CUSTER'S LAST SHOT:

OR,

THE BOY TRAILER OF THE LITTLE HORN

A Romance of the Terrible Ride to Death.

By COL. J. M. TRAVERS.

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CUSTER'S LAST SHOT;

OR,

The Boy Trailer of the Little Horn.

A ROMANCE OF THE TERRIBLE RIDE TO DEATH.

By Col. J. M. TRAVERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE YELLOW-HAIRED CAVALRY CHIEF ON THE WAR TRAIL.

"Hold up yer hands thar, ye varmints. Ef his hair air gray I kin swar this chile's hand air as steddy and his eye as sure az they war twenty years ago. Bein' sich a heathen, I reckon ye don't know that wine improves wid age; ther older it air, ther better, an' I s'pose thar's a likeness between wine an' me, az ther feller sez. Keep them hands steddy, my red cock-o'-the-walk. Now, I'm goin' ter caterkize ye 'cordin' ter my own style. Fust and foremost, who air ye?"

The buckskin-clad hunter held his long rifle nicely poised, and the bead at the end was in a line with the object of his speech.

Under such peculiar circumstances the warrior (for his color proclaimed him an Indian) could do no less than remain quiet, although from his evident uneasiness it was plainly seen that he did so under protest.

Even in this sad predicament, the boasting qualities of his race seemed to be predominant.

"Ugh!" he ejaculated, slapping his dusky chest vigorously, "me big chief. Hunter must hear of Yellow Hawk. Big chief, great brave. Take much scalps. Hab hunter's in little while. What name? ugh!"

The leather-clad ranger gave a laugh that was not all a laugh, insomuch that it appeared to be a loud chuckle coming up from his boots.

His thin face was a little wrinkled, and the tuft of hair upon his chin of the same iron-gray color as the scalp mentioned by the redskin; but no one would be apt to judge, taking into consideration the man's strength and stubborn endurance, that he was over seventy years of age.

Yet such was the actual fact; for some fifty years this ranger had roamed the wild West from the frozen region of the polar seas to the torrid climes of the Isthmus; and everywhere had his name been reckoned a tower of honesty, strength and power.

Though probably few men had had half of his experience among the redskins of the mountains and prairies, there was something so charmingly fresh in the remark of his red acquaintance that made the ranger more than smile.

"Purty good fur ye, Yaller Hawk. I won't furgit yer name, and by hokey I reckon I'll plug ye yet, ef things keep on ther way they seem set on going. Az ter my name, thet's another goose. I don't s'pose ye ever hearn tell o' such a cuss az Pandy Ellis, now did ye?"

Again that queer chuckle, for the Indian had slunk back, his black eyes fastened upon the ranger's face, with a sort of dazed expression.

It appeared as though Pandy was known to him by report, if not personally.

"Ugh! Sharp shot! Heavy knife! Big chief! Ugh!"

"I reckon," returned the old ranger dryly.

Half a moment passed, during which neither of them spoke.

Pandy's grim features had resumed their usual aspect, and there was actually a scowl upon his face as he gazed steadily at the redskin.

"Chief," said he at length, "fur I reckon I kin b'lieve ye that fur an' say ye air a chief, I'm going ter ax ye sum questions, an' I want square answers to every wun o' them. Fust o' all, what'd ye shoot at me fur?" and Pandy glanced at his shoulder, where a little tear told where the bullet had gone.

"Me see through bushes; tink was Blackfoot squaw. Ugh!"

"Yas, I reckon. Werry plausible, az ther feller sez, but two thin. Wal, we'll let that pass, seein' az no harm war done. I forgive ye, chief. Receive a benediction, my red brother. Let that lie pass ter yer credit. Now, my painted scorpion, look me full in the eye. What hez Sitting Bull done wid my pard?"

This was uttered in a slow, but emphatic tone.

The Indian either could not or would not understand; he shook his head.

Pandy took a step forward, and his rifle was again raised menacingly.

"Looky hyar, ye lump o' dough, I'm inquirin' respectin' Bolly Wherrit, the big rover o' thar plains. White Thunder, do ye understand?"

Whether it was the hunter's threatening attitude that scared the warrior, or that he suddenly realized what was meant, can never be made manifest; certain it is he remembered just at this critical period.

"Ugh! mean White Thunder; him dead."

"Another lie. Now, redskin, how did he come ter die?" asked Pandy, who, although not believing this assertion, began to feel uneasy.

