They went reluctantly back, as helpless as children.
It was four o'clock, the shadows of the western bluffs already
darkening the river bank. Suddenly a faint cheer ran along the lines,
and the men lifted themselves to gaze up the river. Urging the tired
animals to a trot, the strong hand of a trooper grasping every
halter-strap, Brant was swinging his long pack-train up the
smoke-wreathed valley. The out-riding flankers exchanged constant
shots with the skulking savages hiding in every ravine and coulee.
Pausing only to protect their wounded, fighting their way step by step,
N Troop ran the gantlet and came charging into the cheering lines with
every pound of their treasure safe. Weir of D, whose dismounted
troopers held that portion of the line, strode a pace forward to greet
the leader, and as the extended hands of the officers met, there echoed
down to them from the north the reports of two heavy volleys, fired in
rapid succession. The sounds were clear, distinctly audible even above
the uproar of the valley. The heavy eyes of the two soldiers met,
their dust-streaked faces flushed.
"That was a signal, Custer's signal for help!" the younger man cried,
impulsively, his voice full of agony.
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