ROBBERS OF THE DEAD.
Night had closed over the scene of the terrible battle, but the
darkness was not intense, as the stars shone out with unusual
brilliancy, and the silver crescent of a new moon in the western sky
lent its feeble aid.
The cold stars looked down upon a fearful sight; such an one as has not
been seen in this fair land for many a year.
Hundreds of men and horses lying dead in that fatal ravine, and a trail
of bodies leading almost in a circle, down to the river and then up the
bluffs.
Valiant men lay here: heroes whose names shall ever be mentioned with
proud honor by their surviving comrades; and yet what a price they paid
for that worthless commodity to the dead--immortality.
Across the Little Horn could be heard the noises of a great camp, and
once in a while the breeze bore the distant crack of firearms.
These last came from several miles to the south, where Major Reno had
intrenched his command on the bluffs, and from hastily-constructed
rifle-pits fought the enemy, who had posted themselves on the
neighboring heights, where they could control his position.
Shadowy figures glided hither and thither over the field of battle, for
that it was a battle, though a very uneven one, I do affirm, in spite
of the constant appellation of massacre indulged in by the newspaper
men.
The very word massacre brings to mind the idea of a wholesale butchery
of helpless people. Historians are prone to be partial in its use.
We always find the affair termed a massacre when the Indians are
victorious; but when the tables are turned it is "a splendid campaign,"
"a hard-fought battle," and "a glorious victory for the troops."
If the word massacre does not mean a one-sided butchery, then every
world's battle has been such.
As to Custer's particular case, did he not move forward with the
intention of attacking the village, and though every man fell, did they
not slay at least their own number of redskins? Then this proves the
affair a battle and not a massacre.
Having carried my point, I beg pardon for the digression.
These shadowy figures gliding over the scene of death were robbers of
the slain, and having no compunctions of conscience, if a coveted ring
refused to come off, the finger was at once severed in order to obtain
the bauble.
Noble Custer and most of his officers lay close together, just as they
had fallen.
Near by was a heap of slain, which included troopers, Sioux and horses.
One of the robbers of the dead approached this pile, and began pulling
the bodies about in a promiscuous manner, his eyes busily engaged
searching for plunder.
Under this pile a form lay, which, as the heavenly lights fell upon it,
revealed the features of the boy who had been beside General Custer
when he fell.
Something gleamed from the little finger of his left hand, and as this
sparkled in the light of the moon, the prowler uttered a delighted
exclamation that at once proved him to be a white man.
Seizing hold of the hand, he at once attempted to pull the diamond
solitaire ring off, but this proving fruitless, he felt for his knife.
Just as this was drawn, his hand was tightly clutched by the one he
held.
The truth of the matter was, that the boy had been rendered insensible
by being struck with a bullet, that glanced from his forehead without
breaking the bone.
Others, killed later in the desperate struggle, had fallen upon him,
and here for several hours he lay at the door of death.
When the heap that pressed upon him had been removed by the robber,
the fresh air served to partially revive him, and the twisting of his
finger by the desperado finished the business.
Mason, as I shall call my boy hero, for Custer had given him that name
when addressing him, opened his eyes.
By the dim light of the stars and the new moon combined, he saw the
figure of a man kneeling over him.
That it was a white man was evident from his clothes and hat, and also
the bushy beard.
A pair of fine cavalry boots, stolen from some unfortunate officer,
were slung across his shoulders, and he seemed burdened down with all
sorts of plunder.
Mason waited to see no more.
The wrenching at his finger ceased, the man uttered a curse, and began
to draw his knife.
Then the whole horrible truth burst upon the boy's mind.
Under the impulse of the moment he tightened his clasp, and actually
pulled himself to his feet by means of the renegade, and after this had
been accomplished, released his hold.
The matter did not rest here.
Amazed at having the dead come to life in such an unexpected manner, as
it seemed, the renegade uttered a cry and started back.
Custer's revolver was still held in the boy's right hand, just as it
had been when he had fallen to the earth.
Whether a single load remained or not he could not tell, but quickly
pulling up the hammer he raised the weapon.
When the robber of the dead, base craven that he was, saw this
movement, he flung out his hands in an involuntary appeal for mercy,
but the boy, after passing through such a bitter, bloody experience,
could feel no pity for such as he.
The hammer fell, the crack came, and the bullet did its mission of
retributive justice.
"My God! I'm done for. Curses on the young hound," half howled the
renegade, reeling wildly in the effort to keep his feet, and at length
plunging to the ground, where he lay covered with plunder, waiting for
some other robber to relieve him as he had despoiled others.
Mason sank to the ground immediately, and it was not until several
moments had passed by that he ventured to raise his head and look
around.
Not an object was stirring near him.
If the marauders of the dead had noticed the shot at all, they had
taken it for granted that it was fired by one of their number at a
wounded cavalryman, and the shout given by the victim of the bullet
went far to corroborate this idea.
As he looked, Mason saw one of those shadowy forms skulking about and
bending over the dead.
Fearful lest he should meet with one such and be murdered for want of
weapons, he crawled over to where the renegade lay and secured his
revolver.
Not content with this, he quietly proceeded to reload the empty
chambers of the one he had taken from the holsters of Custer's saddle.
When this was done, he felt content, and arose to his feet.
Although he could see in the immediate vicinity, all appeared dark and
gloomy a hundred yards away, and the bluffs could only be distinguished
because they were outlined against the star-bedecked sky after the
manner of a silhouette.
Which way to go was a puzzler.
Beyond the ravine he could hear the murmur of the river, and knew that
on the other shore was the camp of the Sioux.
Once clear of this slaughter-pen and his ideas would flow more
naturally, for it was impossible to think calmly while the mutilated
bodies of friends lay around on every side.
To say a thing was to do it with Custer's boy friend.
He seemed to know that the general must be near by, and was led
instinctively to his body.
A horse had fallen upon Custer's lower limbs, but the heavy weight had
given him no pain, for he had been beyond that when the animal was shot.
I cannot positively say that the tears came from the boy's eyes, as
some of my readers might deem that an unmanly proceeding, though God
knows the poor fellow had cause enough to weep, with his best and only
friend lying dead before him.
That he lifted the general's cold hand and kissed it repeatedly, while
murmuring a farewell, I can and do affirm.
A moment more and he was stealthily making his way along the ravine,
heading toward the river.
A vague notion that a horse was necessary to his future movements had
intruded itself upon his brain, and although his plan of obtaining one
was as yet illy defined, it constantly gained ground.
Once a dark form suddenly rose up in front of him, but the greasy
Indian got no further than the drawing of his knife, when Mason's
revolver sounded his death note, and without even a groan he sank
beside the dead man whom he had been in the act of despoiling when
disturbed by the boy's approach.
Avoiding all others whom he saw, Mason soon left the ravine behind
him, and passing over the intervening ground, where a few bodies were
scattered promiscuously about, he stood upon the river bank.
There was something soothing in the steady hum of the water which
appeared to steady the boy's disturbed mind, and for almost half an
hour he stood leaning against a tree that bent over the river, and
engaged in dreamy fancies.
He had almost forgotten his notion of getting a remount in place of the
one lost during the bloody skirmish.
Sad thoughts had crowded into his mind.
Of all that gallant band, was he the only survivor?
It seemed so, indeed; but Mason did not know of the supreme effort made
by old Pandy Ellis, the prince of bordermen.
The boy's reverie was becoming almost unbearable, when it was disturbed
by what appeared to be the flash of a paddle further up the stream.