General Hancock seemed tired of the delays. No halt was made, little was said (except by California Joe, who ambled along as he pleased, discoursing right and left, and to himself); the scouts, in compact body, and the general and staff, led; the troops plodded behind; and at last, toward sunset, in a curve of the stream, before, appeared the crossed poles of many white lodges, welling evening smoke. “Thar’s yore village,” yelled California Joe, to the cavalry which he evidently had adopted. “Three hundred lodges, half Cheyenne, half Sioux. Fine place, too, ain’t it? Plenty wood an’ water an’ grass, an’ those thar bluffs on north an’ west to fend off the wind. Trust an Injun to make a good camp.” An aide came galloping to General Custer. “The compliments of the commanding general, sir, and he directs that the cavalry go into camp on the right, half a mile before reaching the village. Guards will be posted to prevent any communication between the soldiers and the village. It is the general’s desire that the Indians shall not be annoyed by visitors.” “Huh!” grunted California Joe. “Now, if that ain’t the most _con_-siderate gen’ral I ever see. Mustn’t annoy the pore Injun, hey? Wall, I’ll be horn-swoggled!” Little occurred, in camp, during the evening, except that Roman Nose (who indeed was a fine-looking Indian, tall and powerful, broad-chested, and beak-nosed), Grey Bear and Medicine Wolf of the Cheyennes came in, and soon two of them left, mounted on cavalry horses. From the conversation between the general and Lieutenant Moylan, Ned learned that the squaws and children had run from the village, because they feared so many white soldiers; or, at least, thus had claimed the chiefs; and now two of the chiefs had been sent to overtake them and bring them back. The night settled crisp and dark, with the moon hidden by drifting clouds. Not a sound issued from the direction of the Indian village, where dimly gleamed the white skin lodges of the Cheyennes and the Sioux. Ned blew “Tattoo,” and “Taps” for lights out; and the cavalry camp as well as the infantry and artillery camp, went to bed. General Custer’s tent had been pitched by itself, near to General Hancock’s. The little “pup” tent of Ned was beside the tent of the adjutant, Lieutenant Moylan. And all was still. Ned had been sound asleep, in his blankets, when suddenly he was wakened by a voice, speaking low but distinct. “Moylan! Moylan! Oh, Moylan!” “What is it?” and Lieutenant Moylan stirred. “It’s I—Custer. Open up.” “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Moylan hastily arose, and fumbled at the flaps, untying them. Ned peered out, the dim figure of General Custer was just visible.