon him. He had the general's revolver in his hand, and was seated on his horse, engaged in emptying it with commendable precision, making every shot tell.

When the ranger looked again, a few moments later, the boy had disappeared.

"Poor feller, he's done fur; an' yet it'll likely be ther fate o' us all," muttered Pandy, as he drove his keen blade home in the broad breast of a brave.

At such a dread time as this the eye of a participant could not take in the entire scene.

All that Pandy was sure of after Cooke fell pierced by many wounds, was that every member of that heroic band fought as if the strength and endurance of a dozen men was in his body.

For every blue-coat who fell, at least two Indians bit the dust.

Although the fight had grown more silent, now that nearly all the firearms were discharged, it was none the less deadly on that account.

Sabers, red with human gore, were flashed in the sun's bright rays, and urged to their deadly work by arms that seemed iron in their endurance.

Lances, tomahawks and keen knives opposed them, and now and then a rifle added its weight to the side of the Indians.

On each occasion, some poor fellow would totter in his saddle, and finding himself going, show the spirit that imbued his nature by making a last sweeping blow at the enemy who held such a tight grip on them all.

It was horrible to see how that devoted little band continually diminished in numbers.

There were hardly forty left now, and in ten minutes these had become less than twenty. The end was near at hand.

Yates still lived, although the only commissioned officer.

His face was very white, and streaked with blood, so that old Pandy, still fighting like a hero, hardly recognized the man who touched his arm.

"Old friend, try to escape and carry the news to Crook and Reno. If you succeed, tell them to let my folks know how I died, and that my last were of them. The old seventh has made a record that----"

It was never finished; the fatal bullet came, and as brave a man as ever presented his face to the foe succumbed to the inevitable.

Pandy seemed to hesitate an instant, then his powder-begrimed face lit up.

"I'll do it, bust my buttons. Might az wal die tryin' it az hyar. Good-bye, boys; I'm in fur death, or ter carry ther news ter Crook. Nancy, away wid ye," and the knife point sent the animal bounding among the Indians.

Ten minutes later and all was over. The ravine looked like a slaughter-pen in the daylight, and even when the Sioux, glutted with blood, searched among the heaps of slain for any who might live, the sun sank out of sight as if ashamed to look upon such a horrid scene, and a merciful darkness hurried to close over the ravine of death.