Now they struck the first trees, bordering the stream and housing the sprinkling of tipis on this side. Out from the tipis were bursting men and women—the men half naked, weapons in their grasp, the women scurrying with their frightened children. They saw the galloping line of blue, and swerved for shelter of tree and stream. The Indian rifles cracked venomously into the very faces of the horses. Ned thought that he saw, with the corner of his eye, Captain Hamilton pitch sideways from his saddle. But the Custer revolver, and the revolvers of his companions jetted smoke, and with a roar the carbines of the troopers drowned every noise, almost every thought save the thought of fight. Back were swept the Indians—warriors dodging, women and children fleeing. Driven from their white lodges, many warriors were standing waist-deep in the frozen stream; others fought from cover of the high bank; others from the trees and the brush. It was hot, fast work. Even the squaws were using rifle and bow. Some fell, like the warriors, shot down in the act of bitter defence. It could not be avoided. Ned fired right and left, but whether he hit anybody he did not know. Now the line was well into the first collection of tipis, and at the stream. On the other side the battle was raging fiercely; and into the stream plunged the reckless squadron, their line disorganized but still resistless. Among the tipis opposite reared a single tipi of black, which must be the tipi of the chief, old Black Kettle. But old Black Kettle was lying stark, shot down by the rapidly riding Koom-la-Manche. The battle had developed into a fight-at-will—into quick shooting among the tipis and the trees, cleaning them out. The village was quickly cleaned, but the struggle had only begun. In the village were now the troops; the Indians were outside; their whoops and their firing waxed ever more furious. The Osage scouts dashed hither-thither, answering whoop with whoop. Little Beaver’s face was convulsed like a demon’s. Sighting him, Ned almost fired upon him, but stayed his hand just in time. In the melée ’twas hard to tell friend from foe. Driven in by the cordon of troopers, still the trapped Cheyennes made desperate rushes, to gain cover. On a sudden Ned’s eyes, roving rapidly among the tipis, were halted short by a new sight: a little white girl running! A little white girl—in fringed buckskins and in moccasins; but yet a little white girl, her long light hair floating over her shoulders. With a startled shout of “Look!” and with jab of spur, Ned dashed for her. “Mary!” he called. “Mary! Here I am! Mary!” But how could his voice be heard, amidst the hubbub of shot and cheer and whoop!