From rock and hill, ridge, ravine, and _coulee_, lashing
their half-crazed ponies, yelling their fierce war-cries, swinging
aloft their rifles, they poured resistlessly forth, sweeping down on
that doomed remnant. On both flanks of the short slender line struck
Gall and Crazy Horse, while like a thunderbolt Crow-King and
Rain-in-the-Face attacked the centre. These three storms converged at
the foot of the little hill, crushing the little band of troopers.
With ammunition gone, the helpless victims could meet that mighty
on-rushing torrent only with clubbed guns, for one instant of desperate
struggle. Shoulder to shoulder, in ever-contracting circle, officers
and men stood shielding their commander to the last. Foot by foot,
they were forced back, treading on their wounded, stumbling over their
dead; they were choked in the stifling smoke, scorched by the flaming
guns, clutched at by red hands, beaten down by horses' hoofs. Twenty
or thirty made a despairing dash, in a vain endeavor to burst through
the red enveloping lines, only to be tomahawked or shot; but the most
remained, a thin struggling ring, with Custer in its centre.
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