At the first sight of dawn Hamlin was sent down the line to arouse them.  Overcoats were taken off, and strapped to the saddles, carbines loaded and slung, pistols examined and loosened in their holsters, saddles recinched, and curb chains carefully looked after.  This was the work of but a few moments, the half-frozen soldiers moving with an eagerness that sent the hot blood coursing fiercely through numbed limbs.  To the whispered command to mount, running from lip to lip along the line, the men sprang joyously into their saddles, their quickened ears and eager eyes ready for the signal.

Slowly, at a walk, Custer led them forward toward the crest of the hill, where the Osage guide watched through the spectral light of dawn the doomed village beneath.  To the uplift of a hand the column halted, and Custer and his bugler went forward.  A step behind crouched the Sergeant, grasping the reins of three horses, while a little to the right, beyond the sweep of the coming charge, waited the regimental band.

Peering over the crest, the leader saw through the dim haze, scarcely five hundred yards distant, dotting the north bank of the Washita for more than a quarter of a mile, the Indian village.  There was about it scarcely a sign of human life.  From the top of two or three of the tepees light wreaths of smoke floated languidly out on the wintry air, and beyond the pony herd was restlessly moving.  Even as he gazed, half convinced that the Indians had been warned, the village deserted, the sharp report of a rifle rang out in the distance.

Hamlin saw the General spring upright, his lips uttering the sharp command, “Sound the charge!” Even while the piercing blare of the bugle cut the frosty air, there was a jingle of steel as the troopers behind spurred forward.  Almost at the instant the three dismounted men were in saddle.  Custer waved his hand at the band, shouted “Play!” and to the rollicking air of “Garry Owen,” the eager column of horsemen broke into a mad gallop, and with ringing cheers and mighty rush, swept over the ridge straight down into the startled village.  To Hamlin, at Custer’s side, reins in his teeth, a revolver in either hand, what followed was scarcely a memory.  It remained afterward as a blurred, indistinct picture of action, changing so rapidly as to leave no definite outlines.  He heard the answering call of three bugles; the deafening thud of horses’ hoofs; the converging cheers of excited troopers; the mingling ring of revolver shots; a sharp order cleaving the turmoil; the wild neigh of a stricken horse; the guttural yells of Indians leaping from their tepees into the open.  Then he was in the heart of the village, firing with both hands; before him, about him, half-naked savages fighting desperately, striking at him with knives, firing from the shelter of tepees, springing at him with naked hands in a fierce effort to drag him from the saddle.  It was all confusion, chaos, a babble of noise, his eyes