Part 3 On The Little Big Horn Chapter 8 The Old Regiment

He had become wearied of the endless vista of desert, rock, and plain.
Yet now it strangely appealed to him in its beauty. About him were
those uneven, rolling hills, like a vast storm-lashed sea, the brown
crests devoid of life, yet with depressions between sufficient to
conceal multitudes. Once he looked down through a wide cleft in the
face of the bluff, and could perceive the head of the slowly advancing
pack-train far below. Away to the left something was moving, a dim,
shapeless dash of color. It might be Benteen, but of Reno's columns he
could perceive nothing, nor anything of Custer's excepting that broad
track across the prairies marked by his horses' hoofs. This track
Hampton followed, pressing his fresh mount to increased speed,
confident that no Indian spies would be loitering so closely in the
rear of that body of cavalry, and becoming fearful lest the attack
should occur before he could arrive.

He dipped over a sharp ridge and came suddenly upon the rear-guard.
They were a little squad of dusty, brown-faced troopers, who instantly
wheeled into line at sound of approaching hoofs, the barrels of their
lowered carbines glistening in the sun. With a swing of the hand, and
a hoarse shout of "Despatches!" he was beyond them, bending low over
his saddle pommel, his eyes on the dust cloud of the moving column.
The extended line of horsemen, riding in column of fours, came to a
sudden halt, and he raced swiftly on. A little squad of officers,
several of their number dismounted, were out in front, standing grouped
just below the summit of a slight elevation, apparently looking off
into the valley through some cleft In the bluff beyond. Standing among
these, Hampton perceived the long fair hair, and the erect figure clad
in the well-known frontier costume, of the man he sought,--the proud,
dashing leader of light cavalry, that beau ideal of the sabreur, the
one he dreaded most, the one he loved best,--Custer. 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.