blinded by glint of steel and glare of fire.  The impetus of their rush carried them irresistibly forward; over and through tents they rode, across the bodies of living and dead; men reeled and fell from saddle; riderless horses swept on unguided; revolvers emptied were flung aside, and hands closed hard on sabre hilts.  Foot by foot, yard by yard, they drove the wedge of their charge, until they swept through the fringe of tepees, out into the stampeded pony herd.

The bugle rang again, and they turned, facing back, and charged once more, no longer in close formation, but every trooper fighting as he could.  Complete as the surprise had been, the men of the Seventh realized now the odds against them, the desperate nature of the fight.  Out from the sheltering tepees poured a flood of warriors; rifles in hand they fought savagely.  The screams of women and children, the howling and baying of Indian dogs, the crack of rifles, the wild war cries, all mingled into an indescribable din.  Black Kettle was almost the first to fall, but other chiefs rallied their warriors, and fought like fiends, yielding ground only by inches, until they found shelter amid the trees, and under the river bank.

In the cessation of hand to hand fighting the detachments came together, reforming their ranks, and reloading their arms.  Squads of troopers fired the tepees, and gathering their prisoners under guard, hastened back to the ranks again at the call of the bugle.  By now Custer comprehended his desperate position, and the full strength of his Indian foes.  Fresh hordes were before him, already threatening attack.  Hamlin, bleeding from two flesh wounds, rode in from the left flank where he had been borne by the impetus of the last charge, with full knowledge of the truth.  Their attack had been centred on Black Kettle’s village, but below, a mile or two apart, were other villages, representing all the hostile tribes of the southern plains.  Already these were hurrying up to join those rallying warriors under shelter of the river bank.  Even from where Custer stood at the outskirts of the devastated village he could distinguish the warbonnets of Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Kiowas and Comanches mingled together in display of savagery.

His decision was instant, that of the impetuous cavalry leader, knowing well the inherent strength and weakness of his branch of the service.  He could not hope to hold his position before such a mass of the enemy, with the little force at his disposal.  His only chance of escape, to come off victor, was to strike them so swiftly and with such force as to paralyze pursuit.  Already the reinforcing warriors were sweeping forward to attack, two thousand strong, led fiercely by Little Raven, an Arapahoe; Santanta, a Kiowa, and Little Rock, a Cheyenne.  Dismounting his men he prepared for a desperate resistance, although the troopers’ ammunition was running low.  Suddenly, crashing through the very Indian lines,