Colonel Custer fought like a Hercules, but nothing could avail against such overwhelming numbers. In the confusion of the onslaught he had accidentally become separated a little from the rest, and although this may have hastened his death a trifle, in the end it made no difference. This gallant man was the next officer to fall. His horse was shot under him, and almost before he had reached the ground fate had overtaken him. His comrade, Colonel Yates, uttered a heavy groan when Custer fell, and as if yet hoping against hope, turned his eyes towards the bluffs above. For once the brave man found himself wishing a fellow officer would commit a breach of discipline, and disobey orders. If Reno came up with the remaining seven companies they might be saved. Alas! the major never came, for about this time he was industriously engaged in defending himself against a horde of savage Sioux. As moment after moment glided away, every spark of hope left the heart of Yates, and clenching his teeth, he turned his full attention upon the scene around him. Indeed, it was enough to appall the stoutest heart to see that little band of brave men hemmed in on all sides by a surging mass of red demons, each one of whom seemed to feel the old desire for human blood so characteristic of the Indian race. It would have been a sight fit for a painter, and yet what artist could do justice to the expression of mingled despair and courage that showed itself upon each face in that noble little band? Ah, me! It was a terrible, terrible half-hour. Men in that gallant Seventh, who had been ordinary mortals before, now proved themselves heroes, and fought like tigers at bay. There is something fearful in the look of a man who has given up every vestige of hope, and fights with that fierce courage born of despair; one can never expect to see it elsewhere. "Boys, we've got to die here. Close up and let every man take half a dozen of these red fiends to eternity with him." It was Captain Smith who yelled this out, and those who knew him best can believe it of the officer. This was not his first Indian fight. He had faced death before, but never would again. Bronzed, bearded faces grew paler than usual, and perhaps some hands shook as the men thought of the loved ones at home. God knows that they had cause to feel this weakness for a moment, when they realized that never again should their eyes behold those dear friends, and that this ravine in which they fought was doomed to be their field of death. "Keep your faces towards the foe!" shouted Colonel Yates, bravely, and to himself he muttered the anxious prayer that could never be answered: "Oh, heavens! that Crook was here, or Andy Burt and the Ninth." But Crook and Gallant Major Burt were far away. The Indians, incited by their chiefs, now prepared for a grand final rush.