"Now, men, give them a volley!" ordered the enraged man, and as volley
answered volley, through the smoke sprang the daring soldier, and
standing over White Antelope as the smoke swirled and almost hid him, he
poured his six balls into his enemy, and thus died one brave man at the
hands of another in fair battle. The sergeant leaped back and lay down
among the men, stunned by the concussions. He said he would do no more.
His mercurial temperament had undergone a change, or, to put it better,
he conceived it to be outrageous to fight these poor people, five
against one. He characterized it as "a d---- infantry fight," and
rising, talked in Sioux to the enemy--asked them to surrender, or they
must otherwise die. A young girl answered him, and said they would like
to. An old woman sprang on her and cut her throat with a dull knife,
yelling meanwhile to the soldiers that "they would never surrender
alive," and saying what she had done.

Many soldiers were being killed, and the fire from the pits grew weaker.
The men were beside themselves with rage. "Charge!" rang through the now
still air from some strong voice, and, with a volley, over the works
poured the troops, with six-shooters going, and clubbed carbines. Yells,
explosions, and amid a whirlwind of smoke the soldiers and Indians
swayed about, now more slowly and quieter, until the smoke eddied away.
Men stood still, peering about with wild open eyes through blackened
faces. They held desperately to their weapons. An old bunch of buckskin
rags rose slowly and fired a carbine aimlessly. Twenty bullets rolled
and tumbled it along the ground, and again the smoke drifted off the
mount. This time the air grew clear. Buffalo-robes lay all about, blood
spotted everywhere. The dead bodies of thirty-two Cheyennes lay, writhed
and twisted, on the packed snow, and among them many women and children,
cut and furrowed with lead. In a corner was a pile of wounded squaws,