By this time the Sioux were flying in all directions, mowed down by the
fire of Gatling and Maxim guns. The scrub of Little Big Horn Creek was
strewn with the bodies of writhing braves. On the livid and volcanic
heights of Mount Buncombe, the painted tents were blazing merrily. But
on a mound above the creek, an ancient fortress of some long-forgotten
people, a small group of Indian horsemen, might be observed, steady as
rocks in the refluent tide of war. The fire from their Winchester
repeaters blazed out like the streamers of the Northern Lights. Again
and again the flower of the United States army had charged up the mound,
only to recoil in flight, or to line the cliff with their corpses. The
First Irish Cuirassiers had been annihilated: Parnell's own, alas! in the
heat of the combat had turned their fratricidal black-thorns on
M'Carthy's brigade, and these two gallant squadrons were mixed and
broken, falling beneath the blows of brothers estranged.
But at last the fire from the Redmen on the bluff slackened and grew
silent. The ammunition was exhausted. There was a movement in the group
of braves. Crazy Horse and Bald Coyote turned to Four Hair-Brushes, who
sat his steed Atalanta, last winner of the last Grand National, with all
the old careless elegance of the Row.
"Four Hair-Brushes," said Crazy Horse (and a tear rolled down his painted
cheek), "nought is left but flight."
"Then fly," said Four Hair-Brushes, languidly, lighting a cigarette,
which he took from a diamond-studded gold _etui_, the gift of the Kaiser
in old days.
"Nay, not without the White Chief," said Bald Coyote; and he seized the
reins of Four Hair-Brushes, to lead him from that stricken field.
"Vous etes trop vieux jeu, mon ami," murmured Four Hair-Brushes, "je ne
suis ni Edouard II., ni Charles Edouard a Culloden. Quatre-brosses
meurt, mais il ne se rend pas."
The Indian released his hold, baffled by the erudition and the calm
courage of his captain.
"I make tracks," he said; and, swinging round so that his horse concealed
his body, he galloped down the bluff, and through the American cavalry,
scattering death from the arrows which he loosed under his horse's neck.
Four Hair-Brushes was alone.
Unarmed, as ever, he sat, save for the hunting-whip in his right hand.
"Scalp him!" yelled the Friendly Crows.
"Nay, take him alive: a seemlier knight never backed steed!" cried the
gallant Americans.
From their midst rode a courteous cavalier, Captain John Barry, the
scholar, the hero of sword and pen.
"Yield thee, Sir Knight!" he said, doffing his _kepi_ in martial
courtesy.
Four Hair-Brushes replied to his salute, and was opening his curved and
delicate lips to speak, when a chance bullet struck him full in the
breast. He threw up his arms, reeled, and fell. The gallant American,
leaping from saddle to ground, rushed to raise his head.
Through the war-paint he recognised him.
"Great Heaven!" he cried, "it is--"
"Hush!" whispered Four Hair-Brushes, with a weary smile: "let Annesley de
Vere of the Blues die unnamed. Tell them that I fell in harness."
He did, indeed. Under his feathered and painted cloak Barry found that
Annesley, ever careful of his figure, ever loyal in love, the last of the
Dandies, yet wore the corset of Madame de Telliere. It was wet with his
life-blood.
"So dies," said Barry, "the last English gentleman."