The battle would go down on the records as Custer’s triumph!

Reno took a two-mile detour, and just at peep of day, ere the sun had
gilded the tops of the cottonwoods, charged, with yells and rapid
firing, into the Indian village. Custer stood on the ridge, his men
mounted and impatient just below on the other side.

He could distinguish Reno’s soldiers as they charged into the
underbrush. Their shouts and the sound of firing filled his fighter’s
heart.

The Indians were in confusion—he could see them by the dim light,
stampeding. They were running in brownish masses right around the
front of the hill where he stood. He ordered the bugles to blow the
charge.

The soldiers greeted the order with a yell—tired muscles, the
sleepless night, its seventy-five miles of hard riding, were
forgotten. The battle would be fought and won in less time than a man
takes to eat his breakfast.

Down the slope swept Custer’s men to meet the fleeing foe.

But now the savages had ceased to flee. They lay in the grass and
fired.

Several of Custer’s horses fell.

Three of his men threw up their hands, and dropped from their saddles,
limp like bags of oats, and their horses ran on alone.