A Cold Day in Hell: The Dull Knife Battle, 1876

Last Bull whirled on the young scout, stepping right up to his pony and glaring at Crow Necklace. “How are you so sure?” he snarled.

“Only what we saw,” was the answer.

“And what we heard,” said Young Two Moon, feeling desperate to protect Crow Necklace.

“What you heard?” Little Wolf asked, moving up beside the ponies.

“In that soldier camp we saw many, many Indians,” Young Two Moon explained.

“No!” many of the people protested in disbelief.

“Captives?” asked Morning Star.

“No,” the young scout answered. “They were soldiers. Four different tongues did we hear in that camp while we stole ponies and ate their food.”

“What enemies of ours are these that come to help the soldiers in our own country?” Little Wolf demanded, his eyes narrowing.

Perhaps the old chief was remembering how the soldiers had attacked that sleeping camp on the Powder River last winter, Young Two Moon thought as he began to answer, “Pawnee, Shoshone, yes—our old enemies. But … but Arapaho … and … and Tse-Tsehese too.”

“Cheyenne!”

“Yes,” Young Two Moon said. “If those soldiers and all their Indians reach our camp … I think there will be a big fight here.”

Chapter 23

24 November 1876

“Who was this California Joe you talk about, Lute?” Seamus asked the younger North brother.

“A scout and guide for many a year on the central and southern plains. He knew a friend of yours—Bill Hickok. Joe scouted with Jim Bridger too.”

“I met Bridger myself a long time ago, up in this country—at Fort Phil Kearny,” Seamus replied.* “And now Hickok’s dead.”

“Few weeks back when I saw Joe in Nebraska, he told me he was in Deadwood at the time Hickok was killed.”

“Murdered,” Donegan snorted angrily.

“Joe said he and some others in the Black Hills made it clear what they thought of that gang of gamblers they figured put up that young’un to shoot Wild Bill in the back of the head.”

“And now you say Joe’s been shot too?” Seamus asked.

Frank nodded.

Then Luther added, “A soldier caught up with us at Laramie and told us Joe was shot in the back.”

“Ambushed,” Frank growled.

“Out in this country, you go and make somebody mad,” Seamus replied quietly as they rubbed their hands together and stomped their feet to stimulate circulation as the surgeon’s thermometer hovered close to thirty-five below at that coldest hour of the day, “you best be watching your back and sleeping with only one eye closed.”

This morning Mackenzie allowed none of the command the luxury of a small greasewood fire where they could heat coffee in the darkness before dawn, expected to eat their rations of salt pork and hardtack cold, washing it down with nothing warmer than the mineral-laced water in their canteens.

They had marched some twelve miles up the Crazy Woman yesterday afternoon, not stopping until they reached the mouth of Beaver Creek, a small tributary that flowed in from the south. The ground had been soggy earlier in the day but began to re-freeze as soon as the sun tumbled from the sky. What firewood the men could scare up simply didn’t go around, so most of the soldiers had turned to hunting for sage and buffalo chips. At least there was plenty of water and some good patches of windblown grass for grazing the mounts.

Lieutenant Lawton’s work detail had pushed themselves to the limit, straining with pick and ax to prepare the frozen ground at every creek crossing for the main command that had followed in their wake. Progress had been slow, this patch of country slashed with many ravines, coulees, and sharp-sided washes that, come spring, winter would fill with spring’s foaming torrent. The sides of every crevice had to be chipped away so the horses and mules could pick their way down, then claw back up again.

Before picketing his bay last night, Seamus had carefully inspected each hoof and leg, smearing tallow and liniment into the scrapes and wounds caused by the icy crust on the snow. Next he had followed his nightly campaign ritual. With his cold, cramped hands Donegan ripped what he could of the brittle, frozen bunchgrass from the hard, flaky ground before he pulled back the single army blanket he kept over the horse’s back, from withers to tail root. After he brushed the animal carefully with the clumps of bunchgrass, the Irishman replaced the blanket so the animal could retain as much of its own warmth as possible. A horse soldier always cared for his mount as if it were his best friend on the campaign trail—for a horse soldier never knew when his life might truly depend upon the care he had given to that best friend.

How he wished again this morning that Teddy Egan were along for this cold winter’s attack—remembering the singular courage the captain showed one and all when they had charged into the enemy village beside the frozen Powder River.* Thinking on old comrades now that they were within striking distance of the enemy.