"For God's sake, Weir, what are
you fellows waiting here for?"
The other uttered a groan, his hand flung in contempt back toward the
bluff summit. "The cowardly fool won't move; he's whipped to death
now."
Brant's jaw set like that of a fighting bulldog.
"Reno, you mean? Whipped? You have n't lost twenty men. Is this the
Seventh--the Seventh?--skulking here under cover while Custer begs
help? Doesn't the man know? Doesn't he understand? By heaven, I 'll
face him myself! I 'll make him act, even if I have to damn him to his
face."
He swung his horse with a jerk to the left, but even as the spurs
touched, Weir grasped the taut rein firmly.
"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.
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