It was an old trick of the Seventh, and not a
man in saddle ever dreamed the plan could fail.
A half-mile, a mile, Reno's troops rode, with no sound breaking the
silence but the pounding of hoofs, the tinkle of accoutrements. Then,
rounding a sharp projection of earth and rock, the scattered lodges of
the Indian village already partially revealed to those in advance, the
riders were brought to sudden halt by a fierce crackling of rifles from
rock and ravine, an outburst of fire in their faces, the wild,
resounding screech of war-cries, and the scurrying across their front
of dense bodies of mounted warriors, hideous in paint and feathers.
Men fell cursing, and the frightened horses swerved, their riders
struggling madly with their mounts, the column thrown into momentary
confusion. But the surprised cavalrymen, quailing beneath the hot fire
poured into them, rallied to the shouts of their officers, and swung
into a slender battle-front, stretching out their thin line from the
bank of the river to the sharp uplift of the western bluffs. Riderless
horses crashed through them, neighing with pain; the wounded begged for
help; while, with cries of terror, the cowardly Arikara scouts lashed
their ponies in wild efforts to escape.
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