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Updated: May 25, 2025
Stuart moved two and a half miles out on the York turnpike, when he turned to the right by a country road that runs southeasterly past the Stallsmith farm. This movement was noticed by Major Weber, who with his detachment of the Sixth Michigan cavalry, was stationed in the woods northeast of Rummel's, where he could look out on the open country beyond, and he promptly reported the fact to Custer.
Shrimplin had risen early that day, or, as he told Custer, he had "got up soon", and long before his son had left his warm bed in the small room over the kitchen, was well on his rounds in his high two-wheeled cart, with the rack under the seat which held the great cans of gasolene from which the lamps were filled.
Take command of this squad and go and arrest Dodd, whom you will find on guard there. Then put Carey in his place, and come back and report to me at post No. 1, and I will tell you what else to do. The countersign," added the lieutenant, coming a step nearer to Bob and speaking in a tone so low that no one else could catch his words, "is 'Custer. Be quick and still. Forward, march!"
They used to have some fancy saddles back in the early days. I've seen 'em that cost a thousand Chauchaua made and covered with silver do dads, en maybe they'd have 'em flung on a hoss that wasn't wuth his feed. I mind the time when ole Lem Hawks made a right smart lot of change, a-sellin' ole saddles that he swore come out'n the Custer massacre.
The commander stood, field-glasses in hand, pointing down into the valley, and the despatch bearer, reining in his horse, his lips white but resolute, trotted straight up the slope toward him. Custer wheeled, annoyed at the interruption, and Hampton swung down from the saddle, his rein flung across his arm, took a single step forward, lifting his hand in salute, and held forth the sealed packet.
A level sun shot long golden needles through the blanched maple-trees, and the street beneath them was filled with lemon-colored light. The roll of a light vehicle approaching from behind grew distinct enough to attract Clara's attention. "It is Mrs. Custer coming back from the Poor Farm," she thought. It was Mrs.
Then seemingly from the earth at his very feet came a faint answer to his call, and Custer, forcing his way through a rank growth of weeds and briers, stood on the brink of a deep gully that a small brook had worn for itself on its way to the river below. In the bed of this brook was a dark object that Custer could barely distinguish to be the figure of a man.
This massacre occurred June 25, 1876, and its details are known, or ought to be known, by every schoolboy. Custer was a brave, dashing, headlong soldier, whose only fault was recklessness. He had been warned many times never to expose a small command to a superior force of Indians, and never to underestimate the ability and generalship of the Sioux.
It is enough to notice that stirring accounts of them may be read in the memoirs of such soldiers as Custer, Sheridan and Miles, and that they cost millions of dollars and hundreds of lives.
They were to march over against the Rosebud at dawn, and it was only a few miles' gallop across the divide where Custer and his gallant men lay at their shallow graves, most of them by this time disinterred by prowling wolves or vengeful Indians. Truscott, too, had written to Ray, and it was not easy. He had written to Grace a long letter, and that was harder still.
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