The Indians now kept up an occasional shooting.

They were playing with the soldiers as a cat plays with a mouse.

The Indian is a cautious fighter—he makes no sacrifices in order to
win. Now he had his prey secure.

Soon the soldiers would run out of ammunition, and then one more day,
or two at least, and thirst and fatigue would reduce brave men into
old women, and the squaws could rush in and pound them on the head
with clubs.

The afternoon dragged along its awful length. Time dwindled and
dawdled.

At last the sun sank, a ball of fire in the West.

The moon came out.

Now and then a Sioux would creep up into shadowy view, but a shot from
a soldier would send him back into hiding. Down in the cottonwoods the
squaws made campfires and were holding a dance, singing their songs of
victory.

Custer warned his men that sleep was death. This was their second
sleepless night, and the men were feverish with fatigue. Some babbled
in strange tongues, and talked with sisters and sweethearts and people
who were not there—reason was tottering.

With Custer was an Indian boy, sixteen years old, “Curley the Crow.”