The morning sun came out, dazzling and hot.

It was only nine o’clock.

The men were without food and without water. The Little Big Horn
danced over its rocky bed and shimmered in the golden light, only half
a mile away, and there in the cool, limpid stream they had been
confident they would now swim and fish, the battle over, while they
proudly held the disarmed Indians against General Terry’s coming.

But the fight had not been won, and death lay between them and water.
The only thing to do was to await Reno or Terry. Reno might come at
any time, and Terry would arrive without fail at tomorrow’s dawn—he
had said so, and his word was the word of a soldier.

Custer had blundered.

The fight was lost.

Now it was just a question of endurance. Noon came, and the buzzards
began to gather in the azure.

The sun was blistering hot—there was not a tree, nor a bush, nor a
green blade of grass within reach.

The men had ceased to joke and banter. The situation was serious. Some
tried to smoke, but their parching thirst was thus only
aggravated—they threw their pipes away.