Officers and men stared. In the cool glow of twilight the whole village—or what looked to be the whole village—emerged from the concealing smoke and moved away across the bare plateau which had been the pony pasture. An enormous, regular mass they made; no wonder that the Seventh Cavalry battalions had not whipped all this people. “They’re as large as a brigade of the Army of the Potomac, and in as fine order,” pronounced Major Reno, watching from amidst his officers. However, the Indians might be planning a trap. Eighteen dead and fifty-two wounded was the report of Doctor Porter, the surgeon on the bluff. Major Reno did not dare to venture far, but he moved the companies nearer to the river, for the water. Thus night descended upon Monday, June 26, 1876, by the Little Big Horn. Tuesday the third day dawned clear and peaceful. Before, the only moving objects were a few Indian ponies grazing in the bottoms; not an Indian lodge-fire was to be sighted. Now where was Custer? Where was Crook? When could Terry and Gibbon be expected? After breakfast the men might sit about, wary but at ease, except the wounded. The sun floated higher, and the sage shimmered with heat. Scarcely a sound broke the aftermath of battle noise, save as magpies croaked hoarsely. Upon a knoll were sitting also Major Reno and Acting Adjutant Hare and Captain Benteen, and other officers—Ned and his fellow orderlies close at hand. The talk was much upon Custer, and why he did not send word. Some of the officers were impatient with him. But suddenly talk ceased. Major Reno was peering intently through his glass, at the northward. What was that? From the lounging men uprose again a murmur. They were springing to their feet—as sprang to their feet Major Reno and all. “Sound the assembly, trumpeter! To your posts, gentlemen!” ordered the major. Against the mountain-tops far down the course of the crooked, half-hidden river was another spume of dust like a brownish cloud. To the hurrying notes of the “Assembly” by bugle after bugle the men hastened from the river below, seized carbines and crouched again in line. The Indians were coming back! No! The dust did not approach fast enough for Indian riders. It was more like the dust of a cavalry or an infantry march. And yet—if Indians it was, could the bluff hold out against them, another day? Ned felt his heart sink with dread. Evidently Major Reno was doubtful. He pondered, a moment; and wrote rapidly an order. “I want three men to carry this message through,” he said, to Acting Adjutant Hare. “They’re to go as close as possible to that approaching column, and see what it is. If it’s Indians, they’re to pass on and take this word through to Terry at the Big Horn, so that he’ll hurry. If it’s a white column, they are to turn back at once and let us know. You can ask for volunteers from the ranks. Our Indians are no good. I can’t depend on them.”