came a four-mule wagon.  The quartermaster was on the box, driving recklessly.  Only Hamlin and a dozen other men were still in saddle.  Without orders they dashed forward, spurring maddened horses into the ranks of the Indians, hurling them left and right, firing into infuriated red faces, and slashing about with dripping sabres.  Into the lane thus formed sprang the tortured mules, sweeping on with their precious load of ammunition.  Behind closed in the squad of rescuers, struggling for their lives amid a horde of savages.  Then, with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue, hurling back the disorganized Indian mass, and dragging their comrades from the rout.  It was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and spear, a fierce, breathless struggle.  Behind eager hands ripped open the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with fire.

Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty, his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse.  Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine.  It was all the work of a moment.  About him were skurrying figures, infuriated faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage.  The three fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at leaping bodies and clutching hands.  Out of the mist, the mad confusion of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the Sergeant.  At first it was a delirium; then it became a reality.  He saw the shagginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face.  All else vanished in a fierce desire to kill.  He leaped forward, crazed with sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his whirling carbine stock crashing at Dupont.  Even as it struck he fell, clutched by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the charging troopers.  Hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring of red.

It was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain.  About them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming mass of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again rallied and consolidated.  Custer did the only thing possible.  Turning loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact command into marching column.  Before the scattered tribes could rally for a second attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating hostiles.  It was a bold and desperate move, the commander’s object being to impress upon the Indian chiefs the thought of his utter fearlessness, and to create the impression that the Seventh would never dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind.  With flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on.  The very mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the warriors, and they broke and fled.  As darkness fell the survivors of the Seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains.