As young “Autie” was sound asleep in his own blanket, Ned, like other men in the ranks, did not know precisely what the officers had talked about. But at 11.30 the silent reveille—which was touch of hand and low word by the sergeants and corporals—was “sounded,” and by column of fours the regiment rode out through the dusty dusk; the train of pack mules followed. It was slow going. Long after midnight the command to halt was passed down the column; and presently was it known that the scouts claimed they could not guide them any further across the divide until daylight. Everybody waited. Daylight was near. In about an hour the east began to brighten; in another hour there was light enough for making coffee. Carrying a message, from Captain Benteen, Ned had another glimpse of “Autie,” who was going back to the horse herd. “Hello,” hailed “Autie.” “You ought to have been there! Uncle Autie and the Injun scouts have been talking, and Bloody Knife said to the others: ‘We’ll find enough Sioux to keep us all fighting two or three days.’ And Uncle Autie just smiled and said: ‘Oh, I guess we’ll get through with them in one day!’ Those Rees are awful scared. It’s going to be a big battle, I bet. I wonder if we’ll fight on Sunday. I’ve got to tend to my horses. Good-by.” The sun was well up. It was a glorious June day; and it was the 25th, or Sunday, as “Autie” had remarked. Pretty soon, while the troops were still waiting and resting and wondering, the general came riding down the column. He was bareback, on Vic. His face was aglow, under his broad-brimmed hat, his yellow hair and tawny moustache shone, but his blue eyes were weary and puckered, with a trace of worry. “We march at eight o’clock, Benteen,” he directed, to the captain. “The scouts have spied the location of the Indian camp about fifteen miles ahead, over on the Little Horn. A lot of smoke and ‘heap ponies.’ Varnum reports they passed some bodies, on Sioux scaffolding. Let me have Fletcher as my orderly.” “All right, sir,” responded Captain Benteen; and the general trotted on. At a nod from the captain, Ned made haste to mount and follow. “Probably we approach as close as we can, to reconnoiter; and early in the morning we’ll attack,” was remarking to the captain Lieutenant Gibson, as Ned sped away. “There can’t be more than twelve or fifteen hundred. We can trim that number easy,” was the answer. Who was there to tell that over the ridge, well concealed in the crooked valley of the Little Big Horn, lay in one great village—another village like the village on the Washita, only larger—the allied bands of the Oglalas, the Minneconjous, the Sans Arc or Bowless, the Brules or Burnt Thighs, the Hunkpapas, the Blackfeet, the Northern Cheyennes: 15,000 Indians, with at least 3000 of them fighters well-armed and commanded by wise Gall and other mighty chiefs. The flower of the Sioux nation, they feared no white soldiers. They asked only to be let alone.