Rapidly came the news, brought in by the wounded, or drifting in hap-hazard from hurrying fighters. Captain Hamilton had been killed—shot through the heart in battle, just as he had desired as a soldier’s end. Bluff Colonel Alfred Barnitz was desperately wounded by a ball through the body. Lieutenant Colonel Tom Custer had been wounded, and Lieutenant March. Nothing had been seen, since the first attack, of Major Elliot or Sergeant-Major Kennedy. Black Kettle and Chief Little Rock were slain. Major Benteen had encountered Black Kettle’s young son, not fourteen years of age, and after being fired upon repeatedly by him and having his horse shot under him, had been obliged to shoot back and kill the gallant young warrior. Squaws and children had fought wickedly, helping the warriors. One squaw, fleeing with a captive little white boy, had stabbed him rather than surrender him. She had been shot down at once; but too late. Romeo the interpreter had gathered the captive squaws into a large tipi, and California Joe had herded nine hundred ponies. This was the Cheyenne village, with a few Arapaho and Sioux tipis in it. But one of the squaws had informed the general (who was unharmed) that below the Cheyenne village extended for ten miles the villages of the Kiowas and of the Comanches, more Cheyennes, the Arapahos, and some Apaches. Aroused by runners and by the noise of conflict, these warriors were rallying by the hundreds to the attack and the rescue. Captain Smith came riding hastily through; by the motions of his hand he was counting the tipis; and he was in a hurry because every now and then some angry squaw shot at him. “Fifty-one,” he called, to an orderly. General Custer himself appeared, flushed and energetic, on Dandy plashed with froth and frozen mud and water. “Hello,” he cried, at sight of Ned. “Hurt?” “Yes, sir,” and Ned tried to salute. “Bullet?” “No, sir. Arrow.” “It didn’t go through his head,” piped little Mary, bravely. “It just stuck there.” “I’ve found my sister, sir,” informed Ned, eager to let him know. “Good!” And the busy general turned to other matters. His eagle glance measured the hospital. “You must get ready to move out of here, doctor,” he said. “We sha’n’t stay.” “All right, general.” And the Yellow Hair dashed away. More and more Indians were gathering upon the ridges around the village. The head-dresses of the warriors could be seen. Word came that the overcoats and the haversacks which had been left by the center column when it advanced were captured and that the guard was obliged to scud hard for escape. Blucher the stag-hound had run out among the Indians, thinking that they were yelling for a hunt; and now he stiffened up there, with an arrow through him. Maida had not been hurt.