A grim smile lit up the ranger's features, as he saw the wild excitement that reigned throughout the camp. "Ther askeered o' Custer; they know him mighty well, but by thunder they mean ter fight. It'll be the biggest Indian fight that this country ever saw, bust my buttons now ef 'twon't. Bolly Wherrit, ye must let t'other matter drop, and sail inter this, fur it'll be full o' glory and death." Alas! how the words of the old ranger came true has been made manifest in a way that has caused the whole country to mourn. Death was fated to ride triumphant in the ravine on the other shore; this valley would see such a red slaughter as the annals of Indian history have seldom presented. Several hours passed on. The warriors were too busy with other matters to even think of their prisoner just then, much less visit his secure quarters, and so Bolly was undisturbed. Noon came and went. The hot sun beat down upon the earth with great fury, but a gentle breeze in the valley did much toward cooling the air on this fatal twenty-fifth of June. All at once the old trapper leaped wildly to his feet; this same light wind had carried to his ear the distant but approaching crash of firearms and the wild yells of opposing forces. His frame quivered and seemed to swell with excitement. "Yaller Har's at work. The best Indian fighter that ever lived hez struck ile. Bolly Wherrit, now's the time fur yer chance at glory. Whoop! hooray!" With this shout the ranger burst out of the lodge like a thunderbolt, and not even giving himself an instant's time for reflection, hurled his body upon a guard who leaned idly against a post, listening to the sounds of battle. CHAPTER III. THE RECKLESS GALLOP IN THE JAWS OF DEATH. A column of mounted men wearing the national colors, and headed by a group of officers, were making their way in a westerly direction. In the advance rode a body of Crow Indians, and on either flank were the scouts of the regiment--over seven hundred in all, and some of the most gallant fighters on the plains. Among that group of officers, every man of whom had honor attached to his name, rode one who seemed conspicuous both for his bearing and peculiar appearance. His form was rather slender, and indeed one might call it womanly, but the face above, with its prominent features, redeemed it from this characteristic. The features themselves might be styled classic in their strange light, having a Danish look. Surmounting this clearly cut face was the well-known yellow hair, worn long on the neck. Such was the gallant Custer. He had always been a dashing cavalry leader, and with Crook and McKenzie rendered the Union efficient service under General Sheridan during the late unpleasantness. The morning was half over when the command was ordered to halt for two reasons.