In that supreme instant he was guilty of hesitancy, doubt, delay.

He chose defence in preference to attack, dallied where he should have acted.

Instead of hurling like a thunderbolt that handful of eager fighting men straight at the exposed heart of the foe, making dash and momentum, discipline and daring, an offset to lack of numbers, he lingered in indecision, until the observing savages, gathering courage from his apparent weakness, burst forth in resistless torrent against the slender, unsupported line, turned his flank by one fierce charge, and hurled the struggling troopers back with a rush into the narrow strip of timber bordering the river.
Driven thus to bay, the stream at their back rendering farther retreat impossible, for a few moments the light carbines of the soldiers met the Indian rifles, giving back lead for lead.

But already every chance for successful attack had vanished; the whole narrow valley seemed to swarm with braves; they poured forth from sheltering _coulees_ and shadowed ravines; they dashed down in countless numbers from the distant village.

Custer, now far away behind the bluffs, and almost beyond sound of the firing, was utterly ignored.