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.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE YELLOW-HAIRED CAVALRY CHIEF ON THE WAR TRAIL.
CHAPTER II. SITTING BULL'S GANG OF RED MARAUDERS.
CHAPTER III. THE RECKLESS GALLOP IN THE JAWS OF DEATH.
CHAPTER IV. BRAVE CUSTER'S LAST SHOT.
CHAPTER V. HOW THE COMMAND PAID FOR IMMORTALITY.
CHAPTER VI. BOLLY WHERRIT'S BATTLE ON A SMALL SCALE.
CHAPTER VII. ROBBERS OF THE DEAD.
CHAPTER VIII. PANDY ELLIS' HOTTEST SCRIMMAGE.
CHAPTER IX. RED GOLIATH, THE GIGANTIC HERCULES.
CHAPTER X. ADELE.
CHAPTER XI. HOSKINS PAYS NATURE'S DEBT—ABOUT THE FIRST HE EVER DID.
CHAPTER XII. WHITE THUNDER ON THE RAMPAGE.
CHAPTER XIII. RENO'S RIFLE-PITS ON THE RIVER BLUFFS.
CHAPTER XIV. THE BOY TRAILER AT WORK.
CHAPTER XV. A MAN WHO NEVER BROOKED AN INSULT.
CHAPTER XVI. WHAT FATE HAS ORDAINED.

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