Up and down the line of mounted warriors were riding the war chiefs gesturing and talking, as if keeping their men in order. But General Hancock had not been idle. Instantly his aides had spurred to right and to left, bearing his commands. The infantry and artillery bugles pealed shrill; and on came the aide to instruct the cavalry. Pulling his yellow moustache, General Custer waited impatiently.
Arriving, the aide (he was a young lieutenant) reined his horse to its haunches, and saluted.
“The commanding general sends his compliments, sir, and directs that the cavalry form line of battle on the right.”
“Troops right front into line. Two troops in reserve,” spoke the general, instantly, to his adjutant, Lieutenant Moylan; and he nodded at Ned to blow the call. His blue eyes were flaming; he looked happy. Away spurred Lieutenant Moylan, down the column of fours, bearing the orders. Bugle after bugle took up the strain. Out to right trotted the fours, extending the cavalry front, by troop after troop, until six were on the line. Two composed a second line, as a reserve.
The infantry also had double-quicked into company front, and company after company had come upon the battle line. Into the center had wheeled at a gallop the artillery, and had unlimbered.
With rattle and thud the long Springfield breech-loaders remodeled from the muzzle-loaders of the Civil War came to a “load,” and prepared for the “aim, fire.”
“Draw—sabres!” The general’s voice rang high.
With rasp of steel six hundred sabres flashed in the morning sun.
Recalled by one of the aides, the scouts had slowly ridden back, the Delawares especially being reluctant to leave the fore. As they passed, General Custer called out, to Wild Bill:
“Looks peculiar,” answered Wild Bill, jogging on. He was not a man of many words. But California Joe neglected no opportunity to talk, and obligingly pausing, in front of the cavalry, from his mule he took up the conversation.
“If we do fight it’s goin’ to be the gol-durndest fracas ever you got into. Those Injuns seem to think they can whip the hull Yewnited States army. An Injun’ll beat a white man runnin’, every time, so I ’spect our best holt is fittin’; but marcy on us, look at ’em! Thar ain’t ’nough of us to go half round. It’s a big thing, I tell ’ee, an’ if we lick those varmints we got to get up an’ dust. Mebbe it won’t be fittin’; mebbe it’ll be jest wipin’ ’em out. But they got a powerful lot o’ weepons, furnished ’em by the Injun department to kill soldiers with. See those rifles, will ye? They’ll outshoot these hyar sawed-off carbines o’ yourn. Well, reckon I’ll jine the infantry,” and still maundering on California Joe leisurely rode through an interval, and posted himself elsewhere. His voice, amiably addressing all around him, never ceased; but nobody longer paid attention to him. The crisis was too acute, when two such lines, of the red and of the white, in battle array faced one another.