By the tracks, Major Elliot was still upon the trail of the village-bound Indians. After reading the pony sign, Little Beaver and his Osages declared that the Indians had passed on their way this very morning. Much relieved, the general ordered a trot; and forward pressed the column, to overtake the major. Dusk descended. Before were visible the outlines of timber, along a stream in a little valley. The general sent ahead a squad of soldiers and scouts, to catch the major and tell him to halt, at wood and water, and to wait. “Tell him not to make camp, but to be ready for a night march when I join him,” added the general. As for the column, at last they were given an hour, for rest and for coffee, and to feed the horses. The zealous Major Elliot had gone further than anybody had expected. Not until nine o’clock at night, and after another hard ride through snow and timber and darkness, finally was he found, waiting as ordered, by a stream with high banks. “An hour for rest, again,” ordered the general, briefly. “Then the moon will be up and we can take the trail. There are to be no bugle calls or other noise. Sound carries far, in this country. The men may make fire for coffee, small ones down under the edges of the banks so that the flames will not show. Send the Osages to me. I want to talk with them.” The Osages were certain that this was a branch of the Washita River, and that the Cheyennes and Kiowas and all had their village not far down stream. The trail seemed to be leading straight for it. But through the half-breed interpreter Little Beaver kept insisting that the soldiers stay here concealed in the timber until daylight, and then march upon the trail again. General Custer snapped his fingers impatiently, and laughed. “That is the Indian way of fighting,” he promptly said. “They hate to attack anybody concealed by the dark or by entrenchments. No, tell Little Beaver that we are going to fight white man’s way, and that we march in one hour, when the moon rises.” This did not seem to satisfy the Osages, who murmured gutturally among themselves. Evidently, like Pawnee Killer, although for different reason, they did not regard any too highly the skill of the white chief, whom they called the Chief with the Long Yellow Hair. The hour passed; the half moon rose; and one by one Captain Hamilton, Colonel Cook, Captain Yates, Captain Smith, Major Bell, and all the other company commanders reported to Adjutant Moylan that their detachments were ready for the march. No bugles were sounded; but in column of fours the eight hundred horsemen rode in dim column down the course of the creek, following the Indian trail so plainly showing in the white snow. Two of the Osages, Hard Rope and a warrior, led, three hundred yards in advance. They were on foot, the better to read sign; with long, silent moccasined tread they stole swiftly across the snow. They saw scalps, to be taken from their hated enemies the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.