Unless they were halted by Sioux bullets, they would push on toward the Big Horn, and Custer should have the papers.
He knelt down beside Murphy, unbuckled the leather despatch-bag, and rebuckled it across his own shoulder.

Then he set to work to revive the prostrate man.

The eyes, when opened, stared up at him, wild and glaring; the ugly face bore the expression of abject fear.

The man was no longer violent; he had become a child, frightened at the dark.

His ceaseless babbling, his incessant cries of terror, only rendered more precarious any attempt at pressing forward through a region overrun with hostiles.