he hill numbered
Adjutant Forbush, Lieutenant Pardee, old Sergeant Schreiber, Corporal
Wilkinson, the four privates of the picket, the general's orderly
private, Scouts Buffalo Bill, Tait and "Chips": twelve in all. They
will charge the thirty Cheyennes; or some of them will.

Alone, Lieutenant King watched, careful to lie flat and poke only his
head over the brow of the hill. Much depended upon him. If he
signaled too soon, the Cheyennes would wheel and escape. If he
signaled too late, they would have passed in front of the hill and
attacked the two couriers.

He waited. On the farther side of the slope Buffalo Bill, Scouts Tait
and "Chips" and the five privates were mounted and set for a charge.
Eight, to turn the Cheyennes! Just behind Lieutenant King were the
general and the two lieutenants of his staff, crouching, ready to
repeat the signal. And behind them were Sergeant Schrieber and
Corporal Wilkinson, on hands and knees, to pass the signal back to
Buffalo Bill, at the base of the hill, and then join the fight or their
company.

The Cheyennes swiftly approached, swerving through the winding ravine,
intent upon striking their unconscious prey. Their feathers, their
pennoned lances, their rifles, their trailing war bonnets, their brass
and silver armlets, their beaded leggins, were plain to Lieutenant
King's field-glasses. He might read the legend painted on the leader's
shield. He let them come.

They were within five hundred yards; they were within three hundred
yards; they were within two hundred yards. He did not need his
glasses, now. He might see them slinging their rifles and poising
their lances. It was to be lance work; they did not wish to alarm the
wagon train with gun-shots. One hundred yards! Half a minute more and
they would be rounding the point where the ravine bordered the hill
slope, and would be upon the two couriers.

Ninety yards--

"Ready, general!"

"All right. When you say."

"Now! Into 'em!"

"Now, men!"

It occurred in an instant. With cheer and thud and scramble Buffalo
Bill's little detachment had spurred from the covert of the hill. The
carbines spoke in a volley. General Merritt is first to the top of the
hill, to gaze; Corporal Wilkinson bounds beside him, takes quick aim
and fires at the Cheyenne leader in the cloud of dust below. The
leader (he is a young chief) had reined his pony in a circle sharply
out and to the left; he notes the group on the