"Wagh! eat too much. Dine with Sitting Bull. No hab good tings afore; stuff full and burst. Run all ober. Ugh!" grunted this savage composedly.

"Thunder! thet air rich. How the ole man'll larf wen he hears it. Allers prided himself on bein' a light feeder; eat az much az a bird, him that I've seen git away wid a hull haunch o' venison while I war chawin' the tongue. Now, Yaller Hawk, allow me ter say I don't believe a word ye've sed; may be all is az true az Scripture, but I wouldn't like ter swar ye. I'll tell ye what I think. Bolly air a prisoner in yer camp. I tole him twar a fool's errand he started on, but a willing man must hev his way, az the feller sez, so he started widout me. I'm goin' into yer camp; tell Sitting Bull that I'll see him widin a week, and listen, Yaller Hawk. Does ther eagle car fur its mate? will thar she bar fight fur her cubs? Wal, I love Bolly Wherrit; he air my life, all I care about livin' fur. Mark my words, redskin; if any harm comes ter White Thunder, I swar Sitting Bull and his chiefs shall go under. Do yer hear? Then don't fail to report. That's all; ye can retire now, az ther cat sed when it had ther mouse by ther nape o' ther neck. Come, git, absquatulate, vamose the ranche."

An Indian's code is "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

Yellow Hawk had attempted the ranger's life, and he expected the latter to take his in just retaliation.

Therefore, he was not a little surprised at the words of his enemy, nor did his amazement retard his progress.

A moment and he was beyond the range of vision, having vanished among the trees.

Pandy Ellis, the trapper chief, was alone. He did not stay in his exposed position long, however, knowing full well the treacherous character of the foes he had to deal with, but plunging among the undergrowth himself, in a direction almost opposite to the one taken by the Indian, he made his way along, aiming for a certain spot.

This proved to be a small creek, on the further bank of which his horse was tethered.

Crossing over, the ranger mounted and rode away. The animal he bestrode was no mustang, but a tall, broad-breasted horse, capable not only of carrying heavy burdens and making fast time, but also of keeping up his pace.

Many years ago Pandy owned a quaint steed called Old Nancy, and in memory of that faithful equine friend had this animal been named.

Reaching the prairie, the ranger dashed out upon the open space and cantered along toward the north.

The grass was already high, and dotted here and there with beautiful wild flowers, that seemed to make the scene one of enchantment.

His gray eyes swept both the horizon and the ground before him with customary caution.

All at once the ranger brought Nancy to an abrupt halt, threw himself from the saddle and bent down to examine tracks in the soft earth.

"Glory! kin I b'lieve my eyes? A hull army o' 'em, az I'm a sinner. Ther report I heerd must be true then. My yallar-haired chief air on the war-trail, and when Custer gits on ther rampage thar's blood on ther moon."

CHAPTER II.

SITTING BULL'S GANG OF RED MARAUDERS.

The slanting rays of the rising sun fell upon an immense Indian encampment that stretched for several miles along the left bank of the Little Horn, and could hardly have been less than a mile in width.

Doubtless such a gathering of redmen had not taken place for many years.

In addition to the several lodges composing the village proper, scores and even hundreds of temporary brush-wood shelters had been hastily constructed, which significant fact went to show that this immense assemblage of warriors, numbering very nearly three thousand, was a gathering from different tribes.

That mischief was intended by these warlike Sioux could be presumed from the fact of their being painted as for battle.

The sun had been shining for some time when two mounted Indians, coming from the plains away beyond the distant range of hills, appeared almost simultaneously on the high bluffs that lined the right bank of the river.

Dashing down the steep inclined plane they forded the Little Horn and rode directly into the village.

One lodge, more conspicuous than its fellows, was situated near the center of the place, and even an inexperienced eye might have discovered in it the resting-place of a great chief, even though the only conviction came from seeing the many sub-chiefs that hovered near by.

These two hard riders reached the lodge at nearly the same time, and throwing themselves to the ground, left their sweltering horses to take care of themselves, while they entered with that boldness the bearers of exciting news generally possess.

Old Sitting Bull was busily engaged in an earnest confab with some half dozen chiefs, and although he spoke only once in a while, his words were listened to respectfully by the rest.

All eyes were turned upon the new-comers, and a hush fell upon the assembly, for something seemed to tell them that great news was on the tapis. Yellow Hawk, (for this discomfited chief was one of the hard riders) managed to get in the[Pg 3] first word, and when it was known that the far-famed Pandy Ellis was in their immediate neighborhood, more than one of these dusky braves felt his heart beat faster, for there was a terrible meaning attached to the old ranger's honest name, for all evil-doers.

When, however, the second courier spoke, a wild excitement seized upon the chiefs.

Custer the hard fighter, the yellow-haired devil, whom they had always feared, was charging along their trail and aiming for the village like a thunderbolt, with his cavalry regiment at his back.

Indians are not accustomed to speaking their thoughts during times of excitement, but the news loosened their tongues, and for several moments a hubbub arose in the head chief's lodge.

In the midst of this several white men, garbed as Indians, but with their faces painted, entered.

A moment only was needed to become acquainted with the state of affairs, and then one of them, a squatty individual, who had long been a pest to the border, under the name of Black Sculley, spoke a few words in the ear of Sitting Bull.

Whatever he said does not concern my narrative, but it had its effect upon the chief, who immediately became calm, and made a motion toward one who stood at the entrance of the lodge as a sort of door-keeper.

This individual signaled the waiting chiefs outside, and in another moment fully forty well-known leading Sioux were clustered together.

Indian councils from the time of Red Jacket and Tecumseh back to time immemorial have been windy affairs, in which much eloquence and debate was needed to settle that which had already been decided before the argument commenced; for being natural born orators the red sons of the plains and forest liked to hear their own voices.

In contrast with these, this council was very brief, only lasting about five minutes.

This proved that their dealings with the whites had affected the redskins.

After the chiefs separated, there was a wild commotion in the immense village.

Horses neighed, dogs barked, men shouted, and the din was increased by the thunder of hoofs as squad after squad of mounted braves, led by their chiefs, dashed down to the river and forded it.

In a lodge not far removed from that of the great chief, a leather-clad ranger lay, bound hand and foot.

It was Bolly Wherrit, the old-time chum and friend of Pandy Ellis.

He had been taken prisoner, fighting against overwhelming numbers, and had lain here without food for over twenty-four hours.

What his fate would doubtless be the old ranger knew well enough, but he had faced death too often to flinch now.

Something seemed to trouble him, however, for he occasionally gave vent to a groan and rolled restlessly about.

"Cuss the thing," he muttered at length. "Bolly Wherrit, ye're growing inter yer second childhood; thar's eggscitin' times comin' off now, and hyar ye lie tied neck and heel. Didn't I hyar what them infernal renegades talked 'bout jest then. Custer, my pet, a-comin', tearin', whoopin' at this hyar town wid his cavalry. Lordy, won't the yaller-har'd rooster clean 'em out; don't I know him though. Wonder ef Major Burt air along. Why didn't I wait fur Pandy. T'ole man tole me I'd get inter trouble, but consarn the luck, in course a woman's at the head o' it. Cud I stand it wen that purty face, runnin' over wid tears, war raised ter mine, an' she a pleadin'? No, sir, fool or not, I'd run through fire fur a woman, 'cause I kain't never furget my mother. That gal is in this hyar village. 'Cause why? Sumfin tells me so, and I've hed that feeling afore. Beside, ain't ole Sittin' Bull hyar, and cudn't I swar I heerd the voice o' that white devil she tole me about, Pedro Sanchez she called him, right aside this lodge. Bolly Wherrit, thar's no good talking, ef

ye don't get outen this place in an hour, ye'll never leave it alive, fur when Custer sails in he never backs out, and the reds hev a failing fur braining their prisoners, 'specially men folks. Now do ye set ter work, and show these red whalps that a border man air sumpin like a bolt o' lightning."

From the manner in which Bolly set to work, it would be supposed that he had been making efforts at freeing his arms for some time back, and had only stopped to rest while holding this one-sided conversation with himself.

Somehow or other he had found a piece of a broken bottle, and had been sawing away at the cord securing his hands with this, one end being thrust into the ground, and held upright in the proper position.

Although his wrists and hands were badly lacerated by this rough method, the ranger possessed the grit to persevere.

Ten minutes after his soliloquy his hands separated. Bolly gave a sigh of relief, held the bloody members up for inspection, and then, without an instant's delay, seized upon the sharp-edged glass.

It had taken him hours to free his arms, as he was unable to see, and his position, while working, exceedingly uncomfortable; the cord securing his feet he severed in a few minutes.

Something like a chuckle escaped his lips as he stood upright. There was a mighty stretching of those cramped and tired limbs, and then Bolly was ready for business.

An ardent desire had seized upon him to take part in the attack which brave Custer was sure to make.

Fastening the cords around his ankles in a way that looked very secure, but which was treacherous, the ranger lay down upon the ground.

With his hand he quietly raised one of the skins composing the lodge and peeped out.

The opening thus formed was not over a couple of inches in length, but his keen eyes could see everything that was passing.

A grim smile lit up the ranger's features, as he saw the wild excitement that reigned throughout the camp.

"Ther askeered o' Custer; they know him mighty well, but by thunder they mean ter fight. It'll be the biggest Indian fight that this country ever saw, bust my buttons now ef 'twon't. Bolly Wherrit, ye must let t'other matter drop, and sail inter this, fur it'll be full o' glory and death."

Alas! how the words of the old ranger came true has been made manifest in a way that has caused the whole country to mourn.

Death was fated to ride triumphant in the ravine on the other shore; this valley would see such a red slaughter as the annals of Indian history have seldom presented.

Several hours passed on.

The warriors were too busy with other matters to even think of their prisoner just then, much less visit his secure quarters, and so Bolly was undisturbed.

Noon came and went.

The hot sun beat down upon the earth with great fury, but a gentle breeze in the valley did much toward cooling the air on this fatal twenty-fifth of June.

All at once the old trapper leaped wildly to his feet; this same light wind had carried to his ear the distant but approaching crash of firearms and the wild yells of opposing forces.

His frame quivered and seemed to swell with excitement.

"Yaller Har's at work. The best Indian fighter that ever lived hez struck ile. Bolly Wherrit, now's the time fur yer chance at glory. Whoop! hooray!"

With this shout the ranger burst out of the lodge like a thunderbolt, and not even giving himself an instant's time for reflection, hurled his body upon a guard who leaned idly against a post, listening to the sounds of battle.

CHAPTER III.

THE RECKLESS GALLOP IN THE JAWS OF DEATH.

A column of mounted men wearing the national colors, and headed by a group of officers, were making their way in a westerly direction. In the advance rode a body of Crow Indians, and on either flank were the scouts of the regiment—over seven hundred in all, and some of the most gallant fighters on the plains.

Among that group of officers, every man of whom had honor attached to his name, rode one who seemed conspicuous both for his bearing and peculiar appearance. His form was rather slender, and indeed one might call it womanly, but the face above, with its prominent features, redeemed it from this characteristic. The features themselves might be styled classic in their strange light, having a Danish look. Surmounting this clearly cut face was the well-known yellow hair, worn long on the neck.

Such was the gallant Custer. He had always been a dashing cavalry leader, and with Crook and McKenzie rendered the Union efficient service under General Sheridan during the late unpleasantness.

The morning was half over when the command was ordered to halt for two reasons.

One of these was that his scouts had brought word that the large Indian village, whose presence in the vicinity had been strongly suspected, was only a short distance ahead; the other that a single horseman was sighted coming along their back trail at a furious gallop.

Custer had suspected this latter might be a bearer of dispatches from his commander, General Terry, from whom he had separated at the mouth of the Rosebud, the commander going up the river on the supply steamer Far West, to ferry Gibbons' troops over the water.

When, however, the horseman came closer, it was discovered that he was no blue coat, but a greasy leather-clad ranger. The individual rode directly up to the officers, and his quick gray eye picking out Custer, he extended a horny palm.

"Can I believe my eyes?" exclaimed the general; "gentlemen, let me make you acquainted with my old friend, Pandy Ellis, the best Indian fighter that ever raised a rifle, and one whom I am proud to shake hands with."

"Come, come, general, don't butter it too thick. Yer sarvint, gentlemen. I'm on hand ter see ther fun, wich air all I keer 'bout. Don't mind me no more than ef I warn't in these hyar diggin's," protested Pandy, modestly.

"We shall do no such thing, old friend. Colonel Cooke, we will now move onward to the assault," and Custer touched his spurs to his steed.

A few notes from the trumpeters, and the regiment was again in motion.

Onward at a gallop went the troops.

The valley of the Little Horn was reached, and where the great trail entered it, another halt was made.

Now the immense village was in sight: large bands of warriors made their appearance on all sides, some of them mounted, others on foot.

That there was serious business before them every man in that regiment saw by intuition; bloody work that would ring from one end of the land to the other, and yet how few of them suspected in what a terrible way it would end.

Custer was reckless; every military man has agreed upon that.