“Fine! Fine!” declared General Custer, peering out. “Just what we want.” “Well, we’ve got it, then,” assured the adjutant, snow-covered. So they were off, willy-nilly, thought Ned. It was just daylight when at the word from the adjutant he blew “Boots and Saddles.” The notes not only set the cavalry into action, but seemed to awaken all the camp; for tents were thrown open and officers and men of the infantry and the volunteers poked out their heads. The general went galloping across to the tent of General Sheridan. “Is that you, Custer? What do you think about the storm?” The words of General Sheridan issued muffled but plain, into the driving flakes. “Just the thing, general,” answered so buoyantly “Old Curly.” “We can move but the Indians can’t. I’d ask nothing better than a week of this.” “Good-by, old fellow. Take care of yourself,” called from the door of his tent Lieutenant Taylor, an aide, as General Custer galloped back. Wrapped in a huge buffalo-robe, Lieutenant Taylor looked like a chief. The general waved at him. “To horse,” sounded Ned. The troopers, misty in the storm, stood ready. “Prepare to mount!” was shouted the order. “Mount! By fours—right! For-r’d—march!” All along the line of tents hands waved and voices called, for good-by and good luck, as in column of fours out at a walk rode the Seventh Cavalry, eleven companies, 800 men, bound against the storm and the Indians. Bravely blared the band, playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” General Custer wore a round wolf-fur cap with ear-tabs, fur mittens, and on his feet great buffalo-hide over-shoes with the hair inside. That was trapper style. His double-breasted cavalry overcoat kept his body warm. The whole command was dressed after any fashion that would be comfortable. California Joe was rigged as customary in his old slouch hat tied down scoop-shape, on his hands were enormous buffalo-hide mittens, on his feet hide shoes like the general’s. The Osages, who were taken, sat stiffly with their buffalo robes projecting above their heads, behind. Hard Rope shivered and shook, and murmured plaintively. “What’s he saying?” queried the general, of the interpreter. “He says it’s bad for an old man to be alone in cold weather, and he will capture a Cheyenne squaw to keep his back warm,” explained the interpreter. But the scouts were soon out of hearing and out of sight. They were supposed to take the advance, so as to read sign and guide the column to the next camping place, fifteen miles. After them trailed the long column of snow-covered troopers and horses, with the baggage wagons toiling at the rear. Behind the wagons rode a troop as guard. The scouts knew where the trail of the hostile war party had been crossed, but the snow concealed it and all landmarks. And still the snow fell, until when after the fifteen miles march (which required all day) the column went into camp the chill white mantle was eighteen inches thick.