ame out.

Now and then a Sioux would creep up into shadowy view, but a shot from
a soldier would send him back into hiding. Down in the cottonwoods the
squaws made campfires and were holding a dance, singing their songs of
victory.

Custer warned his men that sleep was death. This was their second
sleepless night, and the men were feverish with fatigue. Some babbled
in strange tongues, and talked with sisters and sweethearts and people
who were not there--reason was tottering.

With Custer was an Indian boy, sixteen years old, "Curley the Crow."
Custer now at about midnight told Curley to strip himself and crawl
out among the Indians, and if possible, get out through the lines and
tell Terry of their position. Several of Custer's men had tried to
reach water, but none came back.

Curley got through the lines--his boldness in mixing with the Indians
and his red skin saving him. He took a long way round and ran to tell
Terry the seriousness of the situation.

Terry was advancing, but was hampered and harassed by Indians for
twenty miles. They fired at him from gullies, ridges, rocks, prairie-dog
mounds, and then retreated. He had to move with caution. Instead of
arriving at daylight as he expected, Terry was three hours behind. The
Indians surrounding Custer saw the dust from the advancing troop.

They hesitated to charge Custer boldly as he lay on the hilltop,
entrenched by little ditches dug in the night with knives, tin cups
and bleeding fingers.

It was easy to destroy Custer, but it meant a dead Sioux for every
white soldier.

The Indians made sham charges to draw Custer's fire, and then
withdrew.

They circled closer. The squaws came up with sticks and stones and
menaced wildly.

Custer's fire grew less and less. He was running out of ammunition.

Terry was only five miles away.

The Indians closed in like a cloud around Custer and his few
survivors.

It was a hand-to-hand fight--one against a hundred.

In five minutes every man was dead, and the squaws were stripping the
mangled and bleeding forms.

Already the main body of Indians was trailing across the plains toward
the mountains.

Terry arrived, but it was too late.

An hour later Reno limped in, famished, half of his men dead or
wounded, sick, undone.

To follow the fleeing Indians was useless--the dead soldiers must be
decently buried, and the living succored. Terry himself had suffered
sore.

The Indians were five thousand strong,