Terry did not like his attitude and told him so. Poor Custer was stung
by the reprimand.

He was only a boy, thirty-seven years old, to be sure, but with the
whimsical, daring, ambitious and jealous quality of the center-rush.
Custer at times had his eye on the White House—why not! Had not Grant
been a soldier?

Women worshiped Custer, and men who knew him, never doubted his
earnestness and honesty. He lacked humor.

He was both sincere and serious.

The expedition moved on up the tortuous Missouri, tying up at night to
avoid the treacherous sandbars that lay in wait.

They had reached the Yellowstone River, and were getting into the
Indian Country.

To lighten the boats, Terry divided his force into two parts. Custer
disembarked on the morning of the Twenty-fifth of June, with four
hundred forty-three men, besides a dozen who looked after the
pack-train.

Scouts reported that the hostile Sioux were camped on the Little Big
Horn, seventy-five miles across the country.

Terry gave Custer orders to march the seventy-five miles in
forty-eight hours, and attack the Indians at the head of their camp at
daylight on the morning of the Twenty-seventh. There was to be no