“Yes, I know him. He’s a short, heavy-set Injun, with a broad homely mug, and brown hair and light complexion pock-marked up. Only Injun I ever saw having brown hair. His Sioux name is Ta-tan-kah-yo-tan-kah. He’s an Unkpapa, and his name as a boy was Jumping Badger, until he counted a coup on a Crow carcass and took his father’s name. He’s not a chief, or son of a chief except a subchief, but he’s the smartest Sioux living. The war chiefs don’t think much of him. His specialty is making medicine and guessing at what’ll happen. He’s a good guesser, too. And he sure can read human character.” “Won’t he fight?” “Oh, he’s done some fighting, Injun fashion. Up at Buford (Fort Buford) they’ve got an old roster of the Thirty-first Infantry, that belonged to Sitting Bull and that another Injun stole from him. He’d pictured it full of himself and his killings and stealings. So he’s been a warrior; but among the other Injuns he ranks as big medicine and not as a man like Crazy Horse or Gall or Red Cloud; except that he hates the whites and always will, I reckon.” “Do you know Crazy Horse, too, Charley?” “Yes, I know Crazy Horse. He’s an Oglala Sioux, but his band are mostly northern Cheyennes. Crazy Horse is a fighter, all right. You can bet on that. Chief Gall is their general, though. Next to him is Crow King. If we have a fight, it will be Gall and Crow King and Crazy Horse doing the planning, and Sitting Bull doing the prophesying, urging ’em on.” “We can beat them, anyhow.” This was the confident voice of Boston Custer. “Bos” had been appointed forage-master, so now he counted himself a member of the regiment, and was proud of the fact. He liked to mix with the soldiers, sometimes, and be one of them, even if his brother was the commanding officer. “Maybe so, maybe not,” mused Charley Reynolds, soberly. “That Bad Lands country is a terror to cross. Those Injuns are better armed than the soldiers, too; with Springfields and Winchesters and Remingtons that they’re getting direct from the agencies—along with plenty supplies. When you run up against those Sioux, son, you’ll know you’ve been in a scrimmage.” The weeks passed. By the first of February the Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse bands had not come in upon the reservation, and evidently they did not intend to come in. One day appeared at Fort Lincoln old Isaiah, a negro interpreter who had married a Sioux wife and lived at the Standing Rock agency. “Well, Isaiah, where are the rest of your Injuns?” hailed a soldier. “Who you mean?” demanded Isaiah. “Sitting Bull.” “Didn’t you get his word?” retorted Isaiah. “He say to the soldiers: ‘Come on. Needn’t bring any guides. You can find me easy. I won’t run away.’ That is so, because my squaw tell me, an’ she know.” XXII OUT AGAINST THE SIOUX