"With our husbands away campaigning against the Indians, our only pleasure after the torrid day was to gather on someone's porch in the long twilight, enjoy what little music we could muster, and try to forget our worries and the devilish mosquitoes. Many among us had sweet voices and, while I played the guitar, everyone sang. Then, glancing across the parade ground, we noticed small groups of soldiers talking excitedly together. And several people came running toward us, faces set and wild-eyed. One was Horn Toad, the Indian scout. He gasped in short, sharp sentences: "Custer killed. Whole command killed." The guitar slipped from my knees to the floor. The pink ball of knitting fell out of Charlotte Moreland's hands. The letter, lying idly in Mrs. Benteen’s lap, fluttered over the rail and onto the lawn